Decatur Eagle, Volume 1, Number 1, Decatur, Adams County, 13 February 1857 — Page 1

Till: DECATI R EAGLE.

VOL. 1.

EAGLE. I PUBLISHED EVERY FRIDAY MORNING. ice, oajMain Street, in the old School House, oae Square North of J. & 3? Crabs’ Slora. Terms of Subscription : .r 600 ye:.i ■ S*! 50, in lulv-w.ce; $1 i-i. witnin . ( months; sv Ot after the year has expired. [Lj- No paper will be discontinued until all reragesare paid, except at, the option of the iblisUr. y - Terms of Advertising: One Sqi ire, three i ;se-tion, gl Os) Kach subsequent insertion, '-'5 ■lTNeadvertisement will be CoMidi’.'cH f :•(' rfilj U<UV W ■«'" SijUai’tt ■• ' <.< 1- ’ d and charged as two; over two, as three, etc. ! JOB PRINTING'-. We are prepared to do all kinds of JOB . OKK in a neat and workmanlike manner, on U most reasonable terms. Our mat. rial for e completion of Job-work, being new and of e latest styles, we arc confident that gatistac ,u can be given. Law of Newspapers. l. Subscriliers who do not give express notice . the conn .-.y, are considered as wishing to mtinue their subscriptions. 2 If subsci.bers order the discontinuance of .ei'r papers, In- publisher niaye ntinuetosend I win until all arrearages are paid. , 3. [(subscribers neglect or refuse to take t heir ipors from the office they are held responsible !l they have settled the bill and ordered the I .per discontinued. . , 4. If subscribers remove t o other places with>t informing the publisher, and the paper is 1 ill sent to tne former direction, they are held .spon-ible, , , , , . JJTThe Court have decided that refusing to ike a paper from the office, or removed and ■ aving it uncalled forisraiM.i facie evidence us; ■ teiitional fraud. THE POOH. Hate pity on them! fur their life Is full of grief and ci re; You do not know one half the wees, The very poor must bear. You do not see the silent tear, By many a mother shed, As childhood offers vp the prayer, “Give us our daily bread.” And sick at heart, she turns away From the small face, wan With pain, AnJ feels that prayer has h ug been said By those ymaug lips in vain. You do not see the pallid cheeks Gt those whose years are few, tj <r who are.«lii m ■ n to*. t :Tiie poor must struggle uirough TUeir lot .s made of misery, ■juore hopeless day by day; And through the long, cold winter night, , \ light nor lire have they, But little children shiverirg,crouah -,30i thi' less hearth Tb..;r y .mg . :.i v> - try with the want That drags the soul to earth. Oh when with faint and languid roica ■ wThe poor implore your aid. It matters r.ol how, -lep by step, *'. Their misery was made: It 'nailers not if shame had laid .■ JfW Its shadow on their brow— It is enough for you to see That they are suffering now. Deal gently with these wretched ones Whatever wrought their woe. Fur the poor h re much to tempt and test, That you can tievgr know Then judge them-not, for bard indeed Is their dark lot of care; I.jt Heaven condemn, but human hearts I With human faults should bear, j And with your happy homes A’ou hear the voice of mirth, When smilling faces brighten round } The warm and cheerful hearth; Let charitable thoughts go forth I For the sad and hopeless ona, And your own lot more blest will be, _ y.' For every kind deed done. Now is the time the very poor Most often meet your gaze— Have mercy on them in their cold And melancholy days. ecu Political Prudence.—Wise men say notLingiu dangerous times. The lion called the sheep to ask her if his breath smelt: . she said, 'Ay,’ and he bit her head off fora fool. 1 He called the wolf, and asked him. lie 1 said, ' 3No,’ and he tore hirm--h> pieces for a flatterer. A t last he called the fox, ana asked Lim. he, *1 have got a cold and csafibt smell.’ The Legitimate Weapons of Woman. —The Dayton Gazettesays of Mr. Craighead, a lawyer, who is laboring for a woman up for assault aud battery, before >, his Honor the Mayor in that town, that ha made a speech, one point of which it reports for the benefit of womankind. E of the Jury,’ said Mr C , you can’t find fault with the lady fur throwing hot water upon her assailant. Hi water —Gentlemen of the Jury—hoc water, dish rags and old shoes are the legitimate weapons of the sex.’ P»ss the pm feet wretch urotind.

MART MOORE. BY MARY W. STANLEY GIBSON. CHAPTER I. Ail my lifelong I had known Msry Moore Ail my life long, toe, Had I known I loved her. Our mothers were old playmates and I first cousins, my first recollection is of a young gentleman, in* a turkey-red frock and morrocco shoes, rocking a cradle, in which reposed a sunny-haired, blue-eyed ; baby, not-ijile a I "...ptivm I, mysa.’ — st. ':i >v « I thatlilue eyed baby was Mary Moore. Later still, I sec myself at the little re d I school house, drawing niy painted sled up to the door, and arranging my overcoat upon it, that Mary might ride home. Many a biackeye have I gained on such occasions; for other boys liked her beside me, and she, 1 am afraid, was something of a flirt, even in her pinafores. How daintily she came tripping down the steps when i called her name!—how sweetly her blue eyes looked up at me from the envious folds of her winter hood!—how ' gaily her meiry laugh rang out when, by dint of superhuman exertions. I kept her I sled before the rest, and let her stand up|on the steps exultingly to see them all go by! That fairy laugh! No one but I Mary could ever let her«heart lie so upon < her lips! 1 followed that laugh up from my days of childhood till I grew an awkward, blushing youth—l followed it through the heated noon of manhood, and ( now, when the frosts of age are silvering !my hair, and many children climb my knee and call me ‘Father,’ I find that the memories of youth are strong, and that, grey hairs, and all, lam following its ( music still. When I was fifteen the first great sorrow of my life came ’po -1 me. 1 was sent away to a western st -o’ and was obliged ‘to part with Mary. We xere not to see : each other for three ic. g years! This, tome, was like a sentence of death, for ; Mary was like life itself to me. I But hearts are tough tilings after a',l i I left college, in all the flush and vigor (of my nineteenth year. 1 was no longer 1 awkward and embarrassed. I had grown 1 into a tall, slender stripling, with a very | good, i opinion of myself in was to imagine how I would dazzle and bewilder her with my good looks and , wonderful attainments —never thinking that she might dazzle and bewilder me still more. I was a sad puppy, I know; ; but as youth and good looks have fled, 1 ' trust I may be believed when I say that selt-coucfit Las L.lt me also. An advantageous proposal was made !to ma at this time, and accepting it, I , gave up all ideas of a profession, and prepared to go to the Indies. In my hurried visit home of lwo days, I saw nothing of Mary Moore. She had gone to a boarding school in Massachusetts, and was not I expected Lome till the next fall. I gave ; one sigh to the memory of my little blueeyed playmate, and then called myself‘a j man again.’ I 'ln a year,’ 1 thought, as the stage whirled away from our door again, 'in a year, or three years at the v ery most, I | will re'urn, and if Mary is as pretty as : she used to be—why, then, perhaps I may marry her.' 1 stroked my budding moustache with great complacency, while I settled the fu- ‘ tine of a yoUng Indy I had not seen for four years. 1 never thought of the possibility of her refusing me—never dreamed that she would not stoop, with great- ; ful tears to pick up the handkerchief whenever I choose to throw it at her feet. I But low I know had Mary met me then, she would have dispised me. She was as far above me as the heavens are above the earth. Perhaps in the scented I and affected student she might have found i plenty of sport; but as for loving me, or feeling the slightest interest in me, save a regret tiiat. 1 should make such an unlimited donkey of mysni^ —I know her better now. 1 India salvation, not merely | becausexff the plentiful share of gold I ' laiTf up, but because my earnest labor counteracted the evil in my nature, aud made me a better man. And when at the end of three years [ prepared to re- . turn, I wrote nothing to the dear ones I ' was about to meet, of the reformation I knew had taken place. j ‘They loved me as I was,’ I murmured ■to myself, ‘and they shall find out for themselves if 1 am better worth the loving as I am.’ 1 piacked up many a token, from that land of romance and gold, for the friends I was to meet. The giG for Mary Moore ■ was one I selected with a beating heart. A ring of tough, virgin gold, with my name and here engraved inside; that was al), and yet the little toy thrilled su strangely, as I balanced it upon the tip , of my finger. ■ I To the eyes of others it was but a - small plain circlet, suggesting thoughts perhaps by its daintiness, of th* dainty

“Om- Country's Good shall ever be our Aim—Willinr: to Praise and not afraid to Blame.”

DECATUR, ADAMS COUNTY, INDIANA, FEB, 13,1857.

white hand that was to wear it. But to —oh, to me—how much was embodied there! A loving smile on a beautiful face—low words of welcome—a happy home, and a sweet face smiling there—aj (group of merry children to climb my knee—all these delights were hidden with-! in that little ring of gold! CHAPTER 11. A tall, bearded, sun-bronzed man, I knocked at the door of my father’s house. The lights iu the parlor windows, wnd the ■ ■ wc-tr.it tnel.iat 'company were si i sembled there. I hoped my sister Lizzie would come to the door, and that. I might.! greet my family when no stranger’s eyes ■ were looking curioualy on. But no—a servant answered my sumI mons They were too merry in the parlor to heed the long-absent one when he , asked for admittance. Some such bitter thought was passing through my mind, as 1 heard the sounds frowf the parlor, and saw the half suppressed smile upon the servant’s face. I hesitated a moment before I made ■ myself known, or asked after the family And while I stood silent, a strange appa- \ i rition grew up before me From behind i the servant peered out a small golden I head—a tiny, delicate form followed, and I ! a sweet, childish face and blue-eyes were . lifted up to mine; so like—so like to one | that had brightened my boyhood, that 1 , started back with a sudden feeling of pain. What may your name be, little one?' I asked while the wondering servant held the door. She lifted up her hand as if to shade her eyes, (I had seen that very attitude in another, in my boyhood, many and many a time,) and answered, in a sweet, bird like voice, ‘Mary Moore.’ ‘And what else?’ I asked quickly. ‘Mary Moore Chester,’ lisped the child. My heart sank down like lead. Here was an end to all the bright- dreams and ! hopes of my youth and manhood! Frank Chester, my boyish rival, who had often tried, and tried in vain, to usurp up my i place beside the girl, had succeeded at last, and had won the woman away from ; ma! ,Thi“ his child—his child and! C.iaiy V,. A.IIL 1 must 'in there, and* meet her once again, and then go away [ ■ forever and din, if God would let me! ’ i I sank, body and soul, beneath this ! blow. And hiding my fact in my hands, I leaned against the door, while my heart I wept tears of blood. The little one gazed 1 |at me, grieved and amazed, and put up I her pretty lip as if about to cry, while th'« perplexed sevant stepped to the pail r door, and called my sister out, to find out who it could be that conducted so strangely. I heard a light step, and a pleasant voice saying, ‘Did you wish to see mv father, sir?’ I looked up. There stood a pretty sweet-faced maiden of twenty, not much changed from the dear little "sister I had loved so well. I looked at her a moment, j and then stilling the tumult of my heart by a mighty effort, I opened my arms and said, ‘Lizzie, don’t you know me?’ ‘Harry! Oh, my brother Harry!’ she cried, and threw herself upon my breast. I She wept as if her heart would break. I could not weep. I drew her gently into the lighted parlor, and stood with I her before them all. There was a rush and a cry of joy; and I then my father and mother sprung toward me, and welcomed me home with heartfelt tears! Oh, strange, and passing j sweet, is such a greeting to the way worn ! wanderer! And as I held my dear old i I mother to my heart, and grasped my lather’s hand, while Lizzie still clung be- ! side me, I felt that all was not yet°lost, : and though another had secured life’s choicest blessing, many a joy remained for i me in this dear sanctuary of home! There were four other inmates of the room, who had arisen on my tuddeb entrance. One was the blue-eyed child whom 1 had already seen, and who now ■lstood beside Frank Chester, clinging to his hand. Near by, stood Lizzie Moore, Mary’s eldest sister, and in a distant cor-! ner, where she had hurriedly retreated - when my name was spoken, stood a tall and slender figure half hidden by the heavy window curtains that fell to the floor. When the first rapturous greeting was over, Lizzie led me forward with a timid ! grace, and Frank Chester grasped my hand. ‘Welcome home, my boy,’ he said with the loud cheerful tones I remembered so well. You have changed so I should never have known you—but no matter for that—your heart is in the right place I know.’ ‘How can you say he has changed!’ said my mother, gently. ‘To be sure he looks . older and graver and more like a man than when he went away—but his eves •nd smile are the same a, ever. It is

I that heaiv beard that changes him. He | | is my boy itilL’ I ‘Aye, mijiher,’ I answered sadly, ‘1 am your still.’ ! God he? me! At that moment I felt ' like a be j* and it would have been a hiesi sed relie -1. have wept upon her bosom, as I hai.yL'.uue in my infancy. But I kept Jo Itbe beating of my heart and the tren»,‘jWmy lip, and answered quiet- ' ly, as I Js 1 in his full handsome face. ‘You . X changed too, Frank, but 1 j think * j atur.’ 'on for that coinnli: i‘My> ■' . ne 1 grow handsomer evl ery day.' j His « ' could I hear that name and I keep silence still? ‘And have you seen ‘my little girl?’ he added, lifting the in-' fant in his arms and kissing her crimson check. 'I tell you, Harry, there is not another I one like her in the United States. Don’t you think die looks very much like her mother used to?’ ‘Very much,’ 1 faltered. j ‘Hallo?'’ cried Frank, with a suddenness that made me start violently. ‘1 i have forgot to introduce you to my wife; ; I believe you and she used to be play- ! mates in your young days—eh, Hairy?’ I and he ' >pped me on the back. ‘For the sake of aid times, and because you were j not here at the wedding, I’ll give you - leave to kiss her once—but mind, old fellow, vou are nevei to repeat iho ceremony. Come—here she is, and 1 for once want to see how you will manage those ferocious moustaches of yours, in the operation.’ He pushed Lizzie, laughing and blushing towards me! A gleam of light and ' hope, almost too dazzling to bear, came over me and I cried out before I thought, ‘Xot Mary!’ It must have betrayed my secret to every one .n the room. But nothing was said—even Frank, in general so obtuse, was this time silent. I kissed the fair cheek of the young wife, and hurried to I die sile&i figure looking out from the window. ‘Mary—Mary Moore,’ I said in a low eager voice. ‘Have you alone no wel- ' come to give to the wanderer?’ '• She turr.eil nuU Ici a I-..., lianfi m mine, ,wj'. hurriedly—■r ahi git'.d to see you here, Harry.* Simple words—and yet how blest they 'made me! I would not have yielded up chat moment for an emperor’s crown! For there was the happy homo group and the i dear home fireside, and there sweet Mary 1 Moore! The eyes I had dreamed of by day | .an 1 night were falling before the ardent; : ga/e of mine—and the sweet fare I had ! ! so longed and piayed to see, was there before me—more beautiful, more womanly, and more loving than before! I never knew the meaning of happiness till that moment came! Many years have passed since that happy night, and the hair that was dark ; and glossy then, is fast turning gray.— I am growing to be an old man and can • look back to a long and happy, and I i hope a well spent life. And yet sweet as it has beer., I would not recall a single dav, for the love that made my manhood : so bright, shines also upon me in my white hairs. An old man! Can this bo so? At heart, lam as young as ever. And Mary, with her bright hair parted smoothly from a brow that has a slight furrow upon it, is still the Mary of my early, days. To me she can nevei grow old, nor change. The heart that held her in infancy and sheltered her piously in the ! flush and beauty of womanhood can never cast her out till life shall cease to warin i : it. Nor even then—for love still lives in . Heaven! A certain member of congress was ! speaking one day on important question, j »ud became very animated, during which , he grimaced terribly, which set a brother member, his opponent on the question, to i laugiiing. Thia annoyed him very much and he indignantly demanded to know why the gentleman from was laughing ' at him. ‘1 was smiling at your manner of making monkey faces, sir,’ was the reply. ! ‘Oh.I make monkey faces, do 1? Weil sir, you have no occation to try the experiment, for nature has saved you the , trouble.’ The late Mr. Bush used to tell this story of a brother barrister; As the coach was about starting, before breakfast, the modest limb of the , law approached the landlady a pretty Quakeress, who was seated near the fire, and he said he could not think of going without giving her a kiss. “Friend,’ said she, ‘the must not do it.’ ‘By Heaven, I will, though! replied the barrister, ‘Well, friend, as thee hast sworn,, said she,’ ‘thee may do it; but thee must not make a pra' tire of it.’

Hints for Husbands.—To every husI band we would say give your wife ail your confidence; at least, till she Las proved lieiself unworthy of the trust. You have entrusted her with your life-long happii ness never suspect her of a desire to waste 1 your money, if you observe a disposition to do right, an earnest wish to ple.ase you ; be content, nay, be grateful for those exertion receive all her attentions with kind-! ness, and recompense her efforts with acknowledgment. If she appear diffident eucuurage her with praise; if ignorance I make herawkward, close your eyes to tier -■ f - 1 r but it would uefruel, indeed, to add to the (distress she must feel, by ridiculing her deficiencies or reproving her faults. ; Above all things, forbear to extol the superior management or abilities of your mother or sisters; this will wound the selflove of your wife, and piece a barrier in ; the way of her affection tor those relations i which no after-care cau remove. Many a family has been divided for ever by the indjudicious praises lavished on bis moth- > er or sisters by the newly-married husband. There is a natural jealousy existing in the bosoms of each party, winch needs no stimulating. Those allied to him by . blood, with whom possibly his chief time has bean hitherto spent, maybe excused if they look with jealous feelings on the I interloper who has come between them. | She must be good, indeed, if they acknowledge her to be worthy him who hold so high a place in their own affections On the other hand, the youthful bride, vain of her conquest and jealous of her power, can ill brook to share his love, even with those nearest and dearest to him. Itis true that time down these sharp edges of human frailties, but. they must be wisely dealt with, or they will become keener than ever. The First Born—What an important | personage, and how greatly influential fori good or evil, is the oldest child in a family! I Emphatically is it so, if a girl occupies the ; place of the 'first born.’ As goes her education and general training, so goes that of all the children that may follow her.— I ! Her character is pretty shute to be theirs i in manners, in morals, in habits, and everything. And yet she is quite too apt to be spoiled by over-indulgence and I i ; It behoves parents, then, to look care-1 fully to the trainmg of their firstborn — i They should so direct the ‘dent’ of his or her character, that it may safely become , a model for the younger children entrusted ) Ito their care. In a word, the ‘first born’ i I should be regaided us the teacher of the j I rest, and trained accordingly. Beautiful.—lt cannot be that earth ! is man’s abiding place. It cannot be that; our life is cast up by the ocean of eternity to float upon its waves and sink into noth-; 1 inguess. Else why is it thatglorious aspirations which leap like angels from the temple of our hearts, are forever wandering about unsatisfied? Why is it that the rainbow and the clouds come over with a beauty that is not of earth, and pass oft , to leave us muse on their faden loveliness? ; Why is it that the stars, who hold their ! festivals, arc set above the grasp of onr limited faculties, forever mocking us with their unapproaching glory? Aud fin-! ally, why is it that the bright forms of hu-1 man beauty are presented to our affections to flow into Alpine torrents? Wo are born for higher destiny than that on earth. There is a realm where rainbows never I fade, where the stars will set before us ! like isles that slumber on the ocean, and : where beings that pass before us like shadows, will stay in our possession fori ever. H-. . A good story is told by the New Haver. Register, of ‘Bishop,’ who was sent down to New York with one of his patent fly trap machines as a‘spesimen number ’ A butcher was very desirous he should see it agoing in his shop, and in course of half ! an hour something less than a peck of flics i Lad been ‘hived.’ The butcher was,! pleased,but concluded, as his flics were ail i trapped,’ he dideu't want the machine. ‘Very well,’ said Bishop, ‘l’m a Yankee, aud I won’t take any advantage of, you by carrying off your flies,’ and draw- . mg the slide he liberated the whole swarm ■ about the butcher’s ears and beat a retreat undercover of a little the loudest buzzing ever heard in that vicinity. 'Bob, what makes you limp so?’ ‘Limp! guess you’d limp if you had walked between two rows of bairel hoops as long as I have. Why, the outside of i my legs are as raw as a piece of beef; but, I’ve got an invention to cure that difficulty. I’m going to take those military pants of mine, and run a piece of bar j steel right down through the stripes, if i any hooped female, or walking cooper’s shop, invites me out, I shall not have mv legs «aw»d off.

THE noblk revenge. The coffin was a plain one—a poor, miserable [fine cof’iu. No flowers on its top, i no lining of rose white satin tor the pale brow; no smooth ribbons about the coarse shroud. The brown hair was laid decent ly back, but there was no crimped cap, with its neat tie beneath the chin. The sufferer from cruel poverty smiled in her i sleep she had found bread, rest and health ‘I want to see nay mother, sobbed a poor child, as the city undertaker screwed down the top. ‘Lou can't —get out of c way. bov; why don’t somebody iate the brat?’ 'Uffiy lev me o-ee .• ts.lhme,’cried 1 the hapless orphan, efutei I,- g the side ot the charity box, and as he gazed into that I rough face anguished tears streamed rapidly down the cheek on which no childish i bloom ever lingered. O' it was pitiful co heat him cry, ‘only once, let me see my i mother only once!’ I Quickly and brutally the lmrd-l’.ear*ed I monster struck the boy away, so that ha I reeled with the blow . For a moment the hoy stood panting with grief and rage; his blue eye distended, his lips sprang apart, a fire glittered | through his tears, he raised his puny arm l and with a most unchildish accent, i screamed, ‘When I’m a man, I’ll kill you ■ for that. There was a coffin and a heap of cxrth between the mother and the poor, for- ! saken child, and a monument stronger I than granite built, in his boy-heart to the memory of a heartless tlee-1. w * * w The court-house was crowded io suffocation. ‘Does any ore -appear as (Lis man's councel?’ asked the judge. Their was e silence when he finished, j until, with lips tighly pressed together, r \ look of strange intelligence blended with n I haughty reserve, upon l.is handsome fea- ' tures a young man stepped forward with la fpm tread, and kindling eye, to plead for the erring and the friendless. I He was a. stranger, from bls first sen--1 fence tnere was silence. The splendor of his gci tus entranced, convicted. The I man w 1 ■> could not find a friend was acquitted. • * * • ‘May God bless you, sir, I cannot.* I -1 v nt no thinks.’jimßed the suansrer • •. . • 1 > > J n 1 An u y ’ I ’l— 1 believ? you are iintuenn to me.* ‘M n! I will 1 efresh your memory.— Twenty years ago you struck a broken . heartt d boy away from his mother’s poor ; coffin. I was that poor miserable boy. That man turned livid. ‘Have you rescued me, then, to take my | life?’ ■ ‘No, I have a sweutr revenge, I havo (saved the life of the man whose brutal i deed has rankled in his breast for twenty years - Go! and remember the tears of a i friendless child.’ The man bowed his head in shame, and went out from thepresence of a magnanimity as grand to him as incomprehensible, ; and the noble young lawyer felt God's i smile in his soul forever after. A Temperance Story.—Deacon Johnston is a great temperance man, aud sets a good example of lota! abstinence as far iashe is seen. Not long ago lie employed j a carpenter to make some alterations in I his parlor, and tn repairing the corner i near the fireplace, it. was found m-.cessarr to remove the wainscoting, when lo! a discovery was made that astonishad everybody. A brace of decanters, a i tumbier, and pitcher were c. ?i!y reposing | there, as if they had stood there from the beginning. The deacon was sum ! moned, and as he beheld the blushing bottles, he exclaimed, ‘Wa’ll, I declare, that is carious, shure enough. It must bo thatoldßair.es left i them things there when bo went out of I this 'ere house thirty years ago. I ‘Perhaps be did,’ leturned the earpsn- : ter; but, deacon, the ice in the pitcher i must have been friz mighty hard to stay so till this time,’ It afterwards appeared that there was a secret door to the other side. Il M Yo-lleavx Ho.—We may not give the | nautical orthography, but we embody the , sound. Yo-heave-ho !is the roaring mu sic of our great city’s marg?. From ships, wharves and warehouses, it swells in perpetual anthem. It is the song of commerce, breathing of ocean’s thunder, the creaking of capstains, windlesses, and straining nancies. Over boxes and bale. - ) ■it sweeps like a gusty wind. It is the fi- ’ nal hymn to industry and enterprise. To its cadence, the gems, silks and spices of ! India are unrolled; Europe answers to it with the ruder products ot her fields and shops, and our own brown-handed toil sees its issue borne from mast to mastun der its brave strains. Yo-heave-ho! listen to it along our forest line of ocean crafts. It is the epick of the sea. It sings the masterspirit of ih< age. It is the song ofcom raerce, the colossal slimulent of art industrv—r>n« us tne i-rratestlißrmonisers civ- ' thzerand liberators ofthe woiLJ

NO. 1.