^mMmmmmm.-. -^ :4S5;Wl¥^5L-WC|fJ»> A BOOK OF POEMS. Witk respects ^rom tKe writer to tKe reader. May tkis book be cast abroad, truating that it* iyiission will be attended witn good result*. Sincerely yours, LULU EVERTS. Copyrighted 1917. By LULA EVARTS. / OCT 15I9I7 Printed by Halbert R. Stephens, Oklahoma City, Okla. TKrougfK tKe kind introduction of ''Buffalo Bill", W. F. Cody, I sent these poems to tKe ed- itor of Merry War, Clinton, Iowa. Mr. Ben- jamin F. Gilbert, who was born May 22, 1822, at CKambersburg, Penn. Mr. Gilbert was Buffalo Bill's first school teacher, at Peases Grove, Scott County, la. Fifty years bad elapsed when B. F. Gilbert happened to be in Rock Island, 111., where Buffalo Bill's Wild West Show was play- ing. He went to the performance, met Buffalo Bfli and had a long personal talk with him. Mr, Cody had recognised his old school teacher on sight. He had been a mere lad of six when he went to school under Mr. Gilbert. Though over fifty years had elapsed, he remarked as he laid his hand on Mr. Gilbert's head and shook his hand with a iirm grasp, ''I have traveled all over Europe, have shaken hands with great Monarchs and Queens, and with Presidents of the United States, but one hrm grasp from that dear old hand that tatight me my A B C's does me more good than anything in the world." With tears rolling down his cheeks when he bade his old i-chool master good bye, he remarked: ''God bless you, I hope we meet again." After his old friend had started to leave, he called him back, wiping the tears from his eyes f.nJ began laughing. "Whatever became of your boy, Dewese, that I played with, the one that swallowed the bullet?" "Oh!" remarked Mr. Gilbert, "the bullet didn't hurt him, he is still alive, the last time I heard, and has raised a large family, living now at Beatrice, Nebraska." This is a true statement and can be vouched for by the Editor of Merry War, Clinton, Iowa. Benjamin Franklin Gilbert died at Daven- port, Iowa, Aug. 5, 1904. WOMAN. By W, R. Austin. TKere is tKe idle woman, WKo lives in town. That nothingf will please. But to dress like a clown. She clatters and cKats About ribbons and bats And anything else would brin^ fortk a frown. But if to ber face you'd brin^ fortb a smile^ Get ber a fashion plate. And talk about the style. And tell her she^s right up to date. She'll be the happiest woman in the state. But iken if you wish a few fights. Just change your position and oppose woman's rights. And soon you'll hear. The gossips report. She's gone to a judge And haled you into court. Then comes the busy woman. Who lives on the farm. And cares little for fashion or style. But takes great pride In the look of the farm. And the pleasures of home. That make hubby smile. To the pleasures of home' she s wiae awake. So fihe bakes her own bread, pies and cake And has no time for the gossips from town Who advise her to make of herself a clown. For she's busy all day with home-making affairs. That tend to make pleasures of hubby's cares. And that keep love long ago won. Instead of the gossip that's done. LOVELY MARY. By W. E. Austin and Lulu Evarts. Copyrighted by Lulu Evarts. On Ker cheeks the roses bloom. Bonny blue in each bright eye, She'll be a beauty soon. With lots of smiles and not a sigh. With rosette lips so sweet to kiss. And pearly teeth so white. The first o( which I'd never miss. If I but had the right. Her bonnet's always trimmed in blue. And rouge upon her face, A shiny buckle on her shoe. Her frocks all trimmed in lace. She'll win the prize of ardent love. With good cheer never w^eary. From those who love a gentle dove. For such 13 Lovely J^-lp.ry. WRECKED ON BOARD THE BARK OF LOVE ^ By W. F. Gilbert. Cast upon life's stormy sea, Wrecked on board the bark of love. Are there no joys for me. Until I reach my home above? Alas, I'm sad and forlorn. From my loved ones ca^t away; Ahl How good never to have been born To meet sad disappointment and sore dismay. But I hope some day to find, 'Ere life shall cross death's dark glen, My loved ones to be more kind. And permit me to be with them. And in their joys and pleasures mingle. To rest my aching heart. To hear their merry laugh that tingles. All these sad hours w^e are apart. FOR THE KING OR KNAVE. (A War Song). By G. W. Gilbert. How many wKo 'wonder wKy, Our soldiers go to battle and to die, For mere order oi a kin^ ji. knave. Only to fill a warrior^s grave. Wben all is said and done. And the soldier's race is run, What more can be said. For his obedience, Ke is dead. For Kis king and crown. He went to the Iront, And was tKere cut down. To Kim who IS slain. For some other's fame. The world has no pleasures more; For him who on the battle field, spilled his gore, But why should in wonder attempt to tell, The horrors and the glories of those who in battle fell. IN RAPTURE SUBLIME. (Dedicated to Little Polney). Sweet Little Polney has a sweet little face. And eyes of azvire blue. An agile form full of grace, A heart ever fond and true. And a head of silken curls. That every one first, exclai^ri^,. ''Oh! What a pretty little girl T* Because the face wears a smile of bloom. The fact of the matter is. The little silken head is a boy. And with his childish prattle. Is his mother^s pride and joy. A DAISY IN THE DELL. Written July I, 1914. I asked a daisy in the dell. Which brightens all that is lovely in life. To give me truth that truth might be. My guiding star to everlasting life. "Ah,'* replied the daisy, "I'll give you truth, For truth is reason. And all things come in season; And life is like a dream. And not what it seems. For soon we enter life. With all its joys and strife — Too soon we die. Nor learn we the reason why. But blighted in our fondest hopes. We return to that from which we came — the Unknown." A REFLECTION. By J. W. Evarts, Written in 1852. Ah, yes, it is pleasant. To view a bright star, Enthraled by its lustre sublime. Transiently pleasant. But sweeter by far. When leisurely I may recline In the warm fragrant groves Where the light heart roves. And Cupid IS jester for Time. Let Angels' bright wings Fan deftly the brow Of the spirit who sings oi friendship's vow^ While I worship at friendship's shrine. Bringing treasures from friendships of mine. And I quan the sv^^eet wine. Of the spirit divine. While the Angels have gone To their palace of song. THE OLD WOODEN ROCKER. Mother, dear mother. Come kiss me good night, And sing me a song That was my delight. Chorus. Of the old wooden rocker. That dear old rocker That rocked to and fro. That rocked me to sleep long ago. Many a night my mother Rocked me, a babe, to sleep. Now mother has gone And left me alone to weep Chorus. By the old wooden rocker. That dear old rocker That rocked to and fro. That rocked me to sleep long ago. Oh, mother, dear mother. Your fond memory I keep, As o*er my infancy You rocked me to sleep. Chorus. In the old wooden rocker That dear old rocker That rocked io and fro. That rocked me to sleep long ago. That old wooden rocker; How dear to my heart. As memories round me creep. Of mother who rocked me to sleep. Chorus. In the old wooden rocker. That dear old rocker, That rocked to and fro. That rocked me to sleep long ago. Many are longing tonight. As the shadows creep. For some dear mother To rock them to sleep. Chorus. In the old wooden rocker That dear old rocker That rocked to and fro. That rocked them to sleep long ago. DREAM, OH DREAM, OF ME AND MINE. By J. W. Evarts (Written July 1, 1898). Why do I love? Why do the sky and sea In whirling act, embrace and dance with glee? Why light descend, it's heat to lave Down m the clear and deep blue wave? Why birds sail far on airy wings And mate m rapture while they sing? Can'st tell, eweet one, why blooms the rose? Why tired life seeks heart's repose? Then, pretty darling, you can tell Why my heart loves you so well. A.h ! -were I but a bird of wing, I'd light nearby and softly creep Close by your ear and gently sing My darling fast asleep. And \vhtsper, dearest, "I love you. Pretty darling. Love me too. Dream of me till mating time. Dream, oh! dream of me and mine." I LOVE YOU— DO YOU LOVE ME? There's a girl in OklaKoma City, TKey say sKe's very witty. She wrote some lines. Once upon a time And here's the way it rhymes. I love you — do you love me? If you do, just say so And well be married, honey. But I ain't got much money. But what care we, honey. We'll ovvn our own sweet honie. I don't care about your money. It's your love, I want, honey, I'll marry you when you say so. And we'll be married on our own home sweet home. If we ain't got much money. We can shoo flies and eat honey. A.in't that funny? It won't take much money To keep you and I, honey. If we own our own sweet home. Don't marry for money. But take my advice. Marry for love. And live in your own sweet home. Go search the wide vi^orld over. You'll find no place. Be it ever so humble. Like your own sw^eet home. DECLINING YEARS. By J. W. Evarts. Written Feb. 19, 1852. Music sweetens and brightens All that is lovely in life And lends pinions to our fondest hopes. It cheers the toiler in the struggle of life. Inspires courage m heroic deeds. Buoys the soul towards richer inspirations, Comforts humanity through declining years. MY MOTHER'S CHAIR. TKere is in our Kome, A vacant cKair, A form we'll always miss, 'Tis the image of our mother, God bless Ker, we love Ker, For we'll never find another Who can take the place of mother. We will not forget our mother. Though she sleep in silent tomb. Her sweet face we'll never see again Until we meet in Heaven. Her picture hang^s upon the wall. Her vacant chair stands near. But the sw^eetest of all Is the memory of our mother. MY TRUE LOVE. I shall not forget the day My true love was laid to rest With a rose on her breast. It w^as in the month of June When roses are m bloom. Oh! the tears I could not hide When I pressed my lips To her cold, icy finger tips. Oh! the grief, the tears we cannot hide. When we bid ovir loved ones farewell. Though w^e have hopes for the spirit that s ^on& to dwell In the Promised Land, Where we are told that Angels in robes so w^hite Will bid our loved ones a welcome to a home above. Where love, mvisic and song shall be a delight to their ear. Then what a glorious sight, if the story be true That our loved ones in robes so white Will see the golden gates ajar, And the glad tidings of the Angels To bid them welcome to a mansion in the sky. Where they'll never say good-bye. WHERE IS HEAVEN, GRANDMA DEAR? By Pro{. CKas. J. Keesee. Grandma, I am growing tired. But before I go to sleep. Come where breezes soft are blowing. While the nearer shadows creep. Are the stars, so still and saint-like. Heaven's windows. Grandma dear? And are angels looking through theni At us in the garden here? Chorus. Where is Heaven, Grandma dear? Is it very far aw^ay? And if I should leave you here. Could I reach there in a day? Will I have an Angel playmate. Same as little children here. No one cross and none to tease me? Where is Heavep,.- Grandma dear? Guess the sky is one big curtain, Really, I believe, don't you? And the stars are only places. Where some one has broken through. But I never could quite make out How FU reach so high. Can I get to Heaven, When I have no wings to fly? • Chorus. Where is Heaven, Grandma dear? Is it very far away? And if I should leave you here. Could I reach it in a day? Will I have an Angel playmate. Same as little children ^re. No one cross and none to tease me? Where is Heaven, Grandma dear? CHILD OF MERCY. Sweet AllaK Nook, A maiden fair. Fair as ere the sun sKone on. Dark brown were Ker eyes. All golden Ker curls. And sweet she did look As she wandered by a brook WitK a necklace oi pearls. O'er meadows and hills SKe softly stepped, WitK Ker blue cKecked apron, GatKering flowers As sKe went on. Her Keart in ecstacy Beat witK a tKrill WKen at last sKe came To a little Kouse on a Kill. "TKis little blue Kouse Is my Kome," quotK sKe, "TKis dear little Kffuse TKat stands on a Kill,'' As sKe came near tKe cottage door WKere tKe roses climb tKe sweetest, And welcomed Ker tKere. But Ker dear old dad, wKo was so glad As Ke went to meet Kis orpKaned cKild, "WKere Kast tKou been," quotK Ke, TKougK Kis Kair was wKite as snow. And Kis step was slow. As tKey went Kome togetKer. TKen witK dainty finger tips, just like pearls, SKe swung Ker bonnet by Ker side on a brigKt summer's day. WKile the gentle breezes softly tossed Ker curls. Then her answer came While she listened to the robins" song so gay. O'er meadows and hills. She softly said in her child-like glee. When she noticed her father's grave, calm, sad face. And half-shut eyes, Then with her blue checked apron. She wiped the tears from his soft blue eyes. Then looking very sad, her answer came : "What makes you cry? Look here, dad, I gathered these flowers for you. As he took the flowers from her soft white hand. Then his answ^er came, "I w^ondered w^here thou wast, my child. As you whiled so many happy hours away; Alas, you were not at home — I pray you stay With your poor old dad, so old and gray. In this little blue house. This dear little house That stands on a hill." "Fll never leave thee, my dear old dad. You look so sad since mother died, "she softly sighed. As she seated him m his old arm chair. Then to his heart's delight. She sung him many a lullaby, And soon he was fast asleep on a summer's day. As his old house dog lay at his feet. "Oh! My father, as you sink in dreams, low, sweet and clear. Let my voice be near. Let your aged hand in mine be pressed. Let your snow-white beard descend on. your breast. Let my head be pillowed on your breast.'' YOUTH AND OLD AGE. Once I was youn^ and Kandsome and ^ay, so they say. My cKeeks were like two red roses, Fm told. That bloomed on a summer^s day. My hair was black as jet could be; my eyes were, too. But now that I am getting old and gray I feel life is fading fast away. When I was young, handsome and gay, I never dreamed what it was to be old and gray. But now that I'm feeble, old and gray. And I cannot see my way, I'm told that I must go O'er the hills to the poor-house not far away. When fortune and kindred gathered around me. And young swains smiled upon me, I never dreamed then what it was To be feeble, old and gray. And that some day to the poor-house I would go. But now my fortune has dwindled away. And my friends have departed, too. Tm told I must go over the hills To the poor-house not far away. When I was young, handsome and gay, I lived in a mansion grand And never dreamed then what it was To be feeble, old and gray. And that some day, over the hills To the poor-house I would go. But now my beauty has faded away. And here I stand. Fm feeble, old and gray And on my way, over the hills to the poor-house Not far away. THE LITLE WINDOW. I like the little window When the sun peeps in at noon. I like to sit in my easy chair And smoke my pipe of clay. And pass the merry hours away While I watch the children romp and play. I like to see the baby As he rolls and tumbles on the floor. While Lenore, she hides behind the door. 'Tis fine, to see the boys play ball. For that^s their joy and fun. I like to see them skip, I like to see them fall All around the rooni. When the sun peeps in at noon. I love fair Alice, With big blue eyes and golden hair. As she plays on the floor. Making dresses for her dolls. While her brother, Charles, Plays at the open door. With his marbles rolling on the floor. When the sun peeps m at noon. Then comes the fun, we, old and young. Begin to hop and dance All around the room. When old Uncle Ephraham begins to play The old Virginia reel While sweet little Nell at the cottage door Is turning the spinning wheel. When the sun peeps in at noon. We like to smell the flne fat possum. Boiling in the pot. With sweet 'taters all around. That would invite any coon a mile around When the sun peeps in at noon. We, old and young, we like to see the turkey trot We like to see him strut. We like to see tKe old bob-tailed rooster When be titters on tbe gate. We like to see old Grover, Wben be wags bis tail upon tbe floor. We like to see Uncle Epbrabam, Wben be "Hangs up de fiddle and de bow,^' We like to see Mariab wben sbe sweeps tbe floor We like to bear tbe tick oi tbe old brass clock As it bangs upon tbe wall, Wben tbe sun peeps m at noon. SHE'S THE GIRL FOR ME. Beneatb ber cbapeau All trimmed in lace. As sbe walks witb a gentle manner, So full oi grace All dressed sublime I know sbe^ll be mine As sbe quaffs witb me Tbe flowing cbalice, Tbe nectar's sweet wine, Sbe's tbe girl for me. Sweet Anna Bell. As sbe wanders to and fro, Gatbering daises in tbe dell, Sbe says sbell be mine And love no one but me. My own true love. Sweet Anna Bell, As sbe quaffs witb me Tbe flowing cbalice, Tbe nectar's sweet wine. BEAUTIFUL EYES. AK! love first finds beauty In a woman's eye. For sKe becomes an ardent companion When she has a fine disposition. But, oh ! such a strange sensation When she looks at you with sweet surprise For she knows she's won the prize. For there's no beauty that shines like a woman's eye. Such beautiful eyes. Just like azure skies. They surely hypnotize. When they look at you With sw^eet surprise. For love and beauty Shine in a vv^oman's eyes. WHEN THE WAR IS OVER. (To Mr. Huntington). When the war is o'er Many a longing heart Will beat with joy. When the war is o'er. Many a longing heart will shed a tear When we soldier boys. In our uniforms oi bkie. With the Stars and Stripes, Smoking our pipes. Come marching home, once more. When the -war is o'er. When the waris o'er. And our victory is won. Then let's cheer up boys, For our emblem so true Our colors, the Red, White and Blue, That have won our victory. Let Old Glory proudly wave. O'er the homes of our brave And the land that's made us free. Sweet land of Liberty, When we soldiers come marching home again. HOPE'S SETTING STAR. By J. W. Evarts. I Kave roamed o'er tne wide world xn quest oi a guide. Like the one who went down in tKe ocean's blue tide. But my Keart is still yearning {or tKe spirit that fled. While alone m my vigils Hope s idol is dead. TKe glory oi young manKood Kas faded from view And tKougK year after year my sad life I renew TKere's no balm m new^ friendsKip to cKarm aw^ay care. No power in sweet music to lift my despair. TKougK tKe brigKt wKirl of fasKion dulls senses of w^oe Yet I'm Kaunted by lost love wKere'er I may go. And wKile casts its sKadow o'er my time-wrinkled brow, TKere d^vells in my sad soul young love s simple vow. TKougK my kindred and friends, of life's early years Are borne to tKe tomb midst sorrou' and tears Yet tKe pain for tKeir absence is naugKt to com- pare WitK tKe moan for lost love in tKe nigKt of des- pair. CKorus. I Kave passed tKrovigK tKe last turn in long, weary life. Have fougKt bravely eacK battle and won in eacK strife. But tKe fierce storm of anguisK tKat sweeps o'er my soul. Gives no token of respite as tKe years onward roll. ManKood's prime Kas elapsed, I'm fast turning ^ray, WKile time and its mystery are circling away. And tKougK dim grows my vision yet a sigKt deeper far Sees tKe ligKt of tKe loved ones in Kope's set- ting star. MEMORIAL MONOGRAM. By J. W. Evarts. On this page, wKat can or should I write? Not of frail things that quickly droop and die. No transitory thoughts should I here indite. No echoing vigils of times that withering lie. Why speak of forms or flowers that face today. Why laud fair fields that soon are dry and shorn. Why talk of things death has laid away? To wither and droop is brightest beauty born. To passion's shrine no meed of praise is due. To beauty's queen a heart of stone is given Woes and strife, ambition's path lead through. Wealth and power are by the tumults riven. All things must perish as time's cycles turn, All vital breath is quick to come and go. Memory recoils from earth's ignoble urn. Life's fitful sparks turn upw^ard m its woes. Who live for passion, dies as sorrow^'s slaves. Who live for power, die mocked by they who mourn. Who live for wealth, are honored most by knaves. And self love by heartless hands are born. What then, in life is worth a word of praise, In earth's expanse, in depths below^ or skies above? What then to repay the toil of life's dark days? No answer comes if not in immortal love. A VISION OF PARADISE. By J. V. Evarts (Written in 1892.) "Mr. Crow, what on earth does this mean? Somebody is getting into this bed. It seems all the devils in hell are let loose." **Oh, no, Evarts, there is nothing unusual. You must be dreaming. My arm may be touch- ing you as I turn over." "Arm nothing. Somebody is crawling in on the back side. Dreaming 1 Dreaming 1 No, I'm wide awake and sitting up, and there's a man with a lantern just coming in/' "Lay down and sleep, Evarts. That terrible rain storm we Kad last night made you a little nervous. Take a good drink of this brandy; it will cure that chill you had today." I partook of the brandy copiously, show^ing I was wide awake, and laid down again with no more consciousness until Mr. Crowe lit a lamp and called me at 5 :30 the next morning for breakfast. While dressing, I related a vision the most real imaginable that came to me that night. One thing about Mr. Crowe, he w^as a very fine cook and breakfast w^as soon ready. We each took forty-one or more drops of brandy, and w^hile eating, Mr. Crow^e remarked to me that he w^ould introduce me to a couple of his most con- genial friends after breakfast. He gathered the leavings of the table into a platter and called *'Elijah," "Job." "Come to your breakfast." In- stantly the bed covers moved vigorously and Mr. Crowe raised the quilt and laid them back on the foot board, disclosing two monstrous reptiles, who viciously thrust out tongues seven or eight inches long, crawled to the door and ate their food. They then gave me a searching stare, moved slowly toward a big hole in the dirt wall of the house, looked back at me sharply and dis- appeared. A moment later, the head of one of the reptiles appeared at the mouth of the hole and took from Mr. Crow's hand a piece of fresh meat and returned. Then the other followed suit. In size, one was fully twelve feet long and four inches in diameter with a head about ten inches long, hve inches broad and three inches thick. The other reptile was a trifle smaller, about seven feet long. In color, they resembled the rattle snake breed. What was very singu- lar, was that when Mr. Crowe was alone in the house, the reptiles would come out of their dens and rub their heads in a caressing manner as if their feeling were responsive to his kindness to them. John M. Crowe was in the Confederate serv- ice during the Civil War. He has been well known since that time in northern Texas, Indian Territory and Oklahoma, as a man of strict in- tegrity, a good neighbor and a worthy citizen. In 1889, w^hen Oklahoma was thrown open to settlement, Mr. Crow^e and myself took home- steads about five miles r.Outh oi where the small village of Yukon is now i:- ated. In September pf that year, Mr. Crowe and I traveled over the Chickasaw Nation, enjoying, together, many days of hunting and fishing, enjoying out-door camp life when that country wa3 a wilderness. Our destination was Suggsville in the heart of the notorious Picken county w^here Mr. Crowe owned and operated a cotton gin, a grist mill, a fairly good house, and farm machinery. I w^as shaking with ague when v/c arrived at Suggsville. The only medicine obtainable was arsenic, quinine and calomel and the abominable brandy from Fort Reno, Okla. But no medicine ■v^'^as needed after the first night at Mr. Crov/e's house. With two mons- trous reptiles as bed fellows — whether the con- tact cured iny malady, or intense fright did it, I cannot say — the demon of disease w^as cast out, leaving me spell-bound, as if in a hypnotic trance. Continually haunting me, was a man with a lantern. And in the wonderful vision the same man was showing me a most beautiful country and leading me into a vast ampitheatre filled v/ith many thousands of finely dressed peo- ple. Among them he pointed to the speaker, who was Benjamin Franklin, explaining an ap- paratus which he called a pschycoscope, and w^hich he had proven w^ould accurately transmit thought from one planet to another. I have no doubt but that Mr, Crowe will vouch for the simple truth of this narrative, and if questioned could give facts connected w^ith his pet snakes. It would be well worth scientific in- quiry. LAND MONOPOLY. By J. W. EvarU. The CKristian religfion is a mi9nomef> WKy? Because it strains at Koly diays, wKereAs Jesus was a Sabbath bfeaken Because it med- dles witK personal liberty, wKereas Jesus was a wine maker. Because it sdys morality will not save, whereas only the pure in heart shall see God. Law IS a misnomer. Why? Because it favors the rich and oppresses the poor, because it upholds land monopoly, ^vhile the poor are homeless and lacking bread. Because it incor- porates seizures oi the fruits of toil, while labor- ers are driven into vagrancy and crime. Presi- dents, martyrs and statesmen of iall ages, sell themselves to the church for the price of the religious vote. In as much as special cohesive power accrues to protestant theology, wherein liars, thieves, perjurers, robbers artd embezzleri^ flood in resistance to malicious law^s. That which nature bestows upon man is what nature possesses, previous to man — physi- cal structure and intellect pre-expressing m nature. — J. W. Evarts- By Benjamin F, Gilbert. Go crazy, preacher, and to pale Cynthia hovi'l. And be answered by the screeching owl. You make God hideous with your fearful hells. For what it is and where it is you ne'er pretend to tell. By J. B. Gilbert. If I be a doctor, I must break my rest artd stand the cold. To obtain the shining gold. If I be a law^yer, I must lie and cheat. For an honest lawyer has no bread to eat. ■211 V ,.^^'X -ay/ .^^ --. °^^; ..*^ ^■^ \.A^ :Mm^ \/ -'^^fe'- ^^ ^^ ^>>^'^ /■^ v\ .^'\ ^ ^:#%:- \/ ^ -^^0^ ' " '7^. ,4 o. : J^m^m^ r. I>i<^,iMVi.„t^ "^■- -Ki \^;m.^< J :;"^-:;;i:^.'a?■'^-^•'^•'''''^^^'^jiVK^'^';^t..'^^ ■i.::i6;^.-;p 'f^'^":^ :^-^^.tSi^.^: '^^■•^m':'^