in late afternoon, to become crepuscular, like the animals, and to stay
in camp in the middle of the day. Deer do not stir abroad in the heat,
nor do fish bite, nor birds sing. This love of dawn and twilight is
partly inspired by fear of man, but it is none the less natural. At
daybreak the deer go down the cañons to the salt-licks, as
surreptitiously as nymphs going to bathe. It is their witching hour, as
midnight is the owls'.
To arise at dawn should be an occasion; to make it usual would mean the
sacrifice of the more subtle impressions, the mind is so readily
blunted by the habitual.
Like a black mantle the great forest lies over the earth as I roll
myself in my blankets beside the fire. That little flaring light
appears to be the only one in this dark wilderness, reclaiming a minute
portion of space and making it habitable. Wherever one may be in the
forest, it is only necessary to gather a few dry sticks and strike a
match. The signal summons the genii, servant of the woodsman. More
properly one should use a flint, or rub two sticks together. He allies
himself with man against the hosts of darkness and defies the
wilderness; a merry fellow, his laugh may be heard in the crackling
flames. All through the night he entertains with his merry gossip and
with pictures he shows in the fire. At times he reveals his own glowing
face in the embers, but quickly assumes the head of a bear or a lynx,
or melts away in the flames, to reappear presently in another spot.
When I awake, the morning-star hangs low in the heavens like a great
lamp, its light an infinitely pure and serene radiance with no
suggestion of heat or combustion, made to appeal to some higher vision.
A heap of cold gray ashes is all that is left of the fire, in the
center a single glowing spot, which may have been the eye of the genii
of the night. The black mantle has been lifted, and the earth is
illumined by a faint glow, as if solely by the reflected rays of that
planet. Unspeakably soft is this light, the forerunner of the dawn, in
which the forest is bathed and from which one derives a peculiar
satisfaction.
Imperceptibly, almost, it fades, and is replaced by one of a different
quality--the light of day--which creeps over the world until at length
one is aware that that other, which was neither of the night nor of the
day, has gone. Long pale lines of fog and fleecy banks of clouds now
evolve upon the horizon. The earth remains suffused in this cold light,
which fascinates and still repels, making the ranges look distant and
severe, and giving to the whole face of Nature an unsympathetic look.
It is the beauty of marble, a Gorgon beauty, which chills the heart. In
that scene is no note of human passion. Those pale clouds, cold and
gray as the ashes of the fire, seem to lure to some beyond, as if they
would draw one from the world of life and warmth to some region of cold
and death.
Presently comes a faint blush in the sky and over the hills, a new
warmth of light, as if blood now ran in those marble veins. It is the
_foreglow_, which is to the sunrise what the afterglow is to the
sunset. Color is again born into the world, and the earth is once more
alive and sympathetic. As the sun rises, dawn, the exquisite dawn, the
most ethereal thing that mortal eyes shall ever behold, flees away into
the uttermost parts of space. The mystical, alluring quality slowly
dies, and it is once more the matter-of-fact light of day.
With the appearance of the sun these subtle impressions vanish, like a
dream vague and unreal. Nature reasserts herself in the robust sense of
existence; now the smell of frying bacon, the comforting effect of the
morning coffee in a tin cup, are the real and important things.
Physical life is enough in itself--so concentrated, vigorous,
aggressive it is. The mere breathing, seeing, tasting are more in
themselves than is possible under other conditions. How good the resiny
odor of the forest! How exhilarating the scene in its pure savagery!
How stimulating the morning air! How the stream lures as I get down the
trout-rod, and climbing out on a sugar-pine log cast a brown hackle on
the swirling glassy flood!
THE SEA
The sea ever baffles description. It is a living thing, pulsating with
energy, and, possessed of a subtle consciousness, elusive and full of
moods--changeable as woman and as incomprehensible. Now it is tender
and appealing; again distant and cold. Perhaps it is because of its
essentially feminine traits that it so beguiles. Certainly it
fascinates as nothing else fascinates in Nature.
There is what may be called a _sense_ of the sea, which is indefinable.
No lesser body of water, no other aspect of Nature affords this. It is
in the air, like a touch of autumn, and we know it as much through
feeling as through seeing. The coast is saturated for some distance
inland with this presence of the sea, much as the beach is soaked with
salt water. It is music and poetry to the soul and as elusive as they,
wrapping us in dreams and yielding fugitive glimpses of that which we
may never grasp, but which skirts, like a beautiful phantom, the mind's
horizon. Like music, it is an opiate, and unlocks for us new states of
mind in which we wander, as in halls of alabaster and mother-of-pearl,
but where, alas, we may not linger. We can as readily sound the ocean
as fathom the feelings it inspires. It is too deep for thought. As
often as the sea speaks to us of the birth of Venus and of Joy, so also
does it remind of Prometheus bound and the thrall of Nature.
Who can recall those impressions of the sea which were his as a
child--a relish, a vividness, perhaps never experienced in after life?
What wonderful thing was the pure white sand; what fascinating objects
the sea-shells--and the boom of the surf, what thrilling music! No
longer is it that simple strain, but inwrought with hopes and fears and
memories. The children on the beach play in an ocean of their own; we
cannot put foot on their shore, try as we will. Sometimes, as the salty
fragrance is wafted over the sands, one is on the point of regaining
that lost consciousness, and then it eludes and is gone. Never again
shall we find that alluring and altogether wonderful sea upon which we
happened in childhood. Yet who knows but in some auspicious moment we
may come upon one still more entrancing.
With an east wind the sea is always musical. It breaks forth in its
solemn chant, as though the wind were an influence that awakened
memories of the immeasurable past, and inspired this primitive song.
From a distance it comes like a rhythmical murmur upon the horizon, and
it is strange how this sound will fall upon unheeding ears, and then
with what suddenness one becomes aware of it. At times it loses its
rhythmical character and becomes a sort of recitative. One imagines the
venerable sea to be muttering of its epic past--to be relating that
wonderful saga.
Yesterday the sea was glass. It lay tranquil as if never again could
its surface be ruffled. So indefinite was the sky-line it was difficult
to tell which was sky and which water,--a dream-ocean, a charming
vision, which was to dissolve like a mirage of the desert.
This morning how it was changed! Up from the shore came a muffled and
ominous growl. As one approached, this ceased, and there was instead
the spitting and hissing of little waves--a sound of irritation and
suppressed anger. The sea was leaden, aggressive, formidable. It was as
if some troubled spirit had entered there--it was possessed of a
devil. This unrest is savage and terrible like that of a caged tiger.
The eye turns with relief to the imperturbable rock, which seems to
confine and restrain the angry waters. The granite rests in unalterable
calm, sphinxlike, on the edge of the watery desert. It stands for the
constant and enduring, as it forever confronts the inconstant and
changeful sea. They are two opposing forces: the sea coy, arch,
coquettish, now bewitching and full of her beautiful wiles, now
disdainful and imperious, again mad, tempestuous, hurling herself in
her wild passion; the granite grim, massive, unconquerable.
Late in the afternoon the wind is blowing from the north, the sky has
cleared and the sea is sapphire, dotted with whitecaps; yesterday,
opal, this morning leaden, and later, sapphire. It is no longer
formidable, rather is it cold and distant. The _face_ of the waters is
a peculiarly pertinent figure of speech, for the sea is as a face
reflecting all moods. In the glare of noonday, ocean and landscape seem
to discharge themselves of feeling,--that is to say, they are barren to
the eye and unproductive of feeling in us. But in the atmosphere of
sunset and twilight they are again expressive. The quality of light
may be compared to the _timbre_ of sound. Sometimes--as at noon--it is
like the blare of brass, and, again, it has the softness of wood-winds,
the tenderness of violins and cellos.
The receding day carries with it the disquieting influences, and night
exorcises the demons of unrest. They scurry away with the sunset clouds
on the horizon like fleeing witches. As if in obedience to some silent
command, the sea becomes passive. He must be distraught indeed who can
look at it now without coming under the spell of the hour--the serene
hour. It is as if the passion and strife of life had been succeeded by
the beautiful calm of death. To gaze on the mute and motionless ocean
at ebb-tide is to be inevitably inspired to reflection, so potent is
the suggestion of repose. Apparently the forces of Nature have
conspired together for peace.
Death? Nay, rather transfiguration, for now the sea is illumined by a
golden radiance. Stretches of burnished copper and molten gold merge
one into the other; areas again of liquid silver, and beyond, the vast
ethereal blue. Out of the coves shadows come creeping and stealing over
the water, silently advancing to overwhelm the rose and copper and
gold, while these recede and slip out to sea, growing fainter and
fainter until they are absorbed in the all-pervading dusk. In the
succeeding darkness one beholds, not the sea, but a vast bottomless
pit, Dantesque and terrible.
Above all else it is the immense vigor of the sea which appeals to us.
We are made to feel the play of cosmic forces. The long stretch of
rocky coast is rude and Titanic; the expanse of ocean suggests that
chaos from which the earth has gradually been redeemed. The waters
piling themselves up are as elemental and chaotic as nebulæ or the
seething envelopes of the sun. It is incredible they should be hitched
to the gentle moon, and should follow that pale phantom like a leashed
panther, now purring, now growling, but obedient always. The mountains
impress one with their age, the sea with its agelessness. Here at least
is something which appears superior to Time. It is no more youth than
it is age--the formless, without beginning and without end, but always
that superabundant vigor, power, freedom.
Denuded woodland and disfigured landscape bring to mind that iron
Necessity which it is not pleasant to see advertised. But the sea is
unimproved. It is the universal solvent, and dissolves the trivial, the
commonplace, the mean, and gives an heroic cast to whatever it touches.
One needs, however, to observe it from the shore and to have that
vantage which is derived from being on land. In mid-ocean it is too
entirely dominant--there is nothing to afford contrast. It is like the
moon--so fair at a distance, such desolation upon its surface. One can
be alone on the mountains and find them friendly, but who would choose
to be alone in mid-ocean? There is a sense of isolation, a
disassociation, as if one had, in fact, severed connection with earthly
affairs altogether; hour after hour and day after day the same
inscrutable desert of water, which begins everywhere and ends nowhere.
Yet how inviting it appears when the glittering sunbeams dance on a
gently rippling surface. It seems an expression of irrepressible gaiety
as if all the joyousness in Nature had come to the surface here. The
twinkling dance of the innocent waves--who can recall the tragedies
now?
[Illustration: THE SEA COPYRIGHT, 1908, BY RUDOLF EICKEMEYER]
The gulls appear to enjoy some favoritism, as though they were kin to
the sea--its very own. To them it is altogether friendly; they find
it always congenial. Whether the breeze blows north or south, it is
all the same. In the last gale it was next to impossible to keep one's
feet in the full force of the wind, but the gulls sustained themselves
with ease. Over the gray-green sea the clouds appeared to rest like a
cowl. The thunder of the waves drowned all else and shut one off from
the world; consciousness was swallowed up in the din and tumult. In
vast mountainous billows the swirling waters rushed for the shore and
dissolved in spray. I stood in the lee of the rocks, bracing myself
against the gale--a reed shaken by the wind--and saw flocks of coots
riding at ease in the maelstrom beyond. Always facing the wind, they
sank into the troughs and rose again, were lost to view as the crests
broke over them, and reappeared in the old position. Ships would have
dragged their anchors where these coots rode at ease, anchored by
heaven knows what power.
Where the surf broke with its terrible thunder, countless crabs,
urchins, starfish and whelk reposed in the rockweed and Irish moss.
Were they aware of the storm? Did the anemones shut their doors or open
them wider in view of a feast?
The marvelous pools in which they live have no resemblance to the
surface of the sea, but suggest the bottom of the deep--limpid, dark
and still. Each is a world by itself, inhabited by a strange order of
beings: dull nomads, which drift with the waves, or cling, they know
not how, to something, they know not what. If there is any event in
their life it is the rise of the tide. In all likelihood they do not
know our day and night, are not impressed by these phenomena; but the
flood is their day, the ebb their night. Small whelk stud the rich
background of sea-mosses like precious stones, some gamboge, some
orange, others white as marble or banded with black. There are colonies
of sertularia tinted a delicate mauve, solitary sea-urchins of
heliotrope, and starfish, some luminous pink, others deep rose-madder.
These hues are characteristic of sea life, as of lichens and mushrooms
and the lower orders in general; not crude colors, red and blue, but
delicate gradations. Now and again a single jellyfish, stranded by the
receding tide, a spectral diaphanous creature, hovers ghostlike in the
liquid atmosphere of his strange world. It is all of an antediluvian
and prehistoric character, associated with the beginning of
things--with an age of fishes rather than an age of man. The deathless
sea takes no note of the flight of time; it still brings forth only
brood upon brood of slimy, goggle-eyed things.
What a harvest, this of the sea! After a storm all craft put out. The
lobstermen in their dories take in the lobster-pots and replenish the
bait, while the dory rises and sinks on the long swells. Fleets of
mackerel boats and schooners bound for the Banks after cod and haddock
creep along the horizon-line. On the beach men rake up the Irish moss,
flung ashore in the storm, and spread it on old sails to bleach in the
sun. Others haul kelp for the fields, while women gather driftwood. So
great a resource is the ocean; so many gleaners there are.
The sea is humanized and redeemed somewhat by the presence of these
workers. It is agreeable to reflect that while it nourishes them, they
in turn do not mar it. Man communicates the character of his mind and
aims to the landscape; enriches it by his labor on the farm, and
disfigures it again in a thousand ways, till it is as barren and sordid
as his own thoughts. But upon the deep he makes no impression. It is
virgin ever. It overpowers him by its stern music--lifts him for a
time a little above the sordid and commonplace. The sailor ashore is
not the same man he is out there. He must needs have courage, for he
must meet the sea. Portuguese, Swedes, Finns--poor stuff for poems in
their sailor boarding-houses ashore. But hear how they face the winter
gales. Learn the actual experience which makes up that life. The sea
invests the poorest, meanest man with heroic qualities. That is his
stage; there he looms large. Oil-skins and sou'wester are but his
make-up.
I take home a piece of driftwood, for no ordinary fire, but to kindle
the imagination, for it is saturated with memories and carries with it
the enchantment of the sea. To light this is to set in motion a sort of
magic-play. True _driftwood_ has been seasoned by the waters and
mellowed by the years. Not any piece of a lobster-pot, or pleasure
yacht, or, for that matter, of any modern craft at all is driftwood. It
must have come from the timber of a vessel built in the olden time when
copper bolts were used, so that the wood is impregnated with copper
salts. That is merely the chemistry of it. The wood is saturated with
sunshine and moonlight as well, with the storms and calms of the
sea--its passions, its subtle moods; more than this, it absorbed of the
human life whose destiny was involved with the vessel--the tragedy, the
woe. It had two lives--a forest life and a sea life. By force of
tragedy alone it became driftwood. Winter and summer the sea sang its
brave songs over the boat and chanted her requiem at last as she lay on
the ledge. This fragment drifted ashore out of the wreck of a vessel,
out of the wreck of great hopes, out of the passion of the sea.
Driftwood, then, is to be lighted in a spirit of reverence. No ordinary
blaze, rather is it an altar fire to Poseidon, to whom were immolated
the victims; to Aphrodite born of the waves. Rather is it the funeral
pyre of a sea-bird, now to rise again from its ashes. It is not to warm
the hands, this magic sea-fire, which has borrowed the emerald and
sapphire and azure of the waters and reflects still the phosphorescent
gleam which lay in the wake of the vessel, but to kindle some feeling
and to nurture vague dreams. To set match to this pyre is to invoke the
spirit of the deep, to hear the crooning of some distant surf, the
hissing of the fretful spray; to conjure up again the wondrous opaline
sea.
Somewhere on this phantom ocean rides a phantom bark with all sails
set, which reflect, now a rose-pink, now the faintest imaginable golden
sheen, and disappear in the dusk. Perchance there flits over the mind a
haunting recollection of that lost sea of childhood--that sea of virgin
impressions--to vanish also into the dusk of oblivion.
INDEX
Abdomen, 86, 95, 105.
Acorns, 120, 142, 160, 161.
Acquired tendency, 97.
Adder's-tongue, 20, 61, 67.
Æolus, 64.
Afterglow, 194.
Age, 201.
Agelessness, 201.
Age of fishes, 204.
Air-sac, 18, 19, 77.
Alaska sable, 150.
Alders, 14, 20, 50, 120, 162, 164, 168.
Alpine woodsia, 67, 170.
Alps, 154.
Altar fire, 207.
Amanita, 115, 126.
Amazon, 25.
Aments, 14.
Andromeda, 168.
Anemones, 1, 13, 20, 21, 59, 61, 67, 203.
Animals, 136-138, 142, 146, 187, 189, 191, 192.
Antennæ, 52, 101, 103.
Anthers, 78.
Ant hill, 94, 108.
Ants, 4, 88, 91, 94-107, 109, 111, 112, 145.
Aphid, 100, 101, 112.
Aphrodite, 207.
Apis, 78.
Apple, wild, 148.
April, 142, 169.
Arachne, 78.
Arbutus, 20, 60, 121.
Arctic, 131.
Arctic Circle, 23.
Armies, 102, 107, 111.
Ash, 66, 124.
Aspen, 7, 123.
Aspens, 181, 182.
Asters, 71, 122.
August, 113, 114, 117, 134.
Autumn, 20, 45, 51, 72, 92, 118, 119, 122, 125, 134, 135, 144, 152,
157, 166, 196.
Audubon hermit-thrush, 190.
Avalanches, 182.
Balsam, 3, 6, 57, 66, 68.
Bamboos, 117.
Banks, the, 205.
Barberry, 3, 58, 124.
Bare branches, 126.
Bark, 157, 158.
Barn-swallows, 26.
Basalt, 59.
Battle, 102.
Battlefield, 103.
Bayberry, 3, 118, 127.
Beach, 76, 132, 183, 196, 197, 205.
Bear, 193.
Beech, 126, 156, 157, 186.
Beechnuts, 145, 160.
Bees, 30, 31, 51, 55-57, 60, 67, 78-80, 82, 83, 89, 182.
Beetles, 34, 35, 150.
Bee-tree, 67.
Beggar-ticks, 121.
Bellworts, 21, 62.
Bent grass, 57.
Berkshires, 185.
Berries, 113, 114, 126, 161.
Bighorn, 178.
Big tree, 186.
Billows, 203.
Bindweed, 69.
Birch, 12, 32, 33, 57, 90, 117, 120, 123, 157, 158, 186.
Black alders, 168.
Black-and-white creepers, 39, 40.
Black ant, 91, 96, 102, 104-110.
Blackberries, 2, 63, 75, 118, 123, 148.
Black birch, 117, 158.
Blackcap raspberries, 146.
Black cherry, 158.
Black colonies, 4.
Black-headed grosbeak, 182.
Black oak, 157.
Blacksnakes, 155.
Black-throated blue warbler, 66.
Black-throated green warblers, 40.
Bloodroot, 20, 21, 60.
Blueberry, 11, 12, 64, 113, 159.
Bluebird, 1, 13, 14, 34, 41, 114, 117.
Blue-headed vireo, 8.
Bluets, 20, 57.
Blue violets, 20.
Boat, 207.
Bobolink, 24, 43.
Bob-white, 24, 42, 70, 160-162.
Bog, 56, 57, 122, 165, 168.
Bog-rush, 57.
Bokhara, 126.
Boleti, 116.
Bombus, 78.
Boulders, 6, 57, 91, 94, 122, 127-135, 140, 181.
Bouncing-bet, 56.
Brakes, 122.
Brazil, 24.
Briers, 147, 148.
Brook, 61, 138, 168-171.
Broom-moss, 117.
Brown ants, 109, 111, 112.
Brown hackle, 195.
Brush, 90.
Bryum, 117.
Buckwheat, 145.
Bulldogs, 102.
Bullfrogs, 114.
Bumblebee, 67, 78, 80.
Bunchberry, 67.
Bunchberries, 113.
Burdock, 59, 63, 73.
Bur-reeds, 152.
Burrow, 16, 155.
Burs, 121.
Buttercup, 57.
Buttercup seed, 145.
Butterflies, 55, 93.
Butterfly-weed, 72.
Butternut, 3, 66, 121.
Buttes, 183.
Button-bushes, 164, 165.
Byroads, 71, 73.
Caches, 125.
Calms, 207.
Camp, 189-192.
Canada, 66, 130.
Canada thistle, 75.
Canada violet, 62.
Cañons, 180-182, 185, 189, 192.
Cañon-wren, 180, 182.
Capsules, 119.
Captivity, 112.
Cardinal, 47.
Carolina wren, 47.
Carpenter-bees, 30.
Carrot, 63, 66, 74.
Cascade, 185.
Cassandra, 168.
Cat, 27.
Catbird, 30, 44-46, 49.
Catbrier, 118, 148.
Caterpillars, 92, 93.
Catkins, 13.
Cattails, 38, 150, 152.
Cedar, 34.
Cedars, 186.
Cells, 82, 83.
Cetraria, 159.
Ceylon, 117.
Chalcid fly, 82, 83, 92.
Chant, 46, 47, 169, 191, 198.
Chaos, 201.
Chaparral, 190.
Checkerberry, 80.
Cherry, 2, 3, 64, 66, 113, 158.
Chestnut-bur, 121.
Chestnuts, 121, 145.
Chestnut warbler, 26, 39.
Chewink, 41.
Chickadee, 41, 47, 158, 159, 166.
Chickory, 74.
Chipmunk, 15, 136, 139, 140, 144, 145, 155.
Chipping-sparrow, 37, 38, 118.
Chirping, 53.
Christmas fern, 158.
Christmas green, 158.
Cicada, 50, 53.
Cinnamon fern, 122.
Cinquefoil, 57.
Cirque, 181.
City, 189.
Cladonia, 126, 159.
Claw, 86.
Clearing, 190.
Clethra, 80, 148, 168.
Cliff, 66, 67, 132, 169, 174, 179-183.
Cliff-brake, 170.
Clintonia, 1, 57, 113, 114.
Cloud, 173, 174, 180, 183, 194, 200.
Clover, 57, 71.
Club-mosses, 158.
Coast Range, 186.
Cocoa-bean, 72.
Cocoons, 93, 95, 96.
Cod, 205.
Colony, 94, 95, 97, 99, 102, 107-111.
Columbines, 21, 66, 67, 121.
Column, 104-106, 110, 111.
Combat, 103.
Companionship, 10, 173.
Competition, 69.
Cones, 125, 158, 162, 163, 186.
Conifers, 158, 185, 186.
Coniferous, 141.
Connecticut Valley, 21.
Constellations, 130.
Coon, 149.
Coots, 124, 203.
Copper salts, 206.
Co-operation, 98.
Corridors, 95.
Cotton-fields, 47.
Cottontail, 126.
Court of the Winds, 163.
Coves, 200.
Cow-bell, 177.
Cowbird, 36-38.
Coyotes, 191.
Crabs, 203.
Cranberry-bog, 57.
Crane's-bill, 65.
Creek, 169.
Creepers, 39, 159.
Crest, 203.
Crickets, 51, 52, 54, 72.
Crop, 128.
Crossbills, 24, 162, 163.
Crow, 16, 17.
Crystals, 133.
Cuckoo, 31.
Curlew, 23.
Cyperus, 114.
Daghestan, 126.
Daisies, 59, 66.
Dandelions, 70, 71, 131, 135.
Dawn, 45, 47, 191-194.
Daybreak, 192.
Death-song, 55.
Deep, 204, 205, 207.
Deer, 138, 156, 192.
Dell, 80.
Desert, 131, 183, 198, 199.
Deserters, 107.
Devonian, 5.
Dexterity, 188.
Dicentra, 20, 59, 170.
Dicksonia, 59, 122.
Dodder, 69.
Dog, 136.
Dog-days, 87, 114, 122.
Dogwood, 30, 58, 157.
Dory, 205.
Douglas spruce, 185.
Doves, 7.
Downy woodpecker, 159.
Downy yellow violets, 21.
Driftwood, 205-207.
Dromedary, 132.
Drumming, 16.
Dwarf-sumac, 80, 124.
Earthquake, 182.
Earth-spirit, 130.
East wind, 198.
Ebb-tide, 200, 204.
Echo, 190.
Edible, 115.
Eggs, 81, 82, 84, 85, 91, 93, 99, 105, 110, 112, 121, 132, 160.
Egypt, 131.
Elder, 63.
Elm, 20, 30, 163, 186.
Elysian fields, 71.
English pheasant, 42.
Epithalamium, 54.
Erigone, 88.
Erythronium, 1, 20.
Europe, 70.
Eurydice, 179.
Evolution, 97.
Exodus, 101, 109, 110.
_Face_ of the waters, 199.
Fall, 151.
Fall dandelions, 71.
False hellebore, 68.
Farm, 128.
Faulting, 179.
Faun, 49, 126, 159.
February, 140.
Feeding-grounds, 152.
Feldspar, 134.
Fern, 57, 131, 158.
Fern moss, 68, 117.
Fields, 22, 42, 43, 48, 57, 59, 71, 72, 74, 76, 79, 115, 127-129, 205.