欧·亨利/O. Henry
On his bench in Madison Square Soapy moved uneasily. When wild geese honk high of nights, and when women without sealskin coats grow kind to their husbands, and when Soapy moves uneasily on his bench in the park, you may know that winter is near at hand.
A dead leaf fell in Soapy's lap. That was Jack Frost's card. Jack is kind to the regular denizens of Madison Square, and gives fair warning of his annual call. At the corners of four streets he hands his pasteboard to the North Wind, footman of the mansion of All Outdoors, so that the inhabitants thereof may make ready. Soapy's mind became cognisant of the fact that the time had come for him to resolve himself into a singular Committee of Ways and Means to provide against the coming rigour. And therefore he moved uneasily on his bench.
The hibernatorial ambitions of Soapy were not of the highest. In them were no considerations of Mediterranean cruises, of soporific Southern skies or drifting in the Vesuvian Bay. Three months on the Island was what his soul craved. Three months of assured board and bed and congenial company, safe from Boreas and bluecoats, seemed to Soapy the essence of things desirable.
For years the hospitable Blackwell's had been his winter quarters. Just as his more fortunate fellow New Yorkers had bought their tickets to Palm Beach and the Riviera each winter, so Soapy had made his humble arrangements for his annual hegira to the Island. And now the time was come. On the previous night three Sabbath newspapers, distributed beneath his coat, about his ankles and over his lap, had failed to repulse the cold as he slept on his bench near the spurting fountain in the ancient square. So the Island loomed large and timely in Soapy's mind. He scorned the provisions made in the name of charity for the city's dependents. In Soapy's opinion the Law was more benign than Philanthropy. There was an endless round of institutions, municipal and eleemosynary, on which he might set out and receive lodging and food accordant with the simple life. But to one of Soapy's proud spirit the gifts of charity are encumbered. If not in coin you must pay in humiliation of spirit for every benefit received at the hands of philanthropy. As Caesar had his Brutus, every bed of charity must have its toll of a bath, every loaf of bread its compensation of a private and personal inquisition. Wherefore it is better to be a guest of the law, which though conducted by rules, does not meddle unduly with a gentleman's private affairs.
Soapy, having decided to go to the Island, at once set about accomplishing his desire. There were many easy ways of doing this. The pleasantest was to dine luxuriously at some expensive restaurant; and then, after declaring insolvency, be handed over quietly and without uproar to a policeman. An accommodating magistrate would do the rest.
Soapy left his bench and strolled out of the square and across the level sea of asphalt, where Broadway and Fifth Avenue flow together. Up Broadway he turned, and halted at a glittering cafe, where are gathered together nightly the choicest products of the grape, the silkworm and the protoplasm.
Soapy had confidence in himself from the lowest button of his vest upward. He was shaven, and his coat was decent and his neat black, ready-tied four-in-hand had been presented to him by a lady missionary on Thanksgiving Day. If he could reach a table in the restaurant unsuspected, success would be his. The portion of him that would show above the table would raise no doubt in the waiter's mind. A roasted mallard duck, thought Soapy, would be about the thing—with a bottle of Chablis, and then Camembert, a demi-tasse and a cigar. One dollar for the cigar would be enough. The total would not be so high as to call forth any supreme manifestation of revenge from the cafe management; and yet the meat would leave him filled and happy for the journey to his winter refuge.
But as Soapy set foot inside the restaurant door the head waiter's eye fell upon his frayed trousers and decadent shoes. Strong and ready hands turned him about and conveyed him in silence and haste to the sidewalk and averted the ignoble fate of the menaced mallard.
Soapy turned off Broadway. It seemed that his route to the coveted island was not to be an epicurean one. Some other way of entering limbo must be thought of.
At a corner of Sixth Avenue electric lights and cunningly displayed wares behind plate-glass made a shop window conspicuous. Soapy took a cobblestone and dashed it through the glass. People came running round the corner, a policeman in the lead. Soapy stood still, with his hands in his pockets, and smiled at the sight of brass buttons.
"Where's the man that done that?" inquired the offcer, excitedly.
"Don't you figure out that I might have had something to do with it?" said Soapy, not without sarcasm, but friendly, as one greets good fortune.
The policeman's mind refused to accept Soapy even as a clue. Men who smash windows do not remain to parley with the law's minions. They take to their heels. The policeman saw a man halfway down the block running to catch a car. With drawn club he joined in the pursuit. Soapy, with disgust in his heart, loafed along, twice unsuccessful.
On the opposite side of the street was a restaurant of no great pretensions. It catered to large appetites and modest purses. Its crockery and atmosphere were thick; its soup and napery thin. Into this place Soapy took his accusive shoes and telltale trousers without challenge. At a table he sat and consumed beefsteak, flapjacks, doughnuts and pie. And then to the waiter he betrayed the fact that the minutest coin and himself were strangers.
"Now, get busy and call a cop," said Soapy. "And don't keep a gentleman waiting."
"No cop for you," said the waiter, with a voice like butter cakes and an eye like the cherry in a Manhattan cocktail. "Hey, Con!"
Neatly upon his left ear on the callous pavement two waiters pitched Soapy. He arose joint by joint, as a carpenter's rule opens, and beat the dust from his clothes. Arrest seemed but a rosy dream. The Island seemed very far away. A policeman who stood before a drug store two doors away laughed and walked down the street.
Five blocks Soapy travelled before his courage permitted him to woo capture again. This time the opportunity presented what he fatuously termed to himself a "cinch". A young woman of a modest and pleasing guise was standing before a show window gazing with sprightly interest at its display of shaving mugs and inkstands, and two yards from the window a large policeman of severe demeanour leaned against a water plug.
It was Soapy's design to assume the role of the despicable and execrated "masher". The refined and elegant appearance of his victim and the contiguity of the conscientious cop encouraged him to believe that he would soon feel the pleasant official clutch upon his arm that would insure his winter quarters of the right little, tight little isle.
Soapy straightened the lady missionary's ready-made tie, dragged his shrinking cuffs into the open, set his hat at a killing cant and sidled toward the young women. He made eyes at her, was taken with sudden coughs and "hems", smiled, smirked, and went brazenly through the impudent and contemptible litany of the "masher". With half an eye Soapy saw that the policeman was watching him fixedly. The young woman moved away a few steps, and again bestowed her absorbed attention upon the shaving mugs. Soapy followed, boldly stepping to her side, raised his hat and said:
"Ah there, Bedelia! Don't you want to come and play in my yard?"
The policeman was still looking. The persecuted young woman had but to beckon a finger and Soapy would be practically en route for his insular haven. Already he imagined he could feel the cosy warmth of the station-house. The young woman faced him and, stretching out a hand, caught Soapy's coat sleeve.
"Sure, Mike," she said joyfully, "if you'll blow me to a pail of suds. I'd have spoke to you sooner, but the cop was watching."
With the young woman playing the clinging ivy to his oak Soapy walked past the policeman overcome with gloom. He seemed doomed to liberty.
At the next corner he shook off his companion and ran. He halted in the district where by night are found the lightest streets, hearts, vows and librettos. Women in furs and men in greatcoats moved gaily in the wintry air. A sudden fear seized Soapy that some dreadful enchantment had rendered him immune to arrest. The thought brought a little of panic upon it, and when he came upon another policeman lounging grandly in front of a transplendent theatre he caught at the immediate straw of "disorderly conduct" .
On the sidewalk Soapy began to yell drunken gibberish at the top of his harsh voice. He danced, howled, raved, and otherwise disturbed the welkin.
The policeman twirled his club, turned his back to Soapy and remarked to a citizen:
"This one of them Yale lads celebration the goose egg they give to the Hartford College. Noisy; but no harm. We've instructions to lave them be."
Disconsolate, Soapy ceased his unavailing racket. Would never a policeman lay hands on him? In his fancy the Island seemed an unattainable Arcadia. He buttoned his thin coat against the chilling wind.
In a cigar store he saw a well-dressed man lighting a cigar at a swinging light. His silk umbrella he had set by the door on entering. Soapy stepped inside, secured the umbrella and sauntered off with it slowly. The man at the cigar light followed hastily.
"My umbrella," he said sternly.
"Oh, is it?" sneered Soapy, adding insult to petit larceny. "Well, why don't you call a policeman? I took it. Your umbrella! Why don't you call a cop? There stands one on the corner."
The umbrella owner slowed his steps. Soapy did likewise, with a presentiment that luck would run against him. The policeman looked at the two curiously.
"Of course," said the umbrella man—"that is—well, you know how these mistakes occur—I—if it's your umbrella I hope you'll excuse me—I picked it up this morning in a restaurant—If you recognise it as yours, why—I hope you'll—"
"Of course it's mine," said Soapy viciously.
The ex-umbrella man retreated. The policeman hurried to assist a tall blonde in an opera cloak across the street in front of a street car that was approaching two blocks away.
Soapy walked eastward through a street damaged by improvements. He hurled the umbrella wrathfully into an excavation. He muttered against the men who wear helmets and carry clubs. Because he wanted to fall into their clutches, they seemed to regard him as a king who could do no wrong.
At length Soapy reached one of the avenues to the east where the glitter and turmoil was but faint. He set his face down this toward Madison Square, for the homing instinct survives even when the home is a park bench.
But on an unusually quiet corner Soapy came to a standstill. Here was an old church, quaint and rambling and gabled. Through one violet-stained window a soft light glowed, where, no doubt, the organist loitered over the keys, making sure of his mastery of the coming Sabbath anthem. For there drifted out to Soapy's ears sweet music that caught and held him transfixed against the convolutions of the iron fence.
The moon was above, lustrous and serene; vehicles and pedestrians were few; sparrows twittered sleepily in the eaves—for a little while the scene might have been a country churchyard. And the anthem that the organist played cemented Soapy to the iron fence, for he had known it well in the days when his life contained such things as mothers and roses and ambitions and friends and immaculate thoughts and collars.
The conjunction of Soapy's receptive state of mind and the influences about the old church wrought a sudden and wonderful change in his soul. He viewed with swift horror the pit into which he had tumbled, the degraded days, unworthy desires, dead hopes, wrecked faculties and base motives that made up his existence.
And also in a moment his heart responded thrillingly to this novel mood. An instantaneous and strong impulse moved him to battle with his desperate fate. He would pull himself out of the mire; he would make a man of himself again; he would conquer the evil that had taken possession of him. There was time; he was comparatively young yet; he would resurrect his old eager ambitions and pursue them without faltering. Those solemn but sweet organ notes had set up a revolution in him. Tomorrow he would go into the roaring downtown district and find work. A fur importer had once offered him a place as driver. He would find him tomorrow and ask for the position. He would be somebody in the world. He would—
Soapy felt a hand laid on his arm. He looked quickly round into the broad face of a policeman.
"What are you doing here?" asked the officer.
"Nothing," said Soapy.
"Then come along," said the policeman.
"Three months on the Island," said the Magistrate in the Police Court the next morning.
躺在麦迪逊广场的长凳上，索比不安地辗转反侧。每当雁群在夜空中引吭高歌时，每当没有海豹皮外套的女人跟她们的丈夫越来越亲热时，每当索比在公园的长凳上辗转反侧时，你就该知道，冬天快要来了。
一片枯叶飘落在索比的膝盖上，那是严寒先生——杰克·弗洛斯特的名片。对麦迪逊广场的常客们，杰克十分友好，每年冬天来访前，他都事先通知。在十字街头，他把自己的名片交给北风先生——“露天大厦”的守门人，好让大厦里的房客们做好准备。索比逐渐意识到这个事实，是时候为自己组织“个人财务委员会”，以抵御即将来临的严寒气候了。因此他在长凳上辗转不已。
对躲避寒冬，索比的奢望不算太高。他既没考虑地中海游轮之旅，也没考虑那熏人欲睡的南方天空，更没考虑去维苏威海湾漂流，他想的仅仅是在岛上待上三个月。三个月有饭吃，有床睡，又有意气相投的同伴，还能安全地躲过北风之神勃瑞艾斯和巡警。在索比看来，这就足够了。
很多年来，热情的布莱克韦尔岛监狱都是索比的冬季寓所。就像比他幸运得多的纽约人，每年冬天都买票去棕榈滩和里维埃拉一样，索比只能为他一年一次的海岛避冬做一些简单的安排。而现在，又到这个时候了。前一晚，他睡在古老广场喷泉旁的长凳上，把三份星期日的报纸塞在外套下，盖住脚踝和膝盖仍不能御寒。这时，那岛就在他的脑海里及时地涌现出来。索比鄙视那些以慈善为名给城里无依靠的人供应的必需品。在他看来，法律比慈善机构更仁厚。这里有无数机构，无论是市政的，还是慈善机构的，他都可以着手安排，以获取符合简单生活的食宿。但索比生性高傲，慈善机构的施舍对于他来说只是个累赘。尽管不必破费，但从慈善家手里接过的任何好处都必须用精神上的屈辱作为补偿。就像有了恺撒就有了他的布鲁图斯一样，慈善机构提供一个床位，你就得洗个澡作为代价。每施舍一片面包，你就得交代你的个人隐私。由此看来，当法律的客人还是合算一些。尽管在那里会受到法规的钳制，但对于一位绅士的个人隐私，法律是不会无故粗鲁地干涉的。
去岛上过冬的主意已定。于是，索比立即开始着手实现他的愿望。做到这一点有很多简单的办法。最称心的就是到某家豪华餐馆去海吃一顿，酒足饭饱后宣布自己吃霸王餐，那样就会被一声不响地交给警察。而乐于助人的官员自会来处理余下的事情。
索比离开他的长凳，踱出广场，穿过平坦的柏油马路，来到百老汇大街和第五大街的交汇处。在那里，他转身面向百老汇大街，站在一家灯火通明的餐馆前，那里每晚都聚集着上等的葡萄酒、绫罗绸缎的服装和上流的精英人物。
索比对自己的上半身还颇具信心。他剃过胡子，上衣也还体面，黑色活结领带也算整洁，那还是感恩节时一位教会女士送给他的。要是他能混到餐馆的桌边而不引起别人的怀疑，那他就成功在握了。他露在桌面的上半身是不会引起侍者的怀疑的。来只烤野鸭，索比估量着要点的东西——还来一瓶法国夏布利的白葡萄酒、卡门贝的乳酪、一小杯清咖啡，再要支雪茄烟。雪茄烟一块钱一支的就行。餐费的总数不能太高，以免使餐馆老板疯狂报复。但野鸭肉又能填饱他的肚子，又能让他愉快地踏上越冬的行程。
但他一条腿才跨进餐馆门，领班侍者的双眼便落在了他磨破的裤子和破旧的皮鞋上。一双强劲的手把他推了个转身，悄悄且迅速地把他赶到人行道上，从而改变了那只受威胁的野鸭的不幸命运。
索比离开了百老汇大街。看来，靠享受美食来实现他那令人向往的岛上之路似乎是行不通的，去监狱还得另做他图。
第六大道的拐角处，一家店铺的玻璃橱窗里，商品陈设精巧，在霓虹灯的映衬下非常耀眼。索比捡起一块石头，砸碎了玻璃窗。在一个警察的领头下，人们纷纷向拐角处跑来。索比双手插在衣袋里，一动不动地站在那儿，一看到警察服装上的黄铜纽扣就面露微笑。
“那搞破坏的家伙上哪儿去了？”警官兴奋地问。
“你难道不觉得我可能和这件事有点关系吗？”索比不乏讽刺地说。但他态度和气，就像交上了好运的人。
那警察甚至拒绝把索比当做一条线索。砸窗的人绝不会等在案发现场和法律的爪牙谈判，他们一定早溜了。事发地的半条街外，警察看见有个人正跑着赶车，便抽出警棍追赶过去。尽管满肚子不快，索比还是继续游**起来。第二次又失败了。
街对面有家装修得不那么豪华的餐馆，正适合那种食量大而钱包瘪的顾客。这里的碗碟粗糙，空气混浊，汤菜淡如水，桌布又轻又薄。索比走进馆子，他那该死的鞋子和无法掩饰的破裤子没有受到丝毫挑战。他坐下来吃完牛排、薄煎饼、炸圈饼和馅饼，然后向侍者道出实情，说自己一个钱也没有。
“现在，赶紧去叫个警察来吧，”索比说，“可别让大爷我久等。”
“不用找警察，”侍者说道，他的声音腻得像奶油蛋糕，他的眼睛红得就像曼哈顿鸡尾酒里的樱桃，“喂，伙计！”
两个侍者拎起索比扔出门外。索比左耳着地，摔在坚硬的人行道上。像木匠打开折尺一样，索比一点一点地从地上爬起来，随后拍净身上的尘土。被捕看来仅是个玫瑰色的梦，那座岛似乎太远了。两个门面之外一家药店前站着一个警察，他看到这个情景，笑了一笑，便走开了。
索比一直走过五个街区，才重新鼓起勇气寻求被捕。这次机会很好，他自以为是瓮中捉鳖。一位服饰简朴得体的年轻女子正站在橱窗前，颇有兴致地瞧着里面修面用的水杯和墨水瓶。一位身材魁梧、态度严峻的警察正靠在离橱窗两码之外的消火栓上。
索比决计扮演一个卑鄙下流的调情者。他猎取的对象外表雅静而贤淑，附近又有一位忠于职守的警察。这令他足以相信，他很快就能感受到被警察抓住胳膊的愉快滋味了，就能确保在那舒服安稳的小岛上过冬了。
索比将那修女送的活结领带整理了一下，拉出缩进去的衣服袖口，把帽子拉得歪歪扭扭，侧着身向那位年轻女子靠过去。他向她挤眉弄眼，猛地咳嗽几声并清清嗓子，嬉皮笑脸地摆出一副调情者厚颜无耻的丑态来。凭借眼角的余光，索比瞥见那位警察正死死地盯着他。那位年轻女子挪开了几步，仍专心致志地瞧着那些修面用的杯子。索比紧跟过去，大胆地走到她的旁边，举起帽子说：
“啊哈，贝德丽雅！要不要去我家玩玩？”
警察仍然看着。那被纠缠的年轻女子只要伸伸手指，索比就可以踏进他岛上的天堂了。他已经在想象中感觉到了警察局里的舒适温暖。那位女子转向他伸出手来，抓住了索比的衣袖。
“当然，迈克，”她高兴地回答，“只要你肯给我买杯啤酒。要不是那位警察紧盯着，我早就和你打招呼了。”
就像常春藤缠绕着橡树一样，那位年轻女子缠住了他。索比带着满心的沮丧，从警察身边走过，他仿佛注定要享受自由。
在下一个拐弯处，他甩了那位女伴跑开了。跑到一个整夜都有着最明亮的街道、最愉快的心情、最轻率的誓言和最轻快的歌剧的地方，索比停住了。在这寒冷的冬夜里，穿裘皮大衣的女人和披大礼服的男人愉悦地散着步。一阵突然的恐惧袭向索比，或许某种可怕的法术总能使他免于被捕，这个念头使他感到一阵恐慌。然而，当他看到又一个警察趾高气扬地在一家灯火辉煌的剧院门前踱着步子时，他便立即抓住了“扰乱治安”这根救命稻草。
索比开始像醉鬼一样，在人行道上扯开破嗓子乱叫起来。他手舞足蹈，高声大叫，胡言乱语，简直闹翻了天。
警察挥舞着他的警棍，转过身背对着索比，向一位市民解释道：
“这个耶鲁大学的家伙，在庆祝胜利，他们同哈特福德学院赛球，请人家吃了个大鸭蛋，是吵了点，但没什么危害。我们接到命令，不准干涉。”
索比闷闷不乐地停止了他那丝毫无用的叫嚷。难道真没警察逮捕他吗？在他的想象中，那岛看起来成了可望而不可即的世外桃源。他扣紧单薄的上衣以抵御那刺骨的寒风。
索比看到一家雪茄烟店里，一位衣着得体的男人正对着闪烁的火光点烟，他的丝绸伞靠在店门口。索比走进去，拿起那把伞，然后不紧不慢地走了出来。点烟的人赶紧跟了出来。
“我的伞！”他厉声喝道。
“哦，是吗？”索比冷笑着说，再加一条侮辱罪在盗窃罪上吧，“好哇，你为什么不叫警察呢？你的伞是我拿了！你为什么不叫警察呢？那儿就站着一个，在拐弯处。”
伞的主人慢下了脚步，一种幸运将再次从他的身旁溜走的不祥预感使索比也慢了下来。那位警察好奇地看着他俩。
“当然，”伞的主人说，“这是——唔，你知道是怎样发生这种误会的。我——要是伞是你的，我希望你能原谅我——今天早上我在一家餐馆里捡到它的——要是你认出它就是你的，噢——我希望你会——”
“它当然是我的。”索比恶狠狠地说。
伞的前主人退缩了。那警察急忙跑去搀扶一位身着晚礼服斗篷的高个子金发女郎穿过马路，因为有辆车要从两条街之外的地方开过来了。
索比穿过一条因翻修而弄得坑坑洼洼的街道，向东走去。他气冲冲地把伞扔进坑里，小声地抱怨那些戴着头盔、舞动着警棍的家伙。因为他一心想被捕入狱，可他们似乎把他当成了永不犯错的国王。
最后，索比到达了一条通往东边的大街，那里的灯光和嘈杂声都很微弱。想家的本能复苏了，尽管这家仅是公园里的一条长凳，索比还是朝着麦迪逊广场的方向走去。
来到一个异常安静的角落，索比静静地站住了。这儿有一座样式别致、布局零乱、有山墙的古老教堂。透过紫罗兰色的玻璃窗，一丝淡淡的灯光映射出来。安息日就要到了，毋庸置疑，那是风琴师在键盘上练习赞美诗。美妙的乐声传出来，飘进了索比的耳朵，紧紧地摄住了他，他依靠在螺旋形的铁栏杆上听呆了。
高空皎洁而安宁的月亮，稀稀疏疏的车辆和行人，睡眼蒙眬的麻雀正在屋檐下啾鸣着——这情景很快就使他想起了乡村的墓地。铁栏杆前的索比被风琴师弹奏的赞美诗深深吸引住了，因为，他曾非常熟悉这个旋律，那时，母爱、玫瑰、志向、朋友以及纯洁的思想和得体的衣着充满了他的生活。
这时，索比多愁善感的情绪和这座古老教堂的影响融合在一起，在他灵魂里产生了一种奇迹般的变化。对那颓唐的日子、耻辱的欲望、破毁的愿望、受损的才能以及存活下来的卑鄙动机，他立刻深恶痛绝起来。很快，他的内心就因这种新的精神状态而激动万分，在一种激烈冲动的迫使下，他迫不及待地要和厄运抗争。他要走出泥潭，他要洗心革面，他要战胜那曾挟制了自己的罪恶。还有时间，他仍年轻，他要使原来的壮志雄心复苏，并勇往直前去追求它。在他的心里，那圣洁而甘甜的音乐已经掀起了一场革命。明天，他就直接去热闹的商业区找工作。一个毛皮进口商曾提供给他一份赶车的活儿，明天他就去找他，干这个活，他要成为世上堂堂正正的人，他要——
索比感觉到有只手搭在他的胳膊上。他立即回头，看见了一位警察的宽脸盘。
“你在这儿干什么？”警察问道。
“没干什么。”索比回答。
“那跟我来。”警察说。
“到岛上去关三个月。”第二天一早，警察局法庭的法官宣判道。
心灵小语
本文是欧·亨利的优秀短篇小说之一，作品写到流浪汉索比在冬天来临之际，想方设法到监狱过冬，他六次犯事，为非作歹，可是都没有如愿。当他听到教堂的赞美诗，决定重新做人时，却莫名其妙地被逮捕了。小说的矛头直指当时美国社会，真实地反映了不明是非、颠倒黑白的社会现实。
W词汇笔记
honk [h??k] v. 雁鸣或汽车喇叭声
例 Citizens must honk their horn while passing other cars.
民众驾车经过其他车子时必须鸣按喇叭。
loom [lu:m] v. 朦胧地出现；隐约可见
例 The mountain loomed in the mist.
大山在薄雾中隐约可见。
uproar ['?pr?:] n. 喧嚣；**
例 The dust, the uproar and the growing dark threw everything into chaos.
烟尘滚滚，人声嘈杂，夜色愈深，一切都陷入混乱之中。
decadent ['dek?d?nt] adj. 颓废的；衰微的 n. 颓废者
例 When industry moves away, a flourishing town may quickly become decadent.
工业迁走时，一个繁荣的城镇很快就会衰落。
S小试身手
对躲避寒冬，索比的奢望不算太高。
译____________________________________________
但索比生性高傲，慈善机构的施舍对于他来说只是个累赘。
译____________________________________________
在他的心里，那圣洁而甘甜的音乐已经掀起了一场革命。
译____________________________________________
P短语家族
The young woman moved away a few steps.
move away：搬走；移开；离开
造____________________________________________
On the sidewalk Soapy began to yell drunken gibberish at the top of his harsh voice.
at the top of：在最高地位；在首位；在……的巅峰；在……的顶端
造____________________________________________