CHAPTER V.
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“Asleep!” cried Ned. “It would be difficult for any sensible
person to fall asleep during a recital of such original and
thrilling interest. The Argonautic expedition, the perilous
navigation of Æneas, the bold adventure of the New England
pilgrims”—
“Have my doubts,” snorted Peter, interrupting Ned's laudation,
in a voice not so articulate, but that the utterance
might have been acknowledged for the profound expression
of the sentiments of a gentleman in the land of dreams. Peter's
drowsiness had finally prevailed not only over his sense
of hearing but also over his sense of imbibition. I picked up
his cannikin, and solemnly shook my own head in place of his,
as he pronounced the oracular judgment. “Have my doubts,
mostly, mister, I say,” he grumbled again, and then the veteran
gray battallion that stood marshalled upon his chin, erect,
and John of Gaunt-like, or rather like the ragged columns of
the Giant's Causeway, bristled up to meet the descent of his
overhanging, ultra-Wellington nose. There was a noise as
of a muttered voice of trumpets. And then it gradually died
away, and there was a deep, deep peace. To use Peter's
own classical language, he was “shut up.”
“Asleep? Not a man, Venus,” said Oliver Paul. “If
thee tells us such yarns as that, we won't go to sleep all night.
But thee must not ask us to believe them.”
“Well, every man must believe for himself,” replied Venus,
“I expect. I admit it's likely the captin must have stretched
a leetle about the length o' time he was out, I should say.
But it's easy to make a mistake about the number of days in
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them latitudes, you know; 'cause I've heerd say the sun
shines there several days together on a stretch, sometimes,
without goen down none; and then agin it's as dark as pitch
for a hull month, and no moon nother. Some people reckons
the sun can't rise there, no how, winter mornens, on account
it's bein so darn'd cold. How is it about that Mr. Cypress?
You're college larnt, I expect.”
“It's a long answer to that question, Venus. Since Captain
Symmes returned from his penetration into the north
pole, there has been a vast addition to our stores of knowledge
of the character and habits of the sun. Professor Saltonstall
contends, and proves, to my satisfaction, at the least,
that the god of day is a living animal, the Behemoth of the
Scriptures. But I'll tell you all about that some other, better
opportunity;—the next time we're stooling snipe together, in
Pine Creek. Let's have another story, now. Zoph, can't
you get up something? What was that Venus said about
mermaids? Were there ever any mermaids about here?”
“Can't say—Can't say,” answered Zoph, with a hesitating,
inquiring sort of deliberation; “can't say, for my part; but
I've heerd folks tell there used to be lots on 'em.”
“Sarten, sarten, no doubt;” continued Daniel, with better
confidence. “I know, that in th' time o' my gr't gr'ndf'th'r
they used to be pr'tty considerabl' plenty. Th' old man had
a smart tussel with a he merm'd—a merman, I sh'd say—one
day.”
“Let's have that, Dannel;” cried two or three voices at
once.
“Let's have a drink, first;” interposed Dan's copartner in
the eel trade,—who probably knew the necessity of soaking
the story—at the same time uncorking the jug. “Here,
Dannel, hand the tumbler over to Mr. Paul.”
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“Don't drink—don't drink, boys,” advised the virtuous
Oliver, as usual. “Well, if you will,”—resting the jug upon
his knee with his right hand, and bringing its avenue of discharge
into no merely suspicious juxtaposition to the tumbler
in his left—“if you will, you will. Some pork will boil that
way.”
“It's goen to be a dry story, I expect, Mr. Paul. My throat
feels 'mazen dusty a'ready.”
A general drought prevailed, and the watering-pot performed
its interesting and refreshing functions.
At last, the ground being put in order, Dan prepared to sow
the crop. So he hummed and hawed, and threw out his cud,
and drew his sleeve across his chin, and began his work after
this wise.—Dan, it will be perceived, is a special economist
of vowels, and uses no more words than are precisely necessary
to “express his sentiments.”
“Why, y' see, th' old man was one o' th' first settlers that
come down from M'sschus'tts, and he tuk a small farm on
shears down to Fort-neck, and he'd every thing fixed accorden.
The most of his time, hows'm'ver, he spent in the bay, clammen
and sich like. He was putty tol'r'bl' smart with a gun, too,
and he was the first man that made wooden stools for
ducks. So he was out bright and arely one morn'n—he'd
laid out all night, likely—and he'd his stool sot out on th'
n'r-east side o' a hassck off Wanza's Flat;—(the place tuk its
name from gr't gr'ndfth'r;)—th' wind bein from th' so'-west
princip'ly; and he lay in his skiff in the hassck, putty well
hid, for't was in th' fall o' th' year, and the sedge was smart
and high. Well, jest arter day 'd fairly broke, and the faawl
begun to stir, he reckoned he heer'd a kind o' splashen in the
water, like geese pick'n and wash'n themselves. So he
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peeked through the grass, softly, to see where the flock was;
but, 'stead o' geese, he see a queer looken old feller waden
'long on the edge o' th' flat, jest by th' channel, benden low
down, with a bow and arr in his hands, all fixed, ready to
shoot, and his eye upon gr't gr'ndf'th'r's stool. `That feller
thinks my stool's faawl,' says the old man to himself, softly,
'cause he 'xpected the fell'r was an Ingen, and there wa'n't
no tellen whether he was friendly or not, in them times. So
he sot still and watched. The bow and arr kept goen, on, and
to rights it stopped. Then the feller what had it, ris up, and
pulled string, and let slip. Slap went the arr, strut into one
o' gr't gr'ndf'th'r's broadbills, and stuck fast, shaken. The old
man sniggled as he see th' other feller pull, and then jump and
splash thro' th' water to pick up his game, but he said nothen.
Well, the merm'n,—as it turned out to be,—got to th' stool,
and he seemed most won'rf'll s'prized th' birds didn't get up
and fly, and then he tuk up the b'rdb'll, and pulled out his arr,
and turned the stool ov'r and ov'r, and smelt it, and grinned,
and seemed quite uneasy to make out what 'twas. Then he
tuk up nother one, and he turned 'em putty much all ov'r, and
tore their anchors loose.
“Gr't gr'ndf'th'r wa'n't a bit skeered, and he did'n't like
this much, but he didn't want to git into a passion with an
Ingen, for they're full o' fight, and he loved peace; and besides
he didn't want to take no dis'dvantage on 'im, and he'd
two guns loaded in th' skiff, and th' other feller hadn't only a
bow and arr, and the old man hoped he'd clear out soon. It
wa'n't to be, hows'mver, that the old man shouldn't get int' a
scrape; for what's the feller with the bow and arr do, arter
consideren and smellen a smart and long spell, but pick up
the whole stool,—every one on 'em,—and sling 'em ov'r's
shoulder, and begin to make tracks! Gr't gr'ndf'th'r couldn't
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stand that ere. So he sung out to him, putty loud and sharp,
to lay down them stools, and he shoved the skiff out the hassck,
and then he see plain enough it was a merm'n. Then the
old man was a little started, I expect. Hows'mver, he shoved
right up to him, and got his old muskets ready. Well, the
merm'n turned round, and sich another looken mortal man gr't
gr'ndf'th'r said he never did see. He'd big bushy hair all ov'r
'im, and big whiskers, and his eyes was green and small's a
mushrat's, and where the flesh was, he was ruther scaly-like.
He hadn't stitch clothes ont' 'm, but the water was up to's
waist, and kivered 'im up so that gr't gr'ndf'th'r couldn't see
the biggist part on 'im. Soon's the old man got done jawen,
the merm'n he begun to talk out the darndest talk you ever
heerd. I disremember 'xactly, but I b'lieve 'twas somethin
like `norgus porgus carry-Yorkus,' and all sich stuff. Ephr'm
Salem, the schoolmaster, used to reckon 'twas Lating, and
meant somethin 'bout takin load o' porgees down to York;
other some said 'twas Dutch; but I can't say. Well, the old
man let him talk his talk out, and then he tuk his turn. Says
the old man says he, `it ant respect'ble, 'tant honest, mister
merm'n, to hook other people's property. Them's my stool,'
says he. `Ye lie,' says the merm'n,—speakin so gr't gr'ndf'th'r
could hear 'im plain enough when he cum to the pint;—
`ye lie,' says he, `I jest now shot 'em.'
“`Shot 'em, you b.....,' says the old man, gittin mad;
`shot 'em? them's wooden stools what I made myself and anchored
'em here last night.'
“`That's 'nother,' says the merm'n; `ye blackguard, they're
only dead ducks spetrerfried and turned into white oak. I'm
seen 'em here, and knowed they was cotched fast into the eel
grass, a smart and long while; good mornen, my old cock, I
must be goen.'
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“`Lay them stool down,' says gr't gr'ndf'th'r, `lay them
stool down, or, by golly, I'll put a charge o' shot into ye.'
“`Shoot away, my man,' says the merm'n sneerin-like, and
he turns off to clear out. So, the old man, sein his stool
walked off in that ere way, cotched up one o' his guns, and,
by jings, he let split right into the merm'n's back, and marked
him from his shoulders down, thick as mustard-seed, with
about three ounces of No. 3,—what the old man put in for
brant the night afore. The old thief was putty well riddled, I
expect. He jumped up out th' water 'bout a yard high, and
squealed out 's if he was killed. But he wa'n't tho', for arter
rubbin his back a little while, he turned round, and says he
`now I s'pose you've done it, don't you?' quite sharp and
saucy; `I wanted a little lead into me for ballast; what's the
costs, squire?'
“`Lay down them ere stool,' says the old man, `lay down
them ere stool.' I wont,' says the merm'n. `If ye don't,'
says gr't gr'ndf'th'r, `I'll give ye t'other gun, and that's loaded
with double B; may be ye wont like that quite so well,
prehaps.'
“`Fire away and be d—d,' says the merm'n, and the
old man giv it to him, sure enough. This time he planted it
right int' his face and eyes, and the blood run out all white
like milk. The merm'n hollored, and yawked, and swore,
and rubbed, and he let the stool drop, and he seemed to be
putty much blinded and done up, and gr't gr'ndf 'th'r thought
he was spoke for. Hows'm'ver he thought it was best to
load up and be ready in case o' the merm'n's gittin well, and
comin at 'im 'gen. But just as he tuk up his horn to prime,
the merm'n div and vanished. `What's the how, now?' says
gr't gr'ndf'th'r, and he got up onto the gunnels o' the boat, to
watch for squalls; and he stood there teteren on a larboard
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and starboard straddle, looken out putty sharp, for he reckoned
there was somethin comin. There wa'n't no mistake
'bout that, for t'rights the old man felt the skiff shaken under
'im, and he see right off that the merm'n was down below,
tryen t'upset 'im, and git 'im int' the water. That ruther
started the old man, for he knowed if he once got int' th' water,
he'd stand no kind o' chance with a merm'n, which is jest the
same as an otter, 'xcept the sense, you know. So he jumped
down to his oars, to pull for the hassck. That wouldn't answer
much, tho,' for th' oars hadn't touched water, 'fore the
merm'n broke 'em smack off, and the old man had to pull the
sprit out the sail, and take to shoven. The moment he struck
bottom, he heerd a kind o' grunten laugh under th' skiff, and
somebody drew the sprit down, deep int' th' mud, so that th'
old man couldn't pull it out; at the same time th' merm'n tilted
th' skiff over smart and far, so that her keel was most out o'
water, and th' old man was taken strut off both 's feet, and
highsted up int' th' air, high and dry, holden onto the eend o'
th' sprit; and the skiff shot away, and left 'im, twenty yards
off, or twenty-five I sh'd say, mostly. The sprit was putty
stiff, I expect, tho' it bent smartly; but gr't gr'ndf'th'r hung
on't, like death to a dead nigger, his feet bein bout three foot
from the water's edge when he held up his knees.”
“Dan,” said I, (taking advantage of a moment's pause,
during which he experienced imbibition,) was the old gentleman
on your father's or your mother's side?”
“Have my doubts he don't know nuther,”—again muttered
the sleeping skeptic, whose tympanum readily acknowledged
the interruption of a voice foreign to the story,—“but his
father was a smart man, and I knowed him.”
“Gravius anhelata! Good night, Peter.”
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“Mr. Cypress,” said Dan, with a face full of sincere
anxiety, “would I tell you any thing I did not believe?”
“No, Dan, never; no, no; go on, go on. I only asked
for information.”
“Well, where was I?—Yes—yes—Well, there th' old
man hung, ont' th' top th' sprit, not taken much comfort, I
sh'd say. Then, up, by course, pops the merm'n, and begins
to make all kinds o' fun th' old man, and gives 'im all sorts o'
saace, whilst he stood in the water clost by th' sprit, washen
off the blood and pick'n the shots out his face. Gr't gr'ndf'th'r
wouldn't answ'r 'im back tho', 'cause he knowed it wa'n't
no use, but he kept wishen some boat would come along, and
give 'im a hand, and he 'xpected there must be somebody or
'nother out that day. Meantime, tho', he tho't 'twas best to
let th' merm'n see he wa'n't 'fraid on 'im none, so he tuk out
his tinder-box and pipe, and struck a light, and set up
smoken, quite at ease. Well, there he hung and smoked, putty
much all of three hours, till he got consid'r'ble tired, I sh'd
say, and the merm'n looked 's good 's new, only 'xcepten the
holes in 's face, which was all thick together like th' holes in
the black banks, where the fiddlers come out on. `Wont you
walk down, sir?' says the merm'n, arter a while, to gr't gr'ndf'th'r,
quite p'lite; `I sh'd be quite happy to shake hands wi'
ye, and make it up.'
“Gr't gr'ndf'th'r wouldn't say a word.
“`Wont ye answer, d—n ye?' says the cunnen devil,
gritt'n's teeth; and he walks up to the sprit, and lays hold, and
shakes it hard, jist as ye'd shake a young pear-tree. `Drop
off, drop off,' says he, shaken 'er all his might.
“Then th' old man made up his mind he'd got to come;
so he watches 'is chance, and gives a spring, and jumps, so
as to strike th' merm'n's shoulder, and from that he jumps
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agin, a long stretch, towards the hassck, where the water
was shallerer.
“The merm'n was arter 'im strut, and cotched 'im up in
no time, and then they clinched. That ere fight I sh'ld like
to seen, may be I don't think. It was hip and thigh, and toss
up for the best, for putty much an hour 'bouts; sometimes the
merm'n bein' ahead, and sometimes gr't gr'ndf'th'r, dependen
mostly on th' depth th' water; for when th' old man could
keep's ground in shaller water, he could lick the merm'n to
thunder; but the merm'n was leetle the activest in deep
water. Well, it couldn't be 'xpected but what they sh'ld both
get pr'tty smart and tired, and I reckon they was both willen
to 'cknowledge beat. Th' old man was jist goen to, when
the merm'n sings out, `Mister, let's stop and rest.'
“ `Done,' says gr't gr'ndf'th'r, glad enough; and they stopped
short, and went to th' hassck, and sot down on the sedge
grass, both breathen like a porpus.
“Arter they'd sot there a little while, and got breath, th'
old man sung out he was ready, but the merm'n said he wa'n't,
and he reck'n'd he felt putty smart and bad. So th' old man
thought 'twould be a good time to go arter's skiff. `You
ought n't t've shoved my boat away, any how,' says he;
`how shall I get back t' hum t'-night?'
“ `That's true,' said the merm'n, quite reason'bl'; `if y'll
promise to come right back, and finish this ere fight, I'll let
ye go and swim arter it.'
“ `I will,' says th' old man, `honor bright;' and off he
swum. When he got off 'bout two rod, he looked back at
th' merm'n, and he thought he seemed to be 'mazen pale and
sick. `Make haste back,' sings out the merm'n. `Ay, ay,'
says th' old man, and he struck away.
The tide had drifted th' skiff a smart ways off, and she lay
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putty much down t' th' beach, on a bar; and 'twas quite a
spell 'fore the old man could get to the hassck. But when
he arriv, there wa'nt a hair of a merm'n to b' seen, only in
the place where he'd sot there was a big heap o' white
jelly, like a stingen quarll. Gr't gr'ndf'th'r kicked it over
w' his foot, and it made a thin squeak, like a swaller high
up over-head, and he reckoned it giv' 'im a kind o' lect'ral
shock. So he sot to work and picked up his tools, which
was scattered putty much all over the bay, and he cleared out
t' hum. That's the last he seen o' that merm'n.”
“Surely, surely. Walloped him into nothen, I expect,”
said Venus. “I give in arter that, Dannel.”
“Have my doubts, agen!” sung out Peter, waking up from
the straw, where his universally incredulous judgment had
been for some time past taking unquiet and sonorous repose.
“Have my doubts, mister, I say.”
“You're drunk, old vulture-nose;” cried Ned, authoritatively.
“Shut up; I'm satisfied that the story is true. What object
could the old man have had in telling a lie? Besides, every
body knows that mermaids were plenty here once. Wasn't
Jerry Smith's wife a mermaid? Didn't I see one myself,
once, in Brick-house brook, when I was trouting?”
“Likely, likely;” quoth Oliver. “Tell us about that
Eddy. When was it? I never heard thee mention it before.”
“Yes, you have, Oliver, fifty times! but, as it is a short
story, and I should like to resolve Peter's doubts, for once,
I'll tell again.—Don't interrupt me, now.—It was one April
morning, in that year when you and I had the great flight of
geese, Raynor. I went up through the woods, and struck
into the brook about two miles above the turnpike, and started
to wade it down to the road. You know how wild the
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country is there, and how wantonly the brook runs, bending, and
winding, and coquetting with the wintergreen and cranberry
vines, that fringe its banks; how it is constantly changing its
depth and strength, and color, sometimes dashing on, in a
narrow current not more than three or four feet in width, and
curling darkly and swiftly around the old stumps, that are rotting
by its edges, and then, at a little distance off, spreading
free, and flowing smooth, to the breadth of twenty yards;
while all the way it is overarched, and in some places nearly
hidden by the intertwined hazel, and alders, and scrub oaks.
It is just the stream that I should think would captivate a
water nymph's fancy; it is so solitary, and quiet, and romantic.
You hear no noise while you are fishing, save of your
own splashing footsteps, or the brushed-by, crackling bushes,—
scarcely even the rushing of the wind,—so deep and thick
is the envelopement of the woods; and in wading half a mile,
and basketing thirty fish, you might think you were alone in
the world, if you did not now and then startle a thirsty fawn,
or a brooding wood-duck. Well, I was coming down through
a broad, shallow, beautifully gravelled bottom, where the
water was not more than half-way up to my knees, and was
just beginning to take more stealthy steps, so as to make the
least possible noise, (for I was approaching a favorite hole,)
when suddenly I heard what seemed to be the voice of a
young girl of fifteen or sixteen burst out a singing ahead of
me, just around the next bend of the brook.
“I was half frightened to death, for I thought it must be
some poor mad creature that had escaped from her confinement;
and in fact I had heard that Ellen—what's her name?
I forget—had been rather flighty ever since young Jones left
off paying attentions to her. However, there was no backing
out for me, now; vestigia nulla retrorsum, in the case of a
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woman, Cypress. I was in the scrape; revocare gradum
was out of the question. So I went ahead softly, and when
I got to the bend, I put my left eye around the bushes, and
looked. By all the little fishes, it was a lovely sight! She
was sitting upon a hemlock log that had fallen across the
brook, with her naked feet and legs hanging in the water.
There she sat, paddling, and splashing, and combing her long,
beautiful, floating hair, and singing. I was entranced, petrified.
She would sing a little ballad, and then she'd stop and
wring her hands, and cry. Then she'd laugh, and flirt about
her long hair. Then again she would look sorrowful, and
sigh as though her heart would break, and sing her song
over again. Presently she bent down to the stream, and began
to talk earnestly to somebody. I leaned forward to take
a look at the stranger, and to whom do you think she was
talking? It was a trout, a brook trout, an old fellow that
I have no doubt would have weighed full three pounds. He
was floating on the top of the water, and dimpling, and
springing up about her, as though he, too, felt and acknowledged
the heavenly influence of her beauty. She bent her
long fingers, and tickled him upon his back, and under his
side, and he absolutely jumped through her hands, backwards
and forwards, as if in a delirium of frolic.—It was
by her hands that I knew she was a mermaid. They were
bluey and webbed, though not much more than a black-breasted
plover's feet. There was nothing positively icthyal in
their formation.—After a while she commenced singing,
again. This was a new tune, and most exquisitely sweet.
I took out my pencil and wrote down the words of the song,
on a blank leaf for memoranda, in my fishing book. Shall
I repeat them?” “Do it,” we all cried out with earnestness.
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“I'll try,” said Ned, sighing. “I wish I could sing them.
They ran somewhat in this way:—
“ `Down in the deep
Dark holes I keep,
And there, in the noontide, I float and sleep;
By the hemlock log,
And the springing bog,
And the arching alders I lie incog.
The angler's fly
Comes dancing by,
But never a moment it cheats my eye:
For the hermit trout
Is not such a lout
As to be by a wading boy pulled out.
King of the brook,
No fisher's hook
Fills me with dread of the sweaty cook;
But here I lie,
And laugh, as they try;
Shall I bite at their bait? No, no, not I.
But when the streams,
With moonlight beams,
Sparkle, all silver, and starlight gleams,
Then, then look out
For the hermit trout;
For he springs and dimples the shallows about,
While the tired angler dreams.'
“The words are not much. But O! how exquisite was
that music; Cypress, it was like the mellow tone of a soft
harp!”
“Jewsharp,—ha-a?” accorded long John; that's a nice
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kind o' music. I'm told they have 'em large down to York,
and use 'em in meeten. How'st?”
“Yes, 'tis so, John, they do. But let me get through with
my story. After the syren had finished her tune, she began
playing with her companion again. Thinks I to myself, `old
speckled skin, I should like to have you in my basket; such
a reverend old monarch of the brook is not to be caught every
day in the year, What say you for a fresh worm this morning?
' So I shortened my rod, and run it behind me, and let
the dobber fall upon the water, and float down with the hook
to the log where the old fellow and the mermaid was disporting.
His love for the lady did not spoil his appetite. He
bagged my worm, and then sprung at my float, and cut. I
jerked back, and pulled in, and then he broke water and
flunced. The mermaid saw that he was in trouble, and
dashed at my line, broke it short off, and then took up the
trout, and began to disengage the hook from his gills. I had
no idea of losing my hook and my trout, besides one of Lentner's
best leaders,—that cost me half a dollar,—for any woman,
fishy or fleshy, however good a voice she might have. So I
broke cover, and came out. The moment she caught a
glimpse of me, she screamed and dropped the trout, and ran.
Did you every see a deer flash through a thicket? She was
gone in an instant—
“ `Gone, like the lightning, which o'er head
Suddenly shines, and ere we've said
Look! look! how beautiful! 'tis fled.'
Compelled by an irresistible impulse, I pursued. Down the
brook, and through the brake, we went, leaping, and stooping,
and turning, and swimming, and splashing, and I, at least a
half a dozen times, stumbling and falling. It was but at intervals,
as the brook made its longest bends, that I could catch
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a glimpse of the fugitive nymph, and the last time I put my
eager eye upon her, she had stopped and was looking back,
with both her hands crossed upon her bosom, panting and apparently
exhausted. But as I again broke upon her sight, she
started and fled. With fresh ardor I pressed on, calling to
her, and beseeching her to stop. I pleaded, promised, threatened,
and called the gods to witness that my intentions were
honorable, and that I would go and ask her mother first, if she
did not live too far off. In the desperation of my entreaties I
talked a little Latin to her, that came into my head, apropos,
and which was once used by another gentleman,[8] in a similar
case of Parthian courtship;—Parthian!—Yes, that is a correct
word, for O! what arrows did the beauty of the flying nymph
shoot into my soul! Telling her that she might depend upon
my honor, and all that, I continued—
“ `At bene si noris, pigeat fugisse; morasque
Ipsa tuas damnes, et me retinere labores'—
that is to say, boys, according to Bishop Heber's translation,
“ `If you knew me, dear girl, I'm sure you'd not fly me;
Hold on half an hour, if you doubt, love, and try me.'
But, alas! the assurance and the prayer added fresh pinions
to her wings. She flew, and despairingly I followed, tearing
my hands and face with the merciless brambles that beset my
way, until, at last, a sudden turn brought me plump up against
the bridge upon the turnpike, in the open fields, and the mermaid
was nowhere to be seen. I got up on the railing of the
bridge, and sat there weary, wet, and sad. I had lost my fish,
left my rod a mile off, and been played the fool with by a mongrel
woman. Hook, fish, leader, heart, and mermaid, were
all lost to me forever. `Give me some drink, Titinius,' or
-- 069 -- p138-088
[figure description] Page 069.[end figure description]
Daniel, which I take to be the correct English translation. I
feel melancholy and mad to think of it even now.”
eaf138v1.n8[8] Polyphem. to Gal. Ov. Met. 13, 808.
Herbert, Henry William, 1807-1858 [1842], Sporting scenes and sundry sketches. Volume 1 (Gould, Banks & Co., New York) [word count] [eaf138v1].
