j^M^Hp 
 
 AND OTHEf^BlT5 
 •t OFWESTEf^ VER5E 
 
 By 
 
 GEOR.6E ELDER. CFIUMP. 
 
 IH,UvSTR.ATION,5 BY 
 
 HEF^My\N DOVEFl^ 
 
 fJ^.py;':^ 
 
Class, f^,9^r)<^ 
 Book— 14^ f/^^ 
 Copyii^lrtN" IM^ 
 
 COHfRIGHT DEPOSm 
 
3 iu- "^- 
 
 ■^■f "^^ 
 
 3 2- V, 
 
QOD'5 
 COUNTPY 
 
 and Other Bits 
 
 of Western 
 
 Verse 
 
 GCORGC CLDCR CRUHP 
 
 ^1,1 
 
 Copyright 
 
 1909 
 
 Geo. E. Crump 
 
 Illustrations t>v Herman Dover 
 

 Caiateinife 
 
 GOD'S COUNTRY 
 
 CAMP-SICK 
 
 PUCkET SOUND 
 
 TEN BELOW 
 
 TO A BRIER PIPE 
 
 SPIRIT LAKE 
 
 PRIEST LAKE 
 
 A FISHING SONG 
 
 TO A DRUG FIEND 
 
 THE SPOKANE VALLEY 
 
 A GARDEN. HAYDEN LAKE 
 
 SANTA CRUZ 
 
 FALL 
 
 GRINDING OF THE WHEEL 
 
 TO THE PLAYERS 
 
 A LIVING ROOM, HAYDEN LAKE 
 
 MULTUM IN PARVO 
 
 KNITTING 
 
 BILL'S BUGLE 
 
 WHAT RILEY'S WRIT 
 
 GOOD NIGHT 
 
 ©CI.A255772 
 
I've seen all I want of big cities, and I guess they're 
 
 all right in their way ; 
 I've been stalled in a block for a couple of weeks, 'nd 
 
 I've rid on the street cars all day ; 
 I've been 'round to the-a-tres and op-ras, and for 
 
 pictures I've seen 'bout the best. 
 And while there is lots in the East we ain't got, you 
 
 can't start me too soon for the West. 
 
 We ain't got such sky-scrapin' buildin's, nor bridges 
 
 that stretch for a mile. 
 Nor stores where they sell about all that there is, from 
 
 threshin' machines to hair ile ; 
 We ain't got such crowded streets, neither, w^here you 
 
 sure have to shove your way through ; 
 No, there's several things w^e ain't got in the West, 
 
 but for all that I guess it'll do. 
 
 We breathe air in the West — it's the real thing — and 
 
 it's sw^eet with the scent of the pine. 
 And our scenery's somethin' that never grows stale — 
 
 our mountains and lakes, wal, they're fine ! 
 You may have some sunsets back east here, you may 
 
 have, but I'm here to bet 
 If you'd seen some I've seen from the top of the range 
 
 you'd agree they're the best ever yet. 
 
 And the thing that I like 'bout the West is, that a man 
 
 is his own boss out there ; 
 I'd rather be riinnin' a tw^o-by-four ranch than clerk 
 
 to some swell millionaire ; 
 Of course, there is times when the grub's scarce, and 
 
 you hustle to make both ends meet, 
 But the man who stays with it is bound to win out, 
 
 and when I'm in luck it's my treat. 
 
 So "Here's to the West" — drink it down, boys — where 
 
 there's ginger and push and fresh air ; 
 Where there's chances for all who've got hustle and 
 
 grit, to stay with the game and deal fair ; 
 The East is all right, if you like it ; it's got lots w^e ain't 
 
 got, of the best. 
 But just now I've a longin' I want to git back to my 
 
 country — God's Country — the West. 
 
mmp 
 
 I'm sick of the busy old city, 
 I'm sick of its dirt and its 
 din ; 
 
 I'm sick of the crowds on the 
 pavements, and business 
 itself seems a sin; 
 
 For as I gaze out of the win- 
 dow, away where the 
 mountains are blue, 
 
 I can hear the low voice of 
 the river, as I paddle my 
 dug-out canoe. 
 
 On the banks giant trees rise above me ; from their 
 
 branches comes incense divine ; 
 There's a glorious vigor about them, those sturdy old 
 
 cedars and pine ; 
 What apartment is half so delightful as a camp 'neath 
 
 their wide-spreading limbs. 
 And w^hat melody ever w^as sweeter than the song in 
 
 their tops of the winds. 
 
 
 
 ;M: 
 
 mi 
 
 Below me a rock splits the river, and there where the 
 water flows white 
 
 Is the haunt of the trout — well I know 
 
 it — and I follow my flies in their 
 
 flight ; 
 Ere they scarcely have lit on the riffle 
 
 there's a swirl, a quick tug and a 
 
 gleam, 
 Then my line cuts a path through the 
 
 water, as the fish fights its w^ay 
 
 up the stream. 
 
 Now^ the sun has sunk over the hill- 
 tops; o'er the lake comes the 
 cool evening breeze ; 
 
 And I'm pushing my prow again 
 canipward, where the light of a 
 fire through the trees 
 
 Tells me Bill's cooking flap-jacks and 
 bacon, and soon * * * ! there's 
 the telephone bell ; 
 
 "Who is it ? — all right — send him up, 
 please." Well, business is — some- 
 times it's h 1 ! 
 
 ' iMMi&MiraanMSHm^ - 
 
¥n£(Bt S© 
 
 There's somethin* about the salt water that goes to my 
 
 head Hke old wine — 
 The wash of the surf on the beaches and the smell of 
 
 the good old sea brine 
 Clears my mind of its worries and troubles, sends the 
 
 blood rushin' up to my brain, 
 And I surely feel glad that I'm livin' when I'm down 
 
 by the old Sound again. 
 
 The gulls that fly over the harbor, the drift carried out 
 
 by the tide, 
 The smoke of an outward bound liner agettin' her 
 
 deep sea ^ride ; 
 You see, I live back in the mountains, I'm workin' a 
 
 sort of a mine. 
 But whenever the pay^reak develops I cash in and 
 
 ^art for the brine. 
 
 There's lots of queer life by the water, as you loaf 
 
 'round the docks day by day — 
 A "wind-jammer" in from Au^ralia, a "tramp" loadin' 
 
 up for Bombay — 
 All kinds and all sizes they come here, from every 
 
 port under the skies, 
 You can tell mo^ the lands that they hail from by the 
 
 buntin' a^ern that she flies. 
 
 Some days when there's no wind a ^irrin', and the 
 smoke curls ^raight up through the air. 
 
 With a haze hangin' over the islands, and the moun- 
 tains behind 'em as fair 
 
 As any the poets have mentioned — I can't tell you ju^ 
 how I feel, 
 
 But I w^ant to forget all my meanness, and give the 
 whole world a square deal. 
 
 And, then, it's some grand w^hen it's blowin', with the 
 bay ju^ a mass of white foam. 
 
 The clouds scuddin' over the heavens, and the gulls 
 makin' tracks to get home ; 
 
 Salt water ! you bet it's the real thing — there's some- 
 thin' about it that's fine ; 
 
 You can all have your lakes, brooks and rivers, but 
 give me salt water for mine. 
 
 J' 
 
T( 
 
 ssa 
 
 Pile another log 
 on. Bill, 
 It's sure cold to- 
 night ; 
 Wind a-howlin' 
 from the north, 
 Streams a-freez- 
 in' tight ; 
 Snow a-siftin' 
 through the air, 
 Light as any 
 feather ; 
 Give me Summer, 
 Spring or Fall, 
 I can't stand this 
 weather. 
 
 Seems like I ain't seen the sun 
 
 For a year or tw^o. 
 And this everlastin' w^hite 
 
 Ain't my kind 'o view. 
 Freezin' when you're out 'o doors, 
 
 Roastin' w^hen you're in ; 
 Give me Summer, Spring or Fall, 
 
 Winter's sure a sin. 
 
 And this ridin' on the range 
 
 Ain't light exercise. 
 With a "Norther" in your face 
 
 Under leaden skies. 
 Grouchy ? Wal, perhaps I am. 
 
 But I've got a reason ; 
 Give me Summer, Spring or Fall, 
 
 D n this Winter season. 
 
 Birds have got the right idea ; 
 
 If I just could fly 
 I'd be hikin' out o' here 
 
 When the flowers die. 
 What with rheumatiz and "grip" — 
 
 My ! Ain't it a fright ! 
 Give me Summer, Spring or Fall ; 
 
 Don't you think I'm right ? 
 
T© a IBrief Pipe 
 
 Fashioned from roots of curious twi^ and curl. 
 Daintily curved and polished as a pearl. 
 You well might solace bring to king or earl, — 
 Pipe of Sweet Brier. 
 
 When fir^ you came to me light was your hue, 
 But as I filled you day by day you grew 
 Black as a slave — a slave mo^ kind and true — 
 Pipe of Sweet Brier. 
 
 How many pleasant recollecitions cling 
 About you, like the buds in early spring 
 Clu^er upon a bush where birds oft sing — 
 Pipe of Sweet Brier. 
 
 I cannot help but think how few like you 
 There are w^ho ever give — and never sue 
 For recompense — whose faults as yours are few- 
 Pipe of Sw^eet Brier. 
 
 When at the close of day I homeward ^ray 
 With cares that shroud me in a veil of gray, 
 You drive all trouble from my mind away — 
 Pipe of Sweet Brier. 
 
 Now^, once again your bowl with w^eed I fill 
 And hug the blaze that kills the evening chill ; 
 Your smoke's an antidote for every ill — 
 Pipe of Sweet Brier. 
 
)pmt Lake 
 
 The mountains rise above it to the sky 
 And at its head Mount Carleton, like a king, 
 Shoulders its massive form where eagles fly ; 
 From out its canons deep toned echoes ring. 
 Like voices of the Gods that guard the peak, 
 And, challenged, always answer when you speak. 
 
 Deep in its limpid depths, in many a pool. 
 The great trout lurks, watching w^ith eager eyes 
 The minnows that in shallow water play. 
 Or where in careless flight the luckless flies 
 Drop to the surface ; then the widening rings 
 Mark but the spot. A distant song-bird sings. 
 And far above, in rapid flight, there 
 
 wings 
 A wild duck to her nest ; a fretful 
 
 loon 
 With maniac laughter greets the 
 
 rising moon ; 
 A bat in crooked flight wings in its 
 
 wake, 
 And frogs croak from the marsh- 
 
 at Spirit Lake. 
 
 f-gg^jjta'^jR-ti^^g^,^;^^^:.:- 
 
Pffiesft Lak( 
 
 The sun has sunk beneath the mountain's rim, 
 The highe^ peaks are la^ to bid him go, 
 
 And where all day the hills were bathed in blue. 
 Now purple shadow^s rise to meet the snow. 
 
 The evening breeze comes rippling o'er the lake ; 
 
 A gentle breeze — refreshing, cool, sublime — 
 As if it w^ere the breath of all the trees 
 
 That, rank on rank, the di^ant mountains climb. 
 
 The clouds above take on the sunset's glow — 
 Great painted ships that float against the blue. 
 
 Their changing forms too delicate to la^, 
 
 Slowly they drift their way and pass from view. 
 
 And, now, a illness falls upon the earth, 
 Save here and there the twitter of a bird. 
 
 Or, faintly borne across the placid lake, 
 The distant murmur of a ^ream is heard. 
 
 And night comes on ; from the great dome above 
 The fir^ ^ar peeps ; then, slowly, one by one, 
 
 The little lamps of Heaven again are lit ; 
 
 The sunset's glow is gone — the day is done. 
 
I -will sing you a song of the whirring reel. 
 
 Of a rod that is slender and fair ; 
 Of a dainty line of woven silk. 
 
 And the flies that hang pendant there ; 
 Of my w^illow creel with its meshes fair 
 
 That has cradled many a pet 
 Lifted from out some cool retreat 
 
 And laid there, shining and wet. 
 
 1 will sing of a morning bright and fair, 
 
 The sun just tinging the east ; 
 Of a camp-fire breakfast, smoking hot, 
 
 That is better than any feast ; 
 Of the breeze that tosses the sturdy pines 
 
 And carries their fragrance far. 
 Filling the sails of the great Cloud Ship 
 
 That floats 'neath the Morning Star. 
 
 The stream at my feet sings a song of its ow^n, 
 
 Better than any I know ; 
 Sometimes it ripples in laughter loud, 
 
 Sometimes it murmurs low ; 
 And as I puff my pipe of brier, 
 
 And cast in some tempting pool, 
 I am learning some truths that I never knew, 
 
 Only taught at Dame Nature's school. 
 
T© a Dime' Fiesadl 
 
 I pity you, poor wasted, living death. 
 
 With face more Hke a skull, and troubled breath, 
 
 Hands like the talons of a bird of prey. 
 
 And deep sunk eyes that ever seem to say : 
 
 "There is no Hell beyond ; 'lis here today." 
 
 Your wasted form, your ever trembling knees. 
 Remind me of the gaunt, charred trunk of trees 
 That forest fires have sw^ept, and every breeze 
 Tosses and shakes, 'till finally some day 
 It crashes to the ground and to decay. 
 
 Once you were young and strong, a mother's pride 
 Shone in her eyes when you w^ere by her side ; 
 You laughed at care, and misery defied 
 In those glad days ; how little then you knew 
 That years w^ould bring this bitter fate to you. 
 
 Your only friend is drug — morphine, cocaine ; 
 A demon in disguise which robs your brain 
 And stimulates your shattered nerves in vain. 
 The needle leaves upon your flesh deep scars, 
 Yet 'tis your god — you kiss your prison bars. 
 
 Poor wretch, there is no 
 
 horror 'neath the sun 
 That, if you met, you'd step 
 
 aside to shun; 
 Your torment never ends — is 
 
 never done — 
 And when at night the World 
 
 sinks to its rest 
 You wander like a spirit 
 
 cursed, unblessed. 
 
 You have no friend, no home, 
 
 no hope — the grave 
 Would be relief — oblivion 
 
 you crave ; 
 Your lot is worse than any 
 
 fettered slave. 
 Poor sufferer, in some world 
 
 after this 
 I pray that God may grant 
 
 you perfe<5t bliss. 
 
There's a grandeur in our mountains rising snow- 
 capped from the plain ; 
 There's a glory in our river rushing by ; 
 There's a beauty in the Summer when the fields are 
 gold with grain, 
 And no words can paint the sunsets of our sky. 
 There is inspiration wafted in the breezes from the 
 pines, 
 There is life that's worth the living in the West ; 
 There is plenty here for all who come, a hearty wel- 
 come, too. 
 And Nature offers each her very best. 
 
A Gaardeffi — Inlsiydeiffl Lak 
 
 /"' 
 
 ^ 
 
 Dear generous Garden, once again I come, 
 And once again you greet me with a smile, 
 Pouring upon the breeze your fragrance rare ; 
 A thousand blossoms nod their welcome while 
 My eyes drink in your mass of glorious bloom. 
 
 Along the path the poppies blaze the way 
 And flaunt their silken heads ; the sparkling dew^ 
 Gems the sweet peas, galardias, astors, pinks ; 
 A palette set w^ith every shade and hue. 
 
 A drowsy humming tells of busy bees 
 Taking their fill from every honeyed cup, 
 'Till, drunk w^ith nedtar, zigzag down the breeze 
 They reel away to store their sweetness up. 
 
 The sunlight filters through the pergola 
 And leaves upon the ground a rare design — 
 Blotches of golden light, and shadowed forms 
 Of dainty leaves and 
 
 tendrils of the 
 
 vine. 
 
 And little feathered 
 
 robbers in the 
 
 trees 
 Are stealing fruit, nor 
 
 think it any wrong I 
 "Surely," they chirp' 
 
 "there's plenty 
 
 here for all," 
 Then gratefully repay 
 
 me with a song. 
 
 Dear generous Gar- 
 den, here I love to 
 come 
 
 And leave behind the 
 world and all its 
 care ; 
 
 Drink deep your per- 
 fumed breath, and 
 feast my eyes 
 
 On all the beauty that 
 you offer here. 
 
 H 
 
m... 
 
 iaimte Crai^ 
 
 Where ever restless waters wash the beach, 
 
 Champing and fuming Uke a nervous steed ; 
 Where broken cHffs, Uke miser's fingers, reach 
 
 For ocean's treasures, in their ceaseless greed ; 
 Where, hollowed by the waters, caves of rock 
 
 Resound and echo to the ocean's rush. 
 Like sentinels of stone that seem to mock 
 
 Each coming storm — each wave that strives to crush ; 
 Where seagulls float like sails upon the air, 
 
 Dipping and rising on the salt wind's breast 
 Like pleasant thoughts, that never know a care. 
 
 Which lull our minds and soothe our hearts to rest — 
 There, where the w^hite-caps ever fret and toss, 
 
 Nestles the "City of the Holy Cross." 
 
Fall 
 
 When the fields are dull gold with the harvest 
 
 And the mountains swim blue in the sun ; 
 When the boughs are bent low with their burdens 
 
 That drop to the earth, one by one ; 
 When the bushes that follow the roadways 
 
 Burn red with the colors of Fall, 
 While all the year Nature is charming, 
 
 This season seems best of them all. 
 
 It's a season of fullness and plenty, 
 
 This harvesting time of the year ; 
 A warmness and brightness of color, 
 
 A promise of wealth and good cheer. 
 How fully the Earth is repaying 
 
 With generous crops for us all ; 
 And while every season is charming. 
 
 The one I love best is the Fall. 
 
 "^^^^^^^M^^*::^:"^ 
 
 ,'Mi 
 
There is no steel but what its strength and temper 
 
 Has been acquired by blows and whitest flame ; 
 No painting ever graced a noble mansion 
 
 But years of toil had made the artist's fame. 
 No diamond ever shone as some imprisoned star 
 
 But what has felt the grinding of the w^heel ; 
 No life has ever known the depths of happiness 
 
 But what some sorrow's taught the heart to feel. 
 
 Dear friend, remember w^hen the days look darkest, 
 
 When one by one our brightest hopes have fled ; 
 When those that used to know us pass as strangers, 
 
 And every high ambition now seems dead; 
 When all the day we long for sleep's oblivion, 
 
 And waking only means another day 
 In which to stifle sobs, though heart be breaking, 
 
 And smile — an adtor in a tragic play: — 
 
 Remember, there's no storm but spends its fury. 
 
 And after tempest shines the sun more clear ; 
 Although we've suffered it has made us nobler, 
 
 And selfishness has left us, tear by tear. 
 The past is dead — we may not live it over — 
 
 But on before a glorious Future lies ; 
 When Night is gone, with all its drear forebodings. 
 
 All Nature smiles beneath a glad sunrise. 
 
#'^z^ 
 
 T® th® PEaysffs 
 
 To you, good friends, who drive dull care away, 
 This weary world owes much — nor can it pay 
 In vulgar coin for all the good you do 
 In painting into life a rosy hue. 
 
 Against w^hat odds how brave a part you play ; 
 Jostled about the world from day to day. 
 With home and friends a thousand miles away ; 
 The "jumps" are long, the dressing rooms are bad, 
 The meals are often worse, and yet you smile 
 And laugh and sing as though you never had 
 A care on earth, or knew a single trial. 
 
 Your health, good friends, as on your way you go, 
 And more than money you can count your gain 
 In all the happiness you leave behind ; 
 Here's hoping w^e may sometime meet again. 
 
Life is well "worth the living in this room ; 
 
 There may be rooms more grand, but none that holds 
 
 For me the sense of comfort and good cheer 
 
 That everjrwhere abounds within these w^alls. 
 
 I love the ingle, where the crackling logs 
 
 Send forth their glow and warmth, and piney scents 
 
 Steal from the smoke that ever twi^s and curls 
 
 Up the great chimney's gaping blackened throat. 
 
 What matter that w^ithout it rains or snow^s. 
 
 Or wintry w^inds come howling from the north ; 
 
 Here one is warm and filled with sweet content, 
 
 And feels the world is kind and full of friends. 
 
 i love the pleasing colors of this room — 
 The reds and browns, the glint of polished brass, 
 The frieze above with goodly thoughts inscribed. 
 And through the w^indows, o'er the sloping lawn, 
 The lake, that basks beneath the drifting clouds. 
 What words can paint its ever-changing moods — 
 Describe the mountains, in the morning blue. 
 Above the mi^s which curl in vapory grace. 
 Then purple as the day draws to its close ? 
 Each day the picfture changes — some new phase 
 Of Nature greets us, never to return. 
 And when at night the moon swims overhead, 
 Trailing across the lake its silver path, 
 There is no lovelier spot in all the world. 
 
 m IPa 
 
 Did you ever stop to think that the w^ay to be suc- 
 cessful 
 
 Is to say the thing w^orth saying, and to do the thing 
 w^orth doing ; 
 
 That the way to live the happiest is just to share your 
 pleasure, 
 
 And the better way to share it is to woo the girl worth 
 wooing. 
 
w- 
 
 In the gray twilight she's quietly knitting 
 
 Clothes for her little one, dainty and small ; 
 Qyietly knitting, with fingers that tremble, 
 
 And on the work gli^en tear-drops that fall, 
 Thinking of baby, her very own treasure ; 
 
 Strange how her heart seems to throb at that word. 
 Many a time in the past has she heard it — 
 
 Ah, but it wasn't "my baby" she heard. 
 
 Tenderly, carefully, weaves she the fabric 
 
 As she would form great resolves for its life ; 
 Gently she smoothes out the places that roughen 
 
 As she would smoothe out the danger and strife. 
 How, if she could, would she bear all its burdens. 
 
 Her baby never should know^ want or cold ; 
 Why must it grow^ up to know all the sadness — 
 
 Why must her lamb ever stray from the fold ? 
 
 Thus speaks the mother's heart, filled with its sacrifice ; 
 
 In all the world there's no love like her love — 
 Love that endures all, that seeks for no recompense ; 
 
 Love that is infinite, love from above. 
 
(Written on the Return of the "Rough Riders" From Cuba.) 
 
 There ain't been much fun in the army, 
 
 And I guess that we've all earned our pay ; 
 But, then, we weren't fightin' for wages, 
 
 And we'd do it again any day. 
 Yet, now that the trouble is over, 
 
 (Except for the fever and chills), 
 There isn't so much that sounds cheerful 
 
 Exceptin' that bugle of Bill's. 
 
 And it ain't so pleasant at all times — 
 
 For instance, the first thing at dawn. 
 When the cursed old fever's been makin' 
 
 Yer wish that you'd never been born ; 
 But all through the day when I hear it 
 
 I'm d d if its music ain't sweet, 
 
 Exceptin' one tune Bill ain't played yet. 
 
 And never will play — that's "Retreat." 
 
 He blows the boys down to the grub tent. 
 
 And it don't mean no hard-tack this time ; 
 And you bet when I outfit in future 
 
 There won't be no "canned beef" in mine. 
 From sunrise to dark it means business — 
 
 When Bill blows there's somethin' to do, 
 But, then, I feel best when I'm workin', 
 
 Elxcept when the grub's pretty few. 
 
 Yes, I'm glad that the fightin' is over, 
 
 And we're back on the hills at Montauk ; 
 The boys will be startin' for home soon. 
 
 And you bet this time they won't walk. 
 And I'll think of it over and over. 
 
 When I'm ridin' the range, and perhaps 
 I won't think of Bill when the stars are out bright 
 
 And the wind dow^n the canon blows "Taps." 
 
I tell yer, Mi^er Riley, you're the kind o* man f er me ; 
 Now, I don't go much on varses, nor no kind o' poetry, 
 But when I read them rhymes of yourn they warn't 
 
 like the re^. 
 For you've sort o' reached the heart o' things and took 
 
 'em at the be^. 
 
 I'd never noticed nothin' that was pretty 'bout the barn, 
 Or the bosses or the cattle — why I didn't care a darn ; 
 And to think that you could pictur' sech a pleasant 
 
 kind o' view 
 Of the corn and yaller punkins — vval, you've done it 
 
 mighty true. 
 
 Of course, I couldn't write it, and I wouldn't never try, 
 But, ju^ the same, / feel it since I read your varse, 
 
 and w^hy 
 I never noticed it afore is mor'n I can tell. 
 But I'm glad you've writ it, Riley, and you've writ it 
 
 mighty well. 
 
 G®©dl mUM 
 
 Good night, dear one, without the world is sinking to 
 its rest. 
 
 The tired beasts have lain them down, the bird sleeps 
 in its nest ; 
 
 Above, the moon through fleecy clouds sheds light on 
 all below. 
 
 On burning wastes of desert lands, on fields of spark- 
 ling snow. 
 
 And, as I gaze far up above, while all about me sleep, 
 
 "Dear Moon," 1 cry, "in yonder sky a holy vigil keep 
 
 O'er this wide earth ; guard well each one until the 
 morning light ; 
 
 May sweet, refreshing sleep attend each weary one — 
 Good Night." 
 
MK U ISio 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 018 603 992 #