Wie schtärker will ich geh,
For eppes in mei’m Herz werd letz
Un dhut m’r kreislich weh.
Der letschte Hiwel schpring ich nuf,
Un ep ich drowe bin,
Schtreck ich mich uf so hoch ich kann
Un guk mit Luschte hin;
Ich seh’s alt Schtee’haus dorch die Beem,
Un wott ich wär schun drin.
Guk, wie der Kicheschornschtee’ schmokt --
Wie oft hab ich sell g’seh’,
Wann ich draus in de Felder war,
’N Buwele jung un klee’.
O, sehntscht die Fenschterscheiwe dort?
Sie guk’n roth wie Blut;
Hab oft cunsiddert, doch net g’wisst,
Dass sell die Sunn so dhut.
Ja, manches wees ’n Kind noch net --
Wann’s dhet, wär’s ah net gut!
Wie gleich ich selle Babble Beem,
Sie schtehn wie Brieder dar;
Un uf’m Gippel -- g’wiss ich leb!
Hockt alleweil ’n Schtaar!
’S Gippel biegt sich -- guk, wie’s gaunscht --
’R hebt sich awer fescht;
Ich seh sei’ rothe Fliegle plehn,
Wann er sei’ Feddere wescht;
Will wette, dass sei’ Fraale hot
Uf sellem Baam ’n Nescht!
O, es gedenkt m’r noch gans gut,
Wo selle werri Beem
Net greeser als ’n Welschkornschtock
Gebrocht sin worre heem.
Die Mammi war an’s Grändäd’s g’west,
Dort ware Beem wie die;
Drei Wipplein hot sie mitgebrocht,
Un g’sa’t: „Dort blanscht sie hie.”
M’r hen’s gedhu’ -- un glaabscht du’s nau --
Dort selli Beem sin sie!
Guk! werklich, ich bin schier am Haus! --
Wie schnell geht doch die Zeit!
Wann m’r so in Gedanke geht,
So wees m’r net wie weit.
Dort is d’r Schap, die Welschkornkrip,
Die Seiderpress dort draus;
Dort is die Scheier, un dort die Schpring --
Frisch quellt des Wasser raus;
Un guk! die sehm alt Klapbord-Fens,
Un’s Dheerle vor’m Haus.
Alles is schtill -- sie wisse net,
Dass epper fremmes kummt.
Ich denk, der alte Watsch is dodt,
Sunscht wär er raus gedschumpt;
For er hot als verschinnert g’brillt
Wann er hot ’s Dheerle g’heert;
Es war de Träw’lers kreislich bang,
Sie werre gans verzehrt:
Kee’ G’fohr -- er hot paar Mol gegauzt,
Nor’d is er umgekehrt.
Alles is schtill -- die Dheer is zu!
Ich schteh, besinne mich!
Es rappelt doch en wenig nau
Dort hinne in der Kich.
Ich geh net nei -- ich kann noch net!
Mei’ Herz fiehlt schwer un krank;
Ich geh ’n wenig uf die Bortsch,
Un hock mich uf die Bank;
Es seht mich niemand, wann ich heil,
Hinner der Drauwerank!
Zwee Blätz sin do uf däre Bortsch,
Die halt ich hoch in Acht,
Bis meines Lebens Sonn versinkt
In schtiller Dodtes-Nacht!
Wo ich vum alte Vaterhaus
’S erscht mol bin gange fort,
Schtand mei’ Mammi weinend da,
An sellem Rigel dort;
Un nix is mir so heilig nau
Als grade seller Ort.
Ich kann se heit noch sehne schteh,
Ihr Schnuppduch in d’r Hand;
Die Backe roth, die Aage nass --
O, wie sie doch do schtand!
Dort gab ich ihr mei’ Färewell,
Ich weinte als ich’s gab,
’S war’s letschte Mol in däre Welt,
Dass ich’s ihr gewe hab!
Befor ich widder kumme bin
War sie in ihrem Grab!
Nau, wann ich an mei’ Mammi denk,
Un meen, ich dhet se seh,
So schteht sie an dem Rigel dort
Un weint, weil ich wek geh!
Ich seh sie net im Schockelschtuhl!
Net an keem annere Ort;
Ich denk net an sie als im Grab:
Juscht an dem Rigel dort!
Dort schteht sie immer vor mei’m Herz
Un weint noch liebreich fort!
Was macht’s dass ich so dort hi’ guk,
An sell End vun der Bank!
Weescht du’s? Mei’ Herz is noch net dodt,
Ich wees es, Gott sei Dank!
Wie manchmal sass mei Dady dort,
Am Summer-Nochmiddag,
Die Hände uf der Schoos gekreizt,
Sei Schtock bei Seite lag.
Was hot er dort im Schtille g’denkt?
Wer mecht es wisse -- sag?
V’rleicht is es ’n Kindheets-Draam,
Dass ihn so sanft bewegt;
Oder is er ’n Jingling jetz,
Der scheene Plane legt!
Er hebt sei’ Aage uf juscht nau
Un gukt weit iwer’s Feld;
Er seht v’rleicht d’r Kerchhof dort,
Der schun die Mammi helt!
Er sehnt v’rleicht nooch seiner Ruh
Dort in der bessere Welt!
Ich wees net, soll ich nei’ in’s Haus,
Ich zitter an d’r Dheer!
Es is wol alles voll inseid,
Un doch is alles leer!
’S is net meh heem, wie’s eemol war,
Un kann’s ah nimme sei;
Was naus mit unsere Eltere geht
Kummt ewig nimme nei’!
Die Freide hot der Dodt geärnt,
Das Trauerdheel is mei’!
So geht’s in däre rauhe Welt,
Wo alles muss vergeh!
Ja, in der alte Heemet gar
Fiehlt m’r sich all allee’!
O, wann’s net vor der Himmel wär,
Mit seiner scheene Ruh,
Dann wär m’r’s do schun lang verleedt,
Ich wisst net, was ze dhu.
Doch Hoffnung leichtet meinen Weg
Der ew’gen Heemet zu.
Dort is ’n schee’, schee’ Vaterhaus,
Dort geht m’r nimmeh fort;
Es weint kee’ guti Mammi meh’
In sellem Freideort.
Kee’ Dady such meh’ for ’n Grab,
Wo, was er lieb hat, liegt!
Sell is kee’ Elendwelt wie die,
Wo alle Luscht betriegt;
Dort hat das Lewe ewiglich
Iwer der Dodt gesiegt.
Dort find m’r, was m’r do verliert,
Un b’halt’s in Ewigkeit;
Dort lewe unsre Dodte all.
In Licht un ew’ger Freid!
Wie oft, wann ich in Druwel bin,
Denk ich an selli Ruh,
Un wott, wann’s nor Gott’s Wille wär,
Ich ging ihr schneller zu;
Doch wart ich bis mei’ Schtindle schlägt,
Nor’d sag ich -- Welt, adju!
[Illustration:
Wie manchmal sass mei Dady dort,
Am Sommer Nachmiddag;
Die Hände uf der Schoos gekreizt,
Sei Schtock bei Seite lag.
…
Er seht v’rleicht d’r Kerchhof dort,
Der schun die Mammi helt;
Er sehnt v’rleicht nooch seiner Ruh,
Dort in der bessere Welt!]
_The following translations of four of the preceding poems were made
by the author himself, and are here appended as possessing additional
interest on this account._
_THE OLD SCHOOL-HOUSE AT THE CREEK._
To-day it is just twenty years,
Since I began to roam;
Now, safely back, I stand once more,
Before the quaint old school-house door,
Close by my father’s home.
I’ve been in many houses since,
Of marble built, and brick;
Though grander far, their aim they miss,
To lure my heart’s old love from this
Old school-house at the creek.
Let those who dream of happier scenes,
Go forth those scenes to find;
They’ll learn what thousands have confessed,
That with our home our heart’s true rest
Is ever left behind.
I’ve travelled long and travelled far,
Till weary, worn, and sick;
How joyless all that I have found,
Compared with scenes that lie around
This school-house at the creek.
How home-like is this spot to me!
I stand, and think, and gaze!
The buried past unlocks its graves,
While memory o’er my spirit waves
The wand of other days.
The little creek still idles by,
With bright and playful flow;
And little fish still sport and glide,
Where yon low elder shades the tide,
As they did long ago.
The white-oak stands before the door,
And shades the roof at noon;
The grape-vine, too, is fresh and green;
The robin’s nest!--Ah, hark!--I ween
That is the same old tune!
The swallows skip across the mead--
The foremost one is best!
And, look ye at the gable there,
A house of stubble, mud, and hair--
That is the swallow’s nest!
The young are very still just now--
They all are sleeping sound;
Wait till the old with worms appear,
Then you the hungry cry shall hear
From mouths that lie around!
These scenes are as they were of yore,
Though void of former glee;
But I have changed!--From yonder brook
The boy’s reflected rosy look,
No more smiles out on me!
I stand, like Ossian in his vale,
And watch the shadowy train!
Now joy, now sadness me beguile,
And tears will course o’er every smile,
And bring their pleasing pain!
’Twas here I first attended school,
When I was very small:
There was the Master on his stool,
There was his whip and there his rule--
I seem to see it all.
The long desks ranged along the walls,
With books and inkstands crowned;
Here on this side the large girls sat,
And there the tricky boys on that--
See! how they peep around!
The Master eyes them closely now,
They’d better have a care;
The one that writes a billet-doux--
The one that plays his antics, too--
And that chap laughing there!
For all the scholars, large and small,
Are under equal rule;
Which is quite right--whoever breaks
The Master’s rules, a whipping takes,
Or leaves at once the school.
Around the cosy stove, in rows,
The little tribe appears;
What hummings make those busy bees--
They better like their A, B, C’s,
Than boxing at their ears!
Those benches are by far too high--
Their feet don’t reach the floor!
Full many a weary back gets sick,
In that old school-house at the creek,
And feels most woful sore!
Poor innocents! behold them sit,
In miseries and woes!
It is no wonder, I declare,
If they should learn but little there,
On benches such as those!
With all these drawbacks, that was still
A well conducted school;
For Master such, in vain you look,
Who cyphers through the Ainsworth book,
And never skips a rule!
That he was cross, I must confess;
He whipped us through and through;
But still most wholesome rules observed;
Who felt the rod, the rod deserved--
According to his view!
This duty he with zest performed,
Though charmless to us all!
’Tis strange, our nature never could
Delight in what is for our good--
’Tis owing to the Fall!
When a new Master took the school,
Around the question ran:
“Oh, is he Irish? Is he cross?”
How much our gain, how much our loss,
Depended on that man!
Then when the autumn school began,
We eyed the Master shy!
His rules, his whip, told very quick,
That he to former rules would stick,
And ancient methods ply.
Still was there little of complaint;
We had our pleasures too;
This world does not just always dish
Our fare as sweet as we could wish,
Yet sweeter than is due!
At noon-day, when the school left out,
We had of sport our fill;
Some play the race, some houses wall,
Some love a stirring game of ball,
Some choose the soldier drill.
The large girls sweep; the larger boys--
What mischief they are at!
They tease, they laugh, they hang about,
Until the Master turns them out--
The rules were strict in that!
The little girls, of “ring” most fond,
Their giggling circle drew;
When larger girls joined in the ring--
Now is it not a curious thing?--
The large boys did it too!
The large ones always tagged the large--
The small ones always missed!
Then for the prize began the race;
The one that’s caught, has now to face
The music, and be kissed!
Old Christmas brought a glorious time--
Its mem’ry still is sweet!
We barred the Master firmly out,
With bolts, and nails, and timbers stout--
The blockade was complete!
Then came the struggle fierce and long!
The fun was very fine!
And whilst he thumped and pried about,
We thrust the terms of treaty out,
Demanding him to sign!
The treaty signed--the conflict o’er,
Once Master now were we!
Then chestnuts, apples, and such store,
Were spread our joyous eyes before--
We shared the feast with glee!
Oh, where are now the school-mates, who
Here studied long ago?
Some scattered o’er the world’s wide waste!
By fortune hither, thither chased!
Some, in the church-yard low!
My muse has struck a tender vein!
And asks a soothing flow;
O Time! what changes thou hast made,
Since I around this school-house played,
Just twenty years ago!
Good bye! Old school-house! Echo sad,
“Good bye! Good bye!” replies;
I leave you yet a friendly tear!
Fond mem’ry bids me drop it here,
’Mid scenes that gave it rise!
Ye, who shall live when I am dead--
Write down my wishes quick--
Protect it, love it, let it stand,
A way-mark in this changing land--
That school-house at the creek.
_THE OLD-TIME HEARTH-FIRE._
The poets praise, in touching rhyme,
The hearth-fire of the olden time;
I read their verse with many a sigh,
And think of times and joys gone by.
Thus dreaming o’er the past, I’m fain
To think I see it all again.
Now, sights like these are truly rare,
Coal fires are fashion every where;
Among the so-called class elite,
There is nor stove nor fire in sight.
You wonder?--yes, ’tis even so--
The heat comes somehow from below!
One feels quite lost--things do not fit--
No place to look, no place to sit--
The room is warm--how strange to me--
And yet no fire to stir or see!
Such modes!--away, ’tis nothing worth,
Give me the old-time glowing hearth.
I ever feel for that dear spot,
A home-sick love that ceases not;
Whate’er I do, where’er I roam,
My heart returns to that hearth-home;
I never can recall the cheer
Of that old hearth, without a tear.
There lay the back-log round and thick;
In front a row of stone or brick;
On that we laid the smaller wood;
Then rose the flame--how warm and good!
And when without the storm-wind blew,
What roaring in the chimney flue!
Against the jam--forethought is good--
Is piled the ready-needed wood;
Just opposite--a thing how rare--
Inviting leans the rustic chair,
And in the chimney-corner stand
The tongs and shovel near at hand.
The mantle-shelf, familiar still,
Holds candlesticks and coffee-mill;
The smoothing irons, large and small,
The lard-lamp overtops them all;
And sulphur sticks--they burn you know,
From faintest coal when fire is low.
Oft have I watched at even-tide
Strange ghost-forms through the embers glide;
The glowing coals, white, black and red,
Now livid are, and now seem dead!
We look, and think, and can with ease
See in the fire just what we please.
How sweet to sit the hearth-fire by,
Till living coals to embers die;
White ashes, creeping o’er their crest,
Come as if covering them for rest;
How dream-like fades their glowing light,
Like eyes that sink to sleep at night.
Sit we beside a _certain_ friend,
In love the evening hour to spend;
To double eyes, at such an hour,
The coals have a most charming power!
As one, appear such mutual souls,
They see the same forms in the coals.
O’er youth, as all the poets say,
The hearth-fire holds enchanting sway;
For then their dreaming fancy sees
A cottage mid a clump of trees;
They ask no greater bliss to share
Than just to live together there.
Some think the hearth-fire spell o’er hearts
Is close allied to witching arts!
One thing is sure--oft to that shrine,
Fond memory draws this heart of mine;
And round that hearth’s soft evening gleams,
My spirit dreams its sweetest dreams.
When I that hearth in fancy see,
My childhood all comes back to me;
Then lives my father as before--
Then is my mother there once more;
And brothers, sisters, scattered wide,
Come home again at even-tide.
_HOME-SICKNESS._
I know not what the reason is:
Where’er I dwell or roam,
I make a pilgrimage each year,
To my old childhood home.
Have nothing there to give or get--
No legacy, no gold--
Yet by some home-attracting power
I’m evermore controlled:
This is the way the home-sick do,
I often have been told.
As nearer to the spot I come
More sweetly am I drawn;
And something in my heart begins
To urge me faster on.
Ere quite I’ve reached the last hill-top--
You’ll smile at me, I ween!--
I stretch myself high as I can,
To catch the view serene--
The dear old stone house through the trees
With shutters painted green!
See! how the kitchen chimney smokes!
That ofttimes gave me joy;
When, from the fields, that curling cloud
I witnessed as a boy!
And see! the purple window panes,
They seem as red as blood.
I often wondered what did that,
But guess it, never could.
Ah! many a thing a child knows not.
Did it, it were not good!
How do I love those poplar trees;
What tall and stately things!
See! on the top of one just now
A starling sits and sings.
He’ll fall!--the twig bends with his weight!
He likes that danger best.
I see the red upon his wings,--
Dark shining is the rest.
I ween his little wife has built
On that same tree her nest.
O, I remember very well
When those three poplar trees
Not thicker than my finger were,
And could be bent with ease.
My mother was at grandpa’s house,
And trees like these had he;
She brought three scions home, and said,
“Boys, plant them there for me.”
Can you believe--they grew so tall
And made the trees you see!
See! really I am near the house;
How short the distance seems!
There is no sense of time when one
Goes musing in his dreams.
There is the shop--the corn-crib, too--
The cider-press--just see!
The barn--the spring with drinking cup
Hung up against the tree.
The yard-fence--and the little gate
Just where it used to be.
All, all is still! They know not yet
That there’s a stranger near;
I guess old Watch, the dog, is dead,
Or barking, he’d appear.
What fearful bellowings he made
Whene’er he heard the gate;
The travellers always feared him sore,
He bounced at such a rate;
But though the bark was woful loud,
The bite was never great!
All, all is still! The door is shut.
I muse with beating heart;
Hark! there’s a little rattling now
Back in the kitchen part.
I’ll not go in! I cannot yet;
I’m overcome, I fear!
The same old bench here on the porch,
I’ll rest a little here.
Behind this grape-vine I can hide
The falling of a tear!
Two spots on this old friendly porch
I love, nor can forget,
Till dimly in the night of death
My life’s last sun shall set!
When first I left my father’s house,
One summer morning bright,
My mother at _that_ railing wept
Till I was out of sight!
Now like a holy star that spot
Shines in this world’s dull night.
Still, still I see her at that spot,
With handkerchief in hand;
Her cheeks are red--her eyes are wet--
There, there I see her stand!
’Twas there I gave her my good-bye,
There, did her blessing crave,
And oh, with what a mother’s heart
She that sought blessing gave.
It was the last--ere I returned
She rested in her grave!
When now I call her form to mind,
Wherever I may be,
She still is standing at that rail
And weeping on for me!
She is in no familiar spot,
As oft in former years;
And never to my fancy she
As in her grave appears;
I see her only at that rail,
Bedewed with holy tears.
What draws my eye to yonder spot--
That bench against the wall?
What holy mem’ries cluster there,
My heart still knows them all!
How often sat my father there
On summer afternoon;
Hands meekly crossed upon his lap,
He looked so lost and lone,
As if he saw an empty world,
And hoped to leave it soon.
Doth a return of childhood’s joys
Across his spirit gleam?
Or is his fancy busy now
With some loved youthful dream?
He raises now his eyes and looks
On yon hill’s sacred crest;
Perhaps he sees the graveyard there
Where mother’s sleep is blest,
And longs to slumber by her side,
In death’s last peaceful rest.
All, all is still! I hesitate--
I fain would pass the door,
But fear the pain of missing all
This home contained of yore.
For, ah, it is not what it was
Though its inmates are kind;
What with our parents once we lose
We nevermore shall find;
Death goes before and reaps the sheaves;
We can but glean behind.
Such is the fate of earthly loves
Where all things die or change.
Yes, even in the homestead here,
I feel alone and strange.
O were it not for yon bright heaven,
With its unchanging rest,
How heavy would our burdens be,
Our life how sore distressed;
But hope illumes our pathway to
The regions of the blest.
That is a lovely Fatherland:
There I shall never roam;
No mother there with tearful eyes,
Shall see me leave that home.
No father there shall seek the grave
Where his beloved lies;
That is no vale of woes like this,
Where all we cherish dies;
The beautiful is permanent
In those unchanging skies.
There we shall find what here we lose,
And keep it evermore;
There we shall join our sainted dead,
Who are but gone before.
I’m fain, in lonely hours, to lift
The veil that let them through,
And wish it were God’s holy will
To let me pass it too;
Yet patience! till my hour shall come,
To bid the world, Adieu!
_THE OLD SLEEPING ROOM._
I come, a pilgrim wan and worn,
Back to the house where I was born--
I softly tread to-day!
My heart bears, as a holy thing,
The many memories I bring
From life’s long weary way.
Familiar are these stairs indeed,
Which to the second story lead,--
How natural to me!
Just as of old--I do declare,--
The knot-hole in the wash-board there--
’Tis open still--just see!
Nine steps--I need not count them, though--
I’ll lay you what you will ’tis so:
The short flight there has four.
This hand-rail on the entry-side--
What sport for boys adown to slide,
As we were wont of yore.
The window at the head is seen,
Venetian shutters, painted green,
And they are closed up still.
The ghostly light of evening falls,
So pale upon the stairs and walls,
I feel a timid chill!
Half smiling now, and now half sad--
Half weeping now, and yet half glad,
Do I ascend these stairs.
I reach the top--I touch the door--
It opens as it did of yore--
I did it unawares!
The dear old room! How many a night,
From evening hour till morning light,
Here child and boy I slept!
There in the corner stood my bed:
Here was the foot, and there the head--
All this my memory kept.
How sweet our childhood sleep appears;
One rests not so in after years--
Ah! this too well I know!
Life fills the anxious heart with cares,
A wakeful head the pillow bears,
And night’s dull hours move slow.
The moon is up--’tis full and bright;
It pours its mellow flood of light
Upon the bed and floor;
What moves upon the wall about?
The shadowy play of trees without:
I’ve seen that oft before.
All, all is still, save but the wail
Of lonely cricket’s evening tale,
Hid in the window sill.
Hark! in the closet, tick--tick--tick!
It is the death-watch’s ghostly click;
I wish that worm were still!
If there be ghosts,--ah, who can tell?
This place, this hour, would suit them well;
Perhaps some may be near!
I see naught with my eyes that’s real,
Yet in my spirit’s sense I feel
As if they might be here.
Yes, ghosts are here from childhood’s hours,
They have no forms, but come as powers,
And give me pleasing pain;
They mirror to my heart the plays,
Of all my early halcyon days,
Which cannot come again!
Angels are here, so pure and rare,
They play upon the moon-beams there,
They glide along the wall.
Back to this ark, like Noah’s dove,
They bring their sprigs of peace and love;
I hail their friendly call.
These spirits guard us in our ways,
So mother’s Holy Bible says--
And I believe it, too;
Have we the “Our Father” said,
They watch that night around our bed:
Most certainly they do!
This did our mother often tell,
We children all believed it well,
And did as we were told.
You don’t believe?--you’re wiser--you?
Than mother and the Bible too?
Such folly makes you bold.
For me this faith wrought like a charm;
I slept quite free from fear or harm,
In peace till morning light.
I hold it still--I still believe,
That they who pray this prayer, receive
An Angel-guard at night.
I’ve often wished I were again
A child as innocent as then;
But that can never be;
So I will keep, as best I can,
The life of childhood in the man:
The child-life nurse in me.
But see! high up has gone the moon;
How long I’ve lingered here alone!
’Tis time for me to leave.
Good by, my little room, good by!
Hold! there is something in my eye!
This parting makes me grieve!
Wortverzeichniss.
Zur Erklärung vieler in den vorstehenden Gedichten vorkommender
Wörter, und zur Vereinfachung dieses Wortverzeichnisses ist es
nur nothwendig auf einige Haupteigenthümlichkeiten oder vielmehr
Regeln aufmerksam zu machen, und diese Regeln sind es gerade, welche
dem Pennsylvanisch-Deutschen Gleichberechtigung mit den übrigen
volksüblichen deutschen Mundarten geltend machen.
Das Pennsylvanisch-Deutsche gehört zu den süddeutschen Mundarten.
Der ihm am verwandteste Dialekt ist der pfälzische, oder mehr noch
vielleicht die Westricher Abart desselben, und es lässt sich diese
Verwandtschaft auf die frühzeitige Einwanderung von Pfälzern nach
Ost-Pennsylvanien zurückführen.
Wie alle Dialekte zeigt auch dieser manchfache Eigenthümlichkeiten
in verschiedenen Lokalitäten; allein in ihrer Gesammtheit hat die
pennsylvanisch-deutsche Mundart gewisse Grundzüge, die überall
erkennbar sind und als siegreiches Resultat eines hundertjährigen
Ringens der Pfälzer Mundart mit andern süddeutschen, ja sogar mit
sächsischen und mährischen Dialekten, und namentlich mit der englischen
Sprache, betrachtet werden dürfen.
Die Ansicht, als seien alle Deutsch-Pennsylvanier von rein
deutscher Abstammung ist eine sehr irrige. Die Namen schon, mehr
noch aber die Stammbäume vieler jetzt ganz deutscher -- d. h.
pennsylvanisch-deutscher -- Familien in den Landdistrikten bekunden
eine schottische, irische, schwedische oder französische Herkunft.
In manchen Gegenden, wie im Lechathale, hat sich das Deutsche reiner
erhalten; in andern Gegenden, wie im Susquehanna Thale und jenseits des
Alleghany Gebirges, ist es mehr vermengt mit dem Englischen; überall
aber trägt es dieselben Grundzüge, die da sind: