THANKSGIVING.
Thanksgiving! How many reminiscences of the olden time does that word
call up, when sons and daughters, they who had wandered far and wide,
whose locks, once brown and shining with the sunlight of youth, now give
tokens that the autumnal frosts of life are falling slowly upon them,
return once more to the old hearth-stone, and, for a brief space, grow
young again amid the festive scenes of Thanksgiving Day. To you, who,
like me, drew your first breath among the New England hills, and who
have strayed away from your early home, in the busy world in which you
are now mingling, comes there not occasionally pleasant memories of the
olden time, when with eager haste you hied you back to the roof-tree
which sheltered your infancy? And though, perchance, the snows of many a
winter may have drifted across the graves of the gray-haired man you
called your father, and the mild-eyed woman who bore the blessed name of
mother, can you not recall them to mind, as when with tears of joy and
words of love, they welcomed their children home, thanking God that as
yet not one of their household treasures was missing? And if, after the
lapse of years, there came a time when the youngest of you all was gone,
when the childish prattle you loved so well to hear was hushed, when
through the house was no more heard the patter of little, busy feet,
when there was naught left of the lost one, save a curl of golden hair,
or a tiny _shoe_, soiled and bent, but looking still so much like him
who wore it once, that you preserve it as your choicest treasure: if, I
say, there came to you a time like this, do you not remember how, amid
all the social cheer, there was still an aching void, which nothing
around you could fill?
But lest I make this chapter too sad, I shall not speak of our feelings
as we missed our baby brother, for they who have lost from their
fireside an active, playful child, understand far better than I can
describe, the loneliness, the longing for something gone, which becomes
almost a part of their being, although at times they may seem to forget.
Children’s grief is seldom as lasting as that of mature years; and hence
it is not strange if I sometimes forgot my sorrow in the joyous
anticipation of Thanksgiving Day, which was then to me but another name
for plum puddings, chicken pies, meeting dresses, morocco shoes, city
cousins, a fire in the parlor, and last, though not least, the privilege
of sitting at the first table, and using grandma’s six tiny silver
spoons, with the initials of her maiden name, “P. S.” marked upon them.
On such occasions my thoughts invariably took a leap backward, and
looking at grandma’s wrinkled face and white, shining hair, I would
wonder if she ever were young like me; and if, being young, she swung on
gates or climbed trees, and walked the great beams, as I did. Then, with
another bound, my thoughts would penetrate the future, when I, a
dignified grandmother, should recline in my arm-chair, stately and
stiff, in my heavy satin and silver gray, while my oldest son, a man
just my father’s size, should render me all the homage and respect due
to one of my age. By myself, too, I had several times tried on grandma’s
clothes, spectacles, cap and all; and then, seated in her chair, with
the big Bible in my lap, I had expounded scripture to the imaginary
children around me, frequently reprimanding _Rosa_ for her inattention,
asking her what “she thought would become of her, if she didn’t stop
wriggling so in her chair, and learn ‘the chief end of man.’” Once, in
the midst of my performance, grandma herself appeared, and as a natural
consequence, I was divested of my fixings in a much shorter space of
time than it had taken me to don them. From that day up to the period of
my illness, I verily believe grandma looked upon me as “given over to
hardness of heart and blindness of mind.”
But I am wandering from my subject, which was, I believe, the
Thanksgiving succeeding Jamie’s death and my own recovery from sickness.
For this occasion great preparations were made, it being confidently
expected that my father’s brother, who lived in Boston, would be with
us, together with his wife, a lady whose reputation for sociability and
suavity of manners was, with us, rather below par. She was my uncle’s
second wife, and rumor said that neither himself nor his home were as
comfortable as they once had been. From the same reliable source, too,
we learned that she breakfasted in her own room at ten, dined at three,
made or received calls until six, went to parties, soirées, or the
theatre in the evening, and seldom got to bed until two o’clock in the
morning; a mode of living which was pronounced little better than
heathenish by grandma, who had long been anxious for an opportunity of
“giving Charlotte Ann a piece of her mind.”
Mother, who was more discreet, very wisely advised her not to interfere
with the arrangements of her daughter-in-law. “It would do no good,” she
said, “and might possibly make matters worse.” Unlike most old people,
grandma was not very much set in her own way, and to mother’s
suggestion, she replied that “Mebby she shouldn’t say anything—’twould
depend on how many airs Charlotte put on.”
To me the expected visit was a sore trial; for, notwithstanding my
cheeks and neck were rounder and fuller than they had ever been, my
head, with its young crop of short, stiff hair, was a terrible
annoyance, and more than once I had cried as I saw in fancy the derisive
smile with which my dreaded Aunt Charlotte was sure to greet me. At last
sister Anna, who possessed a great deal of taste in such matters, and
who ought to have been a milliner, contrived for the “picked chicken,”
as she called me, a black lace cap, which fitted me so well, and was so
vastly becoming that I lost all my fears, and child-like, began to count
the days which must elapse before I could wear it.
Meantime, in the kitchen there was a loud rattling of dishes, a beating
of eggs, and calling for wood, with which to heat the great brick oven,
grandma having pronounced the stove unfit for baking a Thanksgiving
dinner. From the cornfield, behind the barn, a golden pumpkin, four
times larger than my head and about the same color, was gathered, and
after being brought to the house, was pared, cut open, scraped, and
sliced into a little tin kettle with a copper bottom, where for hours it
stewed and sputtered, filling the atmosphere with a faint, sickly odor,
which I think was the main cause of the severe headache I took to bed
with me. Mother, on the contrary, differed from me, she associating it
in some way with the rapid disappearance of the raisins, cinnamon,
sugar, and so forth, which, in sundry brown papers, lay open upon the
table. She was generally right when she made up her mind, so I shall not
dispute the point, for, let the cause have been what it would, it was a
very sick little girl which, the night before Thanksgiving, was put
early to bed by Sally, who remarked, as she undressed me, that “I was
_slimpsy_ as a rag, and she wouldn’t wonder if I had a _collapse_,”
adding, as she tucked the clothes around me, that “if I did, it would be
mighty apt to go hard with me.”
The next morning, just as the first grey streaks of daylight were
appearing in the east, I awoke, finding, to my great joy, that my
headache was gone. Rising upon my elbow and leaning far out of bed, I
pushed aside the striped curtain which shaded the window, and looking
out upon the ground below, saw, to my utter dismay, that it was covered
with snow. To me there is nothing pleasant in a snow storm, a snow bank,
or a snow cloud; and when a child, I used to think that with the fall of
the first flake, there came over my spirits a chill, which was not
removed until the spring-time, when, with its cause, it melted away: and
even now, when, with my rubber boots, I dare brave any drift, not more
than five feet four inches high, I cannot say that I have any particular
love for snow; and as from my window I watch the descent of the feathery
flakes, I always feel an irresistible desire to make at them wry faces,
my favorite method of showing my dislike. On the morning of which I have
spoken, I vented my displeasure in the usual way, and then I fell into a
deep sleep, from which I was at last awakened by the loud shouts of my
brothers, who, in the meadow across the road, were pelting each other
with balls, occasionally rolling over in the pure, white snow, which
they hailed as an old and well loved friend.
Not long after breakfast was over Anna, commenced dressing Lizzie and
Carrie, and as she had herself to beautify before the arrival of the
train which was to bring my uncle and aunt, it is not surprising that
she hurried rather faster then was wholly agreeable to the little girls,
who could see no good cause for such haste, even if Herbert Langley, my
aunt’s son and a youth of seventeen, was to accompany her. I, however,
who was older, read things differently, and when Anna pulled Lizzie’s
curly hair, and washed Carrie’s nose _up_ instead of _down_, until they
both cried, and when she herself stood before the glass a whole half
hour, arranging just in front of her ears two _spit curls_, sometimes
called “_beau catchers_,” I shrugged my shoulders, wondering if she
thought a city boy would care for her.
The morning train from Boston was due about ten o’clock, and as Meadow
Brook did not then boast a daily omnibus, it was necessary that some one
should be at the dépôt in order to meet our expected guests. In New
England it is almost an unheard-of thing for an entire family to remain
away from church on Thanksgiving Day, but considering all the
circumstances, it was, on this occasion, decided orthodox for us to do
so, and accordingly at nine o’clock father and old sorrel started for
the dépôt, which was distant about two and a half miles. Long and
wearisome to us children was that waiting for his return; for stiff and
prim, as starched white aprons, best gowns, and hemstitched pantalets
could make us, we sat in a row like so many automatons, scarcely daring
to move, lest we should displace some article of dress. In the best
chamber, the room which Aunt Charlotte was to occupy, a cheerful wood
fire was burning, and at least a dozen times did grandma go up there to
see if all were right, now smoothing the clean, linen pillow-case, now
moving the large easy-chair a little more to the centre of the room, and
again wiping from the mirror some imaginary specks of dust.
As she was coming down the twelfth time, the sound of sleigh-bells took
us all to the window, where, instead of the costly furs and rich velvet
wrappings of Aunt Charlotte, we saw the coarse plaid shawl and dark
delaine hood of Aunt Betsey, while at her side was the shaggy overcoat
and sealskin cap of her better half, Uncle Jason. This worthy couple,
good enough in their way, lived in Union, about nine miles from Meadow
Brook, where, for the last ten years, they had been in the habit of
spending Thanksgiving, without ever seeming to think it possible for
them to return the compliment. Although we had never seen Aunt
Charlotte, we knew full well that there was nothing in common between
her and Aunt Betsey, and after a long consultation it had been decided
not to invite the latter, who, as it proved, did not deem an invitation
necessary.
Uncle Jason was my father’s half brother, and the stepson of grandma,
who, the moment she saw them was actually guilty of the exclamation,
“Good Lord! what sent them here?” Before any of us could reply, the door
burst open, and the loud, boisterous laugh of Uncle Jason greeted our
ears, intermingled with the squeaky tones of Aunt Betsey, who,
addressing my mother, said, “How d’ye dew, Fanny. You pretty well? I
s’pose you’re lookin’ for us, though you didn’t send us no invite? Jason
kinder held off about comin’, but I telled him ’twas enough sight easier
to eat dinner here than to cook it to hum.”
With as good a grace as she could possibly assume, mother returned her
greeting, and then, taking her into her own bedroom, asked her to remove
her bonnet, at the same time telling her she was expecting Uncle Joseph
and Aunt Charlotte from Boston.
“Now, you don’t say it,” exclaimed Aunt Betsey, stopping for a moment in
the adjustment of her cap, the fashion of which was wonderful, having
been devised by herself, as were all her articles of dress. “Now, dew
tell if that puckerin’ thing is a comin’! How nipped up we shall have to
be! I’m so glad I wore this gown!” she continued, looking complacently
at her blue and white plaid, the skirt of which was very short and
scanty, besides being trimmed at the bottom with two narrow ruffles.
With her other peculiarities Aunt Betsey united that of jealousy, and
after getting herself warm, and looking round, as was her custom, she
commenced with, “Now, if I won’t give up—a fire in the parlor chamber. I
s’pose Charlotte’s too good to pull off her things in the bedroom, as I
do. Wall, it’s the luck of some to be born with a silver spoon in their
mouth.”
Grandma, who was the only person present except myself, made no answer,
and after a moment Aunt Betsey continued, “Now I think on’t, Miss Lee
(she never addressed her as “mother,” for, from the first, a mutual
dislike had existed between them), now I think on’t, Miss Lee, mebby
Fanny meant to slight me.”
“Fanny never slighted anybody,” was grandma’s reply, while her polished
knitting-needles rattled with a vengeance.
“Wall, I guess she thought Jo’s wife and I wouldn’t hitch hosses
exactly, but the land knows that I don’t care the snap of my finger for
her. I’m as good as anybody, if I don’t keep a hired maid and have a
carpet on every floor.”
Here she was interrupted by the sound of horses’ feet, and rising up,
grandma said, “I guess they’ve come. Will you go and meet them?”
“Not _I_; I’m the last one to creep, I can tell you,” was Aunt Betsey’s
reply, while grandma and I quitted the room, leaving her sitting bolt
upright, with her feet on the fender and her lips pursed up as they
always were when she was indignant.
Uncle Joseph, Aunt Charlotte, Herbert Langley, had all come, and as the
latter leaped upon the ground and I caught a sight of his tall, slender
figure, I involuntarily exclaimed, “Long-legs,” a cognomen, which he
ever after retained in our family. Shaking down his pants, he went
through with a kind of shuffle not wholly unlike the Highland fling,
ending his performance by kissing his hand to the group of _noses_
pressed close against the window-pane.
“I shall like him,” was my mental comment, as I turned from him towards
the bundle of clothes which Uncle Joseph lifted from the sleigh and
deposited upon the steps, and which we supposed to be our dreaded aunt.
“This is perfectly horrible,” were the first words which issued from
under the folds of her veil; but to what she referred I never knew.
We all knew and loved Uncle Joseph, and for his sake my mother conquered
whatever of prejudice she felt towards his wife, who returned her
cordial welcome with the extreme end of her forefinger, saying, when
asked to sit down, “I’ll go to my room immediately, if you please.”
“Speak to the children first,” suggested my uncle, and with a muttered,
“It doesn’t matter,” the haughty lady bowed coldly to us, as one by one
we were presented.
When it came my turn, her small, black eyes rested longer upon me, and
the faintest derisive smile imaginable curled the corners of her mouth.
I knew that either my cap or my face had provoked that smile, and with
tears in my eyes I was turning away, when Herbert Langley caught me in
his long arms, exclaiming, “And so, this is Rosa, the poetess, I mean to
call you little ‘Crop-head,’ may I?”
He referred, I suppose, to a letter which I had once written in rhyme to
my Uncle Joseph, but before, I could frame any reply, his mother said,
scornfully, “Don’t be flattered, child—Herbert calls everything poetry
that rhymes. He’ll learn to discriminate better as he grows older,” and
with a stately sweep she left the room, saying, as she reached the
rather steep and narrow stair-case, “Dear me—how funny—it’s like
mounting a ladder.”
While she was making her toilet we had an opportunity of learning
something of Herbert, who, whether he were so or not, seemed much
pleased with everything around him. Occasionally, however, I doubted his
sincerity, for when Aunt Betsey was presented to him, he appeared quite
as much delighted with her as with anything else, drawing his chair
closely to her side, and asking her numberless questions about the best
modes of making cheese and raising chickens, while all the time there
was a peculiarly quizzical expression in his eyes, which were dark and
very handsome, saving that the lids were too red to suit my ideas of
beauty. To Anna and her _spit curls_ he took kindly, and ere his lady
mother made her appearance a second time he had put his arm around her
twice, telling her she should come to Boston sometime and go to school.
A rustle of silk upon the stairs announced the descent of Aunt
Charlotte, and with her nose slightly elevated, ready for any emergency,
she entered the parlor, where she was introduced to Aunt Betsey, who,
courtesying straight down, “hoped to see her well,” adding, that she
“s’posed she’d come to the country to see how poor folks lived.”
Falling back into the rocking-chair which Anna brought for her, Aunt
Charlotte made no particular reply, save an occasional attack upon her
hartshorn. Aunt Betsey, however, nothing daunted, endeavored to engage
her in conversation by asking if “she knew Liza Ann Willcott, a
tailoress girl, that boarded with a Miss Johnson, who used to live in
Union, but who now lived in Boston.”
Frowning majestically, Aunt Charlotte replied that she had not the honor
of Miss Willcott’s acquaintance, whereupon Aunt Betsey advised her to
make it by all means, assuring her that “Liza Ann was a first rate girl,
and that Miss Johnson was the best kind of a neighbor, always willin’ to
_lend_, or do a good turn”——
Here, with a haughty toss of her head, Aunt Charlotte turned away and
began talking in a low tone to Herbert, he being the only one who, she
seemed to think, was at all worth noticing. It is strange how much
constraint one person can sometimes throw over a room full. On this
occasion, had an ogress suddenly alighted in our midst, we could not
have been more silent or less at ease than we were with that Boston
lady, sitting there so starched and stiff, her fat hands folded one over
the other, and the tips of her satin gaiters just visible from beneath
the ample folds of her rich silk dress. Even Uncle Joseph, whose genial
nature usually shed so much sunlight over our circle, was grave and
reserved, rarely venturing a remark, or, if he did, glancing at his wife
to see if she approved it. Uncle Jason, who painfully felt his own
awkwardness, sat tipped back in his chair against the wall, with his
feet on the rounds, while his fingers kept time to a tune, which he was
evidently whistling to himself. Glad were we all when finally called to
dinner, the savory smell of which had long been whetting our appetites.
“What! dinner so soon?” said Aunt Charlotte, consulting her gold watch,
which pointed to half-past two. “I don’t believe I can force down a
mouthful.”
But, spite of her belief, she _did_ manage to make way with the contents
of her well-filled plate, which was passed back a second time to be
replenished. So eager were we all to serve her that we partially forgot
Aunt Betsey, who, after waiting awhile for a potato, at last arose, and
reaching half-way across the table, secured one for herself; saying, by
way of apology, that “she believed in looking out for Number One, for if
she didn’t nobody else would.”
So incensed was she with what she termed our neglect, that the moment
dinner was over she insisted upon going home, saying, as she bade us
good-bye, that “when she went again where she wasn’t wanted, she gussed
she should know it;” and adding, while two big tears dropped from the
end of her nose, that “she never s’posed she should be so misused by
folks that she’d done so much for.”
The sight of _her_ tears brought forth answering ones from me, for, with
all her peculiarities, I loved Aunt Betsey, and I remembered that when
sickness and death were among us, she had left her own home to stay with
us, ministering as far as she was able to our comfort. Many a night had
she watched with me, and though she invariably placed the lamp so that
its rays glared full in my face, though she slept three-fourths of the
time, _snoring_ so loudly as to keep me awake, and though at the
slightest change for the worse in my symptoms she always routed the
whole household, telling them, “Rosa was dyin’ now, if she ever was,”
thereby almost frightening me to death, I knew that she meant well, and
in my heart I liked her far better than I did my Boston aunt, who, after
bidding her sister-in-law good-bye, went back to the parlor, saying to
her husband in a tone loud enough for us to hear, “What a vulgar
creature! Did you notice her hands? Why, they are as coarse and black as
a servant girl’s.”
“And she’s none the worse for that,” interposed grandma, warming up in
the defence of her son’s wife. “She has now and then an odd streak, but
on the whole she’s better than they’ll average.”
After this, Aunt Charlotte relapsed into silence, which she did not
break until she overheard Herbert proposing to Anna a ride on the
morrow. Then she roused up, and while her little black eyes snapped, she
said, “I am going home to-morrow afternoon, and so are you.
Consequently, there’ll be no time for a ride.”
In a twinkling, Herbert’s thumb and finger went up to his nose, a
gesture which I did not then understand, but it struck me disagreeably,
and had also the effect of silencing Aunt Charlotte, who made no further
remark on the subject until they chanced to be alone, when I, who was in
the hall, heard her say, “What can induce you to talk so much with that
raw country girl? Your city friends would laugh well if they knew it.”
Consigning his “city friends” to the care of the old gentleman supposed
to preside over the lower regions, Herbert walked off in quest of the
“raw country girl,” by whose side he sat the remainder of the evening,
talking to her so low that Lizzie whispered to me her private opinion
that “they were courting.”
The next morning Aunt Charlotte did not appear at breakfast, it being so
much earlier than her usual hour of rising that she felt wholly unequal
to the task. Accordingly, though we did not wait, the table did until
ten o’clock, when, pale and languid, she came down, seeming much
disturbed to find that Herbert had coaxed Anna into going with him to
call on Aunt Betsey, to whom he had taken quite a fancy, and who had
asked him to visit her “if he didn’t feel too smart.”
Darting an angry glance at her husband, she said, “How could you suffer
it?” asking at the same time if there was a hotel on the road. Being
told that there was one at Union and another half-way between that and
Meadow Brook, she seemed more disturbed than ever, eating little or no
breakfast, and announcing her intention of staying over that day, or, at
all events, until Herbert returned. Seating herself at the window, she
watched and waited, while the hours crept on and the clock in grandma’s
room struck four ere the head of “old Sorrel” was visible far down the
road. Then with an eagerness wholly incomprehensible to me, she started
up, straining her eyes anxiously in the direction of the fast
approaching cutter. As it came nearer we all observed something rather
singular in the position of Herbert, who seemed lying almost across
Anna’s lap, while she was driving!
“Merciful Heavens! it’s as I feared!” was Aunt Charlotte’s exclamation,
as she sank upon the lounge, moaning bitterly, and covering her face
with the cushion, that she might not see the disgrace of her only
son—for Herbert was _drunk_!
Lifting him out, my father and uncle laid him upon the settee in the
sitting-room, just where little Jamie had been laid, and my mother, as
she looked upon the senseless inebriate resting where once had lain the
beautiful, inanimate form of her youngest born, thought how far less
bitter was _her_ cup of sorrow than was that of the half fainting woman,
who would rather, far rather, her boy had died with the dew of babyhood
upon his brow than to have seen him thus debased and fallen.
The story was soon told, my uncle supplying all points which Anna could
not. It seems that early in life Herbert had acquired a love for the
wine and porter which daily graced his mother’s dinner-table. As he grew
older his taste increased for something stronger, until now nothing save
brandy could satisfy the cravings of his appetite. More than once had he
been brought home in a state of entire unconsciousness, for he was
easily intoxicated, it usually taking but one glass to render him
perfectly foolish, while a second was generally sure to finish the work.
These drunken fits were always followed by resolutions of amendment, and
it was now so long since he had drank that his mother began to have
strong hopes of his reform, but these, alas! were now dashed to the
ground. Unfortunately, Uncle Jason had offered the young man a glass of
cider, which immediately awoke in its full vigor his old love for ardent
spirits. Just across the road, creaking in the November wind, hung the
sign of the “Golden Fleece,” and in that direction, soon after dinner,
Herbert bent his steps, taking down at one time a tumbler two thirds
full of raw brandy. This made him very talkative and very affectionate,
insomuch that he kissed Aunt Betsey, who, as soon as she could, started
him for home. When the half-way house, called in opposition to its
neighbor “Silver Skin,” was reached, Herbert insisted upon stopping and
taking another glass, which ere long rendered him so helpless that Anna
was obliged to take charge of Sorrel herself, while her companion fell
asleep, leaning his head upon her shoulder and gradually sinking lower
and lower until he rested in her lap.
All that night he remained in the sitting-room, which in the morning
presented so sorry and disgusting an appearance that when Aunt Charlotte
for the hundredth time wished she had never come to Meadow Brook, our
whole family mentally responded a fervent Amen. Herbert, when fully
restored to consciousness, seemed heartily ashamed of himself, crying
like a girl, and winding his arms around his mother’s neck so
affectionately that I did not blame her when she forgave him and wiped
away her tears.
She might not have had much faith in his sincerity could she have heard
his conversation with Anna, whom he managed to withdraw from the family
to the recess of a distant window. Alone with her, his manner changed,
and with flashing eyes, he charged it to his mother, who, he said, first
taught him to love it by allowing him, when a little boy, to drink the
bottom of the wine glasses after dinner.
“And if I fill a drunkard’s grave,” said he, “she will be to blame;
but,” he added, as he saw Anna involuntarily shudder, “it shall not be.
I _can_ reform. I _will_ reform, and you must help me do it.”
Anna looked wonderingly at him, while he continued, taking her hand and
removing from it a plain gold ring, which grandma had given her on her
fifteenth birthday, “You must let me wear this as a talisman to protect
me from evil. Whenever I am tempted I shall look at it and be saved.”
Anna hesitated awhile, but the soft, handsome eyes of Herbert Langley
had woven around her a spell she could not break, and at last she
consented, receiving from him in return a diamond ring, which he told
her was worth two hundred dollars. When this became known to mother she
very wisely insisted on Anna’s returning it, and together with the note
explaining the why and the wherefore it went back to its owner, who
immediately replied by a letter, the contents of which were carefully
kept from us all. The effect, however, was plainly visible; for, from
the time of its receipt we lost our merry, light-hearted sister, and in
her place there moved among us a sober, listless girl, whom grandma
called foolish, and whom Charlie pronounced “lovesick.”
Herbert’s letter was soon answered, but when Anna requested my father to
put it in the P. O. he refused, telling her “she should not correspond
with such a _drunken dog_.” Possibly it was wrong in him thus to address
her, for kind words and persuasive arguments might have won her to
reason, but now a spirit of opposition was roused—“Herbert was
wronged—misunderstood”—so Anna thought, and the letter which father
refused to take, was conveyed by other hands, a postscript longer than
the letter itself being first added.
After this there was no more trouble. Anna wrote regularly to Herbert,
who promptly responded; his missives always being directed to one of
Anna’s schoolmates, who was just romantic enough to think her companion
_persecuted_! Gradually I was let into the secret, and was occasionally
employed to carry Anna’s notes to and from the house of her friend. I
did not then consider the great wrong I was doing, but since I have shed
many a bitter tear to think that I in any way helped to work my sister’s
ruin.