FOOTPATHS.

All round the shores of the island where I dwell there runs a winding

path. It is probably as old as the settlement of the country, and has

been kept open with pertinacious fidelity by the fishermen whose right

of way it represents. In some places, as between Fort Adams and Castle

Hill, it exists in its primitive form, an irregular track above rough

cliffs, whence you look down upon the entrance to the harbor and watch

the white-sailed schooners that glide beneath. Elsewhere the high-road

has usurped its place, and you have the privilege of the path without

its charm. Along our eastern cliffs it runs for some miles in the rear

of beautiful estates, whose owners have seized on it, and graded it,

and gravelled it, and made stiles for it, and done for it everything

that landscape-gardening could do, while leaving it a footpath still.

You walk there with croquet and roses on the one side, and with

floating loons and wild ducks on the other. In remoter places the path

grows wilder, and has ramifications striking boldly across the

peninsula through rough moorland and among great ledges of rock, where

you may ramble for hours, out of sight of all but some sportsman with

his gun, or some truant-boy with dripping water-lilies. There is always

a charm to me in the inexplicable windings of these wayward tracks; yet

I like the path best where it is nearest the ocean. There, while

looking upon blue sea and snowy sails and floating gulls, you may yet

hear on the landward side the melodious and plaintive drawl of the

meadow-lark, most patient of summer visitors, and, indeed, lingering on

this island almost the whole year round.

But who cares whither a footpath leads? The charm is in the path

itself, its promise of something that the high-road cannot yield. Away

from habitations, you know that the fisherman, the geologist, the

botanist may have been there, or that the cows have been driven home

and that somewhere there are bars and a milk-pail. Even in the midst of

houses, the path suggests school-children with their luncheon-baskets,

or workmen seeking eagerly the noonday interval or the twilight rest. A

footpath cannot be quite spoiled, so long as it remains such; you can

make a road a mere avenue for fast horses or showy women, but this

humbler track keeps its simplicity, and if a queen comes walking

through it, she comes but as a village maid. On Sunday, when it is not

etiquette for our fashionables to drive, but only to walk along the

cliffs, they seem to wear a more innocent and wholesome aspect in that

novel position; I have seen a fine lady pause under such circumstances

and pick a wild-flower; she knew how to do it. A footpath has its own

character, while that of the high-road is imposed upon it by those who

dwell beside it or pass over it; indeed, roads become picturesque only

when they are called lanes and make believe that they are but paths.

The very irregularity of a footpath makes half its charm. So much of

loitering and indolence and impulse have gone to its formation, that

all which is stiff and military has been left out. I observed that the

very dikes of the Southern rice plantations did not succeed in being

rectilinear, though the general effect was that of Tennyson's "flowery

squares." Even the country road, which is but an enlarged footpath, is

never quite straight, as Thoreau long since observed, noting it with

his surveyor's eye. I read in his unpublished diary: "The law that

plants the rushes in waving lines along the edge of a pond, and that

curves the pond shore itself, incessantly beats against the straight

fences and highways of men, and makes them conform to the line of

beauty at last." It is this unintentional adaptation that makes a

footpath so indestructible. Instead of striking across the natural

lines, it conforms to them, nestles into the hollow, skirts the

precipice, avoids the morass. An unconscious landscape-gardener, it

seeks the most convenient course, never doubting that grace will

follow. Mitchell, at his "Edgewood" farm, wishing to decide on the most

picturesque avenue to his front door, ordered a heavy load of stone to

be hauled across the field, and bade the driver seek the easiest

grades, at whatever cost of curvature. The avenue followed the path so

made.

When a footpath falls thus unobtrusively into its place, all natural

forces seem to sympathize with it, and help it to fulfil its destiny.

Once make a well-defined track through a wood, and presently the

overflowing brooks seek it for a channel, the obstructed winds draw

through it, the fox and woodchuck travel by it, the catbird and robin

build near it, the bee and swallow make a high-road of its convenient

thoroughfare. In winter the first snows mark it with a white line; as

you wander through you hear the blue-jay's cry, and see the hurrying

flight of the sparrow; the graceful outlines of the leafless bushes are

revealed, and the clinging bird's-nests, "leaves that do not fall,"

give happy memories of summer homes. Thus Nature meets man half-way.

The paths of the wild forest and of the rural neighborhood are not at

all the same thing; indeed, a "spotted trail," marked only by the

woodman's axe-marks on the trees, is not a footpath. Thoreau, who is

sometimes foolishly accused of having sought to be a mere savage,

understood this distinction well. "A man changes by his presence," he

says in his unpublished diary, "the very nature of the trees. The

poet's is not a logger's path, but a woodman's,--the logger and pioneer

have preceded him, and banished decaying wood and the spongy mosses

which feed on it, and built hearths and humanized nature for him. For a

permanent residence, there can be no comparison between this and the

wilderness. Our woods are sylvan, and their inhabitants woodsmen and

rustics; that is, a selvaggia and its inhabitants salvages." What

Thoreau loved, like all men of healthy minds, was the occasional

experience of untamed wildness. "I love to see occasionally," he adds,

"a man from whom the usnea (lichen) hangs as gracefully as from a

spruce."

Footpaths bring us nearer both to nature and to man. No high-road, not

even a lane, conducts to the deeper recesses of the wood, where you

hear the wood-thrush. There are a thousand concealed fitnesses in

nature, rhymed correspondences of bird and blossom, for which you must

seek through hidden paths; as when you come upon some black brook so

palisaded with cardinal-flowers as to seem "a stream of sunsets"; or

trace its shadowy course till it spreads into some forest-pool, above

which that rare and patrician insect, the Agrion dragon-fly, flits and

hovers perpetually, as if the darkness and the cool had taken wings.

The dark brown pellucid water sleeps between banks of softest moss;

white stars of twin-flowers creep close to the brink, delicate sprays

of dewberry trail over it, and the emerald tips of drooping leaves

forever tantalize the still surface. Above these the slender, dark-blue

insect waves his dusky wings, like a liberated ripple of the brook, and

takes the few stray sunbeams on his lustrous form. Whence came the

correspondence between this beautiful shy creature and the moist, dark

nooks, shot through with stray and transitory sunlight, where it

dwells? The analogy is as unmistakable as that between the scorching

heats of summer and the shrill cry of the cicada. They suggest

questions that no savant can answer, mysteries that wait, like Goethe's

secret of morphology, till a sufficient poet can be born. And we,

meanwhile, stand helpless in their presence, as one waits beside the

telegraphic wire, while it hums and vibrates, charged with all

fascinating secrets, above the heads of a wondering world.

It is by the presence of pathways on the earth that we know it to be

the habitation of man; in the barest desert, they open to us a common

humanity. It is the absence of these that renders us so lonely on the

ocean, and makes us glad to watch even the track of our own vessel. But

on the mountain-top, how eagerly we trace out the "road that brings

places together," as Schiller says. It is the first thing we look for;

till we have found it, each scattered village has an isolated and

churlish look, but the glimpse of a furlong of road puts them all in

friendly relations. The narrower the path, the more domestic and

familiar it seems.

The railroad may represent the capitalist or the government; the

high-road indicates what the surveyor or the county commissioners

thought best; but the footpath shows what the people needed. Its

associations are with beauty and humble life,--the boy with his dog,

the little girl with her fagots, the pedler with his pack; cheery

companions they are or ought to be.

"Jog on, jog on the footpath way,

And merrily hent the stile-a:

A merry heart goes all the day,

Your sad one tires in a mile-a."

The footpath takes you across the farms and behind the houses; you are

admitted to the family secrets and form a personal acquaintance. Even

if you take the wrong path, it only leads you "across-lots" to some man

ploughing, or some old woman picking berries,--perhaps a very spicy

acquaintance, whom the road would never have brought to light. If you

are led astray in the woods, that only teaches you to observe landmarks

more closely, or to leave straws and stakes for tokens, like a gypsy's

patteran, to show the ways already traversed. There is a healthy vigor

in the mind of the boy who would like of all things to be lost in the

woods, to build a fire out of doors, and sleep under a tree or in a

haystack. Civilization is tiresome and enfeebling, unless we

occasionally give it the relish of a little outlawry, and approach, in

imagination at least, the zest of a gypsy life. The records of

pedestrian journeys, the Wanderjahre and memoirs of good-for-noth-ings,

and all the delightful German forest literature,--these belong to the

footpath side of our nature. The passage I best remember in all Bayard

Taylor's travels is the ecstasy of his Thuringian forester, who said:

"I recall the time when just a sunny morning made me so happy that I

did not know what to do with myself. One day in spring, as I went

through the woods and saw the shadows of the young leaves upon the

moss, and smelt the buds of the firs and larches, and thought to

myself, 'All thy life is to be spent in the splendid forest,'I actually

threw myself down and rolled in the grass like a dog, over and over,

crazy with joy."

It is the charm of pedestrian journeys that they convert the grandest

avenues to footpaths. Through them alone we gain intimate knowledge of

the people, and of nature, and indeed of ourselves. It is easy to hurry

too fast for our best reflections, which, as the old monk said of

perfection, must be sought not by flying, but by walking, "Perfectionis

via non pervolanda sed perambulanda." The thoughts that the railway

affords us are dusty thoughts; we ask the news, read the journals,

question our neighbor, and wish to know what is going on because we are

a part of it. It is only in the footpath that our minds, like our

bodies, move slowly, and we traverse thought, like space, with a

patient thoroughness. Rousseau said that he had never experienced so

much, lived so truly, and been so wholly himself, as during his travels

on foot.

What can Hawthorne mean by saying in his English diary that "an

American would never understand the passage in Bunyan about Christian

and Hopeful going astray along a by-path into the grounds of Giant

Despair, from there being no stiles and by-paths in our country"? So

much of the charm of American pedestrianism lies in the by-paths! For

instance, the whole interior of Cape Ann, beyond Gloucester, is a

continuous woodland, with granite ledges everywhere cropping out,

around which the high-road winds, following the curving and indented

line of the sea, and dotted here and there with fishing hamlets. This

whole interior is traversed by a network of footpaths, rarely passable

for a wagon, and not always for a horse, but enabling the pedestrian to

go from any one of these villages to any other, in a line almost

direct, and always under an agreeable shade. By the longest of these

hidden ways, one may go from Pigeon Cove to Gloucester, ten miles,

without seeing a public road. In the little inn at the former village

there used to hang an old map of this whole forest region, giving a

chart of some of these paths, which were said to date back to the first

settlement of the country. One of them, for instance, was called on the

map "Old Road from Sandy Bay to Squam Meeting-house through the Woods";

but the road is now scarcely even a bridle-path, and the most faithful

worshipper could not seek Squam Meeting-house in the family chaise.

Those woods have been lately devastated; but when I first knew that

region, it was as good as any German forest.

Often we stepped almost from the edge of the sea into some gap in the

woods; there seemed hardly more than a rabbit-track, yet presently we

met some wayfarer who had crossed the Cape by it. A piny dell gave some

vista of the broad sea we were leaving, and an opening in the woods

displayed another blue sea-line before; the encountering breezes

interchanged odor of berry-bush and scent of brine; penetrating farther

among oaks and chestnuts, we came upon some little cottage, quaint and

sheltered as any Spenser drew; it was built on no high-road, and turned

its vine-clad gable away from even the footpath.

Then the ground rose and we were surprised by a breeze from a new

quarter; perhaps we climbed trees to look for landmarks, and saw only,

still farther in the woods, some great cliff of granite or the derrick

of an unseen quarry. Three miles inland, as I remember, we found the

hearthstones of a vanished settlement; then we passed a swamp with

cardinal-flowers; then a cathedral of noble pines, topped with

crow's-nests. If we had not gone astray by this time, we presently

emerged on Dogtown Common, an elevated table-land, over-spread with

great boulders as with houses, and encircled with a girdle of green

woods and an outer girdle of blue sea. I know of nothing more wild than

that gray waste of boulders; it is a natural Salisbury Plain, of which

icebergs and ocean-currents were the Druidic builders; in that

multitude of couchant monsters there seems a sense of suspended life;

you feel as if they must speak and answer to each other in the silent

nights, but by day only the wandering sea-birds seek them, on their way

across the Cape, and the sweet-bay and green fern embed them in a

softer and deeper setting as the years go by. This is the "height of

ground" of that wild footpath; but as you recede farther from the outer

ocean and approach Gloucester, you come among still wilder ledges,

unsafe without a guide, and you find in one place a cluster of deserted

houses, too difficult of access to remove even their materials, so that

they are left to moulder alone. I used to wander in those woods, summer

after summer, till I had made my own chart of their devious tracks, and

now when I close my eyes in this Oldport midsummer, the soft Italian

air takes on something of a Scandinavian vigor; for the incessant roll

of carriages I hear the tinkle of the quarryman's hammer and the

veery's song; and I long for those perfumed and breezy pastures, and

for those promontories of granite where the fresh water is nectar and

the salt sea has a regal blue.

I recall another footpath near Worcester, Massachusetts; it leads up

from the low meadows into the wildest region of all that vicinity,

Tatesset Hill. Leaving behind you the open pastures where the cattle

lie beneath the chestnut-trees or drink from the shallow brook, you

pass among the birches and maples, where the woodsman's shanty stands

in the clearing, and the raspberry-fields are merry with children's

voices. The familiar birds and butterflies linger below with them, and

in the upper and more sacred depths the wood-thrush chants his litany

and the brown mountain butterflies hover among the scented vines.

Higher yet rises the "Rattlesnake Ledge," spreading over one side of

the summit a black avalanche of broken rock, now overgrown with

reindeer-moss and filled with tufts of the smaller wild geranium. Just

below this ledge,--amid a dark, dense track of second-growth forest,

masked here and there with grape-vines, studded with rare orchises, and

pierced by a brook that vanishes suddenly where the ground sinks away

and lets the blue distance in,--there is a little monument to which the

footpath leads, and which always seemed to me as wild a memorial of

forgotten superstition as the traveller can find amid the forests of

Japan.

It was erected by a man called Solomon Pearson (not to give his name

too closely), a quiet, thoughtful farmer, long-bearded, low-voiced, and

with that aspect of refinement which an ideal life brings forth even in

quite uninstructed men. At the height of the "Second Advent" excitement

this man resolved to build for himself upon these remote rocks a house

which should escape the wrath to come, and should endure even amid a

burning and transformed earth. Thinking, as he had once said to me,

that, "if the First Dispensation had been strong enough to endure,

there would have been no need of a Second," he resolved to build for

his part something which should possess permanence at least. And there

still remains on that high hillside the small beginning that he made.

There are four low stone walls, three feet thick, built solidly

together without cement, and without the trace of tools. The end-walls

are nine feet high (the sides being lower) and are firmly united by a

strong iron ridge-pole, perhaps fifteen feet long, which is imbedded at

each end in the stone. Other masses of iron lie around unused, in

sheets, bars, and coils, brought with slow labor by the builder from

far below. The whole building was designed to be made of stone and

iron. It is now covered with creeping vines and the debris of the

hillside; but though its construction had been long discontinued when I

saw it, the interior was still kept scrupulously clean through the care

of this modern Solomon, who often visited his shrine.

An arch in the terminal wall admits the visitor to the small roofless

temple, and he sees before him, imbedded in the centre of the floor, a

large smooth block of white marble, where the deed of this spot of land

was to be recorded, in the hope to preserve it even after the globe

should have been burned and renewed. But not a stroke of this

inscription was ever cut, and now the young chestnut boughs droop into

the uncovered interior, and shy forest-birds sing fearlessly among

them, having learned that this house belongs to God, not man. As if to

reassure them, and perhaps in allusion to his own vegetarian habits,

the architect has spread some rough plaster at the head of the

apartment and marked on it in bold characters, "Thou shalt not kill."

Two slabs outside, a little way from the walls, bear these

inscriptions, "Peace on Earth," "Good-Will to Men." When I visited it,

the path was rough and so obstructed with bushes that it was hard to

comprehend how it had afforded passage for these various materials; it

seemed more as if some strange architectural boulder had drifted from

some Runic period and been stranded there. It was as apt a confessional

as any of Wordsworth's nooks among the Trossachs; and when one thinks

how many men are wearing out their souls in trying to conform to the

traditional mythologies of others, it seems nobler in this man to have

reared upon that lonely hill the unfinished memorial of his own.

I recall another path which leads from the Lower Saranac Lake, near

"Martin's," to what the guides call, or used to call, "The

Philosopher's Camp" at Amperzand. On this oddly named lake, in the

Adirondack region, a tract of land was bought by Professor Agassiz and

his friends, who made there a summer camping-ground, and with one

comrade I once sought the spot. I remember with what joy we left the

boat,--so delightful at first, so fatiguing at last; for I cannot, with

Mr. Murray, call it a merit in the Adirondacks that you never have to

walk,--and stepped away into the free forest. We passed tangled swamps,

so dense with upturned trees and trailing mosses that they seemed to

give no opening for any living thing to pass, unless it might be the

soft and silent owl that turned its head almost to dislocation in

watching us, ere it flitted vaguely away. Farther on, the deep, cool

forest was luxurious with plumy ferns; we trod on moss-covered roots,

finding the emerald steps so soft we scarcely knew that we were

ascending; every breath was aromatic; there seemed infinite healing in

every fragrant drop that fell upon our necks from the cedar boughs. We

had what I think the pleasantest guide for a daylight tramp,--one who

has never before passed over that particular route, and can only pilot

you on general principles till he gladly, at last, allows you to pilot

him. When we once got the lead we took him jubilantly on, and beginning

to look for "The Philosopher's Camp," found ourselves confronted by a

large cedar-tree on the margin of a wooded lake. This was plainly the

end of the path. Was the camp then afloat? Our escort was in that state

of hopeless ignorance of which only lost guides are capable. We scanned

the green horizon and the level water, without glimpse of human abode.

It seemed an enchanted lake, and we looked about the tree-trunk for

some fairy horn, that we might blow it. That failing, we tried three

rifle-shots, and out from the shadow of an island, on the instant,

there glided a boat, which bore no lady of the lake, but a red-shirted

woodsman. The artist whom we sought was on that very island, it seemed,

sketching patiently while his guides were driving the deer.

This artist was he whose "Procession of the Pines" had identified his

fame with that delightful forest region. He it was who had laid out

with artistic taste "The Philosopher's Camp," and who was that season

still awaiting philosophers as well as deer. He had been there for a

month, alone with the guides, and declared that Nature was pressing

upon him to an extent that almost drove him wild. His eyes had a

certain remote and questioning look that belongs to imaginative men who

dwell alone. It seemed an impertinence to ask him to come out of his

dream and offer us dinner; but his instincts of hospitality failed not,

and the red-shirted guide was sent to the camp, which was, it seemed,

on the other side of the lake, to prepare our meal, while we bathed. I

am thus particular in speaking of the dinner, not only because such is

the custom of travellers, but also because it was the occasion of an

interlude which I shall never forget. As we were undressing for our

bath upon the lonely island, where the soft, pale water almost lapped

our feet, and the deep, wooded hills made a great amphitheatre for the

lake, our host bethought himself of something neglected in his

instructions.

"Ben!" vociferated he to the guide, now rapidly receding. Ben paused on

his oars.

"Remember to bo-o-oil the venison, Ben!" shouted the pensive artist,

while all the slumbering echoes arose to applaud this culinary

confidence.

"And, Ben!" he added, imploringly, "don't forget the dumplings!" Upon

this, the loons, all down the lake, who had hitherto been silent, took

up the strain with vehemence, hurling their wild laughter at the

presumptuous mortal who thus dared to invade their solitudes with

details as trivial as Mr. Pickwick's tomato-sauce. They repeated it

over and over to each other, till ten square miles of loons must have

heard the news, and all laughed together; never was there such an

audience; they could not get over it, and two hours after, when we had

rowed over to the camp and dinner had been served, this irreverent and

invisible chorus kept bursting out, at all points of the compass, with

scattered chuckles of delight over this extraordinary bill of fare.

Justice compels me to add that the dumplings were made of Indian-meal,

upon a recipe devised by our artist; the guests preferred the venison,

but the host showed a fidelity to his invention that proved him to be

indeed a dweller in an ideal world.

Another path that comes back to memory is the bare trail that we

followed over the prairies of Nebraska, in 1856, when the Missouri

River was held by roving bands from the Slave States, and Freedom had

to seek an overland route into Kansas. All day and all night we rode

between distant prairie-fires, pillars of evening light and of morning

cloud, while sometimes the low grass would burn to the very edge of the

trail, so that we had to hold our breath as we galloped through.

Parties of armed Missourians were sometimes seen over the prairie

swells, so that we had to mount guard at nightfall; Free-State

emigrants, fleeing from persecution, continually met us; and we

sometimes saw parties of wandering Sioux, or passed their great

irregular huts and houses of worship. I remember one desolate prairie

summit on which an Indian boy sat motionless on horseback; his bare red

legs clung closely to the white sides of his horse; a gorgeous sunset

was unrolled behind him, and he might have seemed the last of his race,

just departing for the hunting-grounds of the blest. More often the

horizon showed no human outline, and the sun set cloudless, and

elongated into pear-shaped outlines, as behind ocean-waves. But I

remember best the excitement that filled our breasts when we approached

spots where the contest for a free soil had already been sealed with

blood. In those days, as one went to Pennsylvania to study coal

formations, or to Lake Superior for copper, so one went to Kansas for

men. "Every footpath on this planet," said a rare thinker, "may lead to

the door of a hero," and that trail into Kansas ended rightly at the

tent-door of John Brown.

And later, who that knew them can forget the picket-paths that were

worn throughout the Sea Islands of South Carolina,--paths that wound

along the shores of creeks or through the depths of woods, where the

great wild roses tossed their airy festoons above your head, and the

brilliant lizards glanced across your track, and your horse's ears

suddenly pointed forward and his pace grew uneasy as he snuffed the

presence of something you could not see. At night you had often to ride

from picket to picket in dense darkness, trusting to the horse to find

his way, or sometimes dismounting to feel with your hands for the

track, while the great Southern fire-flies offered their floating

lanterns for guidance, and the hoarse "Chuck-will's-widow" croaked

ominously from the trees, and the great guns of the siege of Charleston

throbbed more faintly than the drumming of a partridge, far away. Those

islands are everywhere so intersected by dikes and ledges and winding

creeks as to form a natural military region, like La Vendee and yet two

plantations that are twenty miles asunder by the road will sometimes be

united by a footpath which a negro can traverse in two hours. These

tracks are limited in distance by the island formation, but they assume

a greater importance as you penetrate the mainland; they then join

great States instead of mere plantations, and if you ask whither one of

them leads, you are told "To Alabama," or "To Tennessee."

Time would fail to tell of that wandering path which leads to the Mine

Mountain near Brattleborough, where you climb the high peak at last,

and perhaps see the showers come up the Connecticut till they patter on

the leaves beneath you, and then, swerving, pass up the black ravine

and leave you unwet. Or of those among the White Mountains, gorgeous

with great red lilies which presently seem to take flight in a cloud of

butterflies that match their tints,--paths where the balsamic air

caresses you in light breezes, and masses of alder-berries rise above

the waving ferns. Or of the paths that lead beside many a little New

England stream, whose bank is lost to sight in a smooth green slope of

grape-vine: the lower shoots rest upon the quiet water, but the upper

masses are crowned by a white wreath of alder-blooms; beside them grow

great masses of wild-roses, and the simultaneous blossoms and berries

of the gaudy nightshade. Or of those winding tracks that lead here and

there among the flat stones of peaceful old graveyards, so entwined

with grass and flowers that every spray of sweetbrier seems to tell

more of life than all the accumulated epitaphs can tell of death.

And when the paths that one has personally traversed are exhausted,

memory holds almost as clearly those which the poets have trodden for

us,--those innumerable by-ways of Shakespeare, each more real than any

high-road in England; or Chaucer's

"Little path I found

Of mintes full and fennell greene";

or Spenser's

"Pathes and alleies wide

With footing worne";

or the path of Browning's "Pippa"

"Down the hillside, up the glen,

Love me as I love!"

or the weary tracks by which "Little Nell" wandered; or the haunted way

in Sydney Dobell's ballad,

"Ravelstone, Ravelstone,

The merry path that leads

Down the golden morning hills,

And through the silver meads";

or the few American paths that genius has yet idealized; that where

Hawthorne's "David Swan" slept, or that which Thoreau found upon the

banks of Walden Pond, or where Whittier parted with his childhood's

playmate on Ramoth Hill. It is not heights, or depths, or spaces that

make the world worth living in; for the fairest landscape needs still

to be garlanded by the imagination,--to become classic with noble deeds

and romantic with dreams.

Go where we please in nature, we receive in proportion as we give. Ivo,

the old Bishop of Chartres, wrote, that "neither the secret depth of

woods nor the tops of mountains make man blessed, if he has not with

him solitude of mind, the sabbath of the heart, and tranquillity of

conscience." There are many roads, but one termination; and Plato says,

in his "Republic," that the point where all paths meet is the soul's

true resting-place and the journey's end.

The End.