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fallen Joaquin found it impossible for him to go back to his old way of life. He had broken the law, and thereby became a pariah. His band consisted of almost fifty men. His chief lieutenant was Manuel Garcia, better known as "Three Fingered Jack" owing to the fact that one of his fingers had been shot off in the Mexican war. Four other important members of the gang were Reyes Feliz, a brother of Joaquin's sweetheart, Claudio, Joaquin Valenzuela and Pedro Gonzales Valenzuela, though much older than the others, was at Joaquin's request, often the leader of the band, and was many times mistaken for the chief. The outlaws ranged from Marysville to the Coast Range of mountains west of Mount Shasta. Here, when too closely pursued they could live for months in the dense forests assisted by the Indians.

It is said of Joaquin that after his enemies were wiped out he never again stained his hands with human blood. What his men did in acquiring the plunder was no concern of his, and he asked no questions, sharing their booty with no qualms of conscience.

Joaquin, who since taking up a life of outlawry had changed his name to Murieta, prided himself on being a good judge of horse flesh, for this reason he always rode the fleetest horse, and his would-be captors, and there were many, as a heavy price was on his head, were unable to come within a half mile of him.

Finally the United States government offered a reward of $1,000 for his capture dead or alive; this sum was afterward increased to $5,000. On the day these hand bills were printed and distributed Joaquin was in Stockton. Seeing one of the bills posted on the wall, in a spirit of bravado he wrote underneith:

"I will give $10,000 myself, Joaquin."

Joaquin Murieta was finally hunted down and killed by Harry Love a sheriff of Los Angeles county. Love was an experienced horseman having acted as express messenger during the Mexican


The head of Joaquin Murieta, together with that of his lieutenant, "Three Fingered Jack," was sent to Stockton. It was afterward taken to San Francisco where it was on exhibition a long time in a saloon window. Later the grisly relic was bought by a dime museum manager. The head was finally destroyed by the fire of 1906.

After her lover's death Rosita spent the remainder of her life with his parents in Sonora.

Captain Love collected $6,000 for ridding the country of Joaquin Murieta.

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Some years ago while traveling through California I met at the Palace hotel in San Francisco Cyril Babbington Browne, an Englishman, who I learned was journeying through the state in the interest of the London Society of Psychical Research. Owing to the fact that I was enabled to do Mr. Browne a slight service we became friends. Browne was an enthusiast in his particular line, and when he found that I took a more or less desultory interest in the occult confided the fact that he was in California for the purpose of investigating the history of a number of alleged haunted houses which had been brought to the notice of the Society. His stay, he informed me would be indefinite, as he was then on the eve of looking into certain rumors regarding a haunted house, located near the town of Tuolumne. The house was said to be the rendevous of that picturesque bandit and modern Robin Hood, Joaquin Murieta.

"What particularly intrigues my interest in this specific case," said Browne one evening as we sat together in the hotel lobby "is that there is rumored to be a treasure chest in one of the rooms. Its location is no secret, yet there it has remained intact for over fifty years because said to be guarded by the redoubtable spirit of the outlaw chief himself. This treasure is said to be a part of Joaquin's loot which he collected from his victims during the days of his outlawry. Joaquin," he continued, as he lit a cigar, "is said to have been a connoisseur on precious stones, and the contents of the treasure chest, always admitting that there is one, dame rumor estimates to be worth many thousands of dollars. I'm convinced that the place is worth looking into and am leaving for there tomorrow morning."

"Wish I could go with you," I said enviously, "but I'm afraid I'd be more of a hindrance than a help," and I pointed with my cane to my lame leg which had driven me from one part of the country to the other in the vain hope of effecting a cure. Browne shook the ashes from his cigar. "I appreciate that," he answered, "but I find the spooks materialize better when I am alone," and he smiled at me whimsically with twinkling eyes, "but as I only expect to be gone a few days, if you are interested enough to be here on my re

turn I'll be glad to give you an account of my experiences."

I gave eager assurances that I would wait, and we parted some time later with a hearty handshake and mutual good wishes.

A week later Browne returned. I found him placidly smoking in his favorite corner of the lounge. He was evidently waiting for me as after the first hearty greetings were over he demanded: "Well, Olcott, all ready for the thrills?"

"Shoot!" I commanded, "Can't you see I'm fairly dying of curiosity?" For some reason he seemed loath to begin and when he did it was more as though he were speaking his thoughts aloud.

"Joaquin guards his treasure well," he began. "Yes, I saw it," in answer to my unspoken question, "not only saw it but held it in my hands.

"Joaquin was not the only one I saw, either," he went on as though enjoying my mystification, "there were people, numbers of them, both men and women; there was also light and music. How the people got there I don't know. I went all over the place on my arrival and it was empty enough. There were no neighbors. It took me the better part of three days to get there and I saw no one on the road." He paused and a puzzled frown wrinkled his brow. "This case has me going, Olcott," he confessed, "sometimes I think the whole. thing was just a figment of my imagination, but I'm not so sure that it was," and he rubbed the side of his head thoughtfully, "but listen and judge for yourself," and he plunged into the following story which I give as nearly as possible in his own words:

"The house lies some miles off the railroad, and to get there one has to travel over steep and narrow roads little more than trails cut in the side of the mountain. I left my car at Tuolumne where I hired a burro and pack animal and started out.

Next morning after breakfast I repaired to the corral. The owner, a small, talkative man readily supplied me with bits of local gossip. His chief concern, however, seemed to be my destination, and he said to me earnestly as he busied himself with saddle and bridle: "Of course I ain't got no call to advise you, but if you'll take the opinion of one who knows, you'll keep away from that house."

"Why?" I demanded.

"Why?" he repeated, and in his eagerness nearly swallowed his quid of tobacco, but fortunately rescued it in time and spat with unerring aim at a near-by hitching post, "Well, all I know is from hearsay," he confessed, "I ain't aiming to get mixed up with no ghosts,

but from what I've heard this here Joaquin Murieta is a bad one to go up against, especially where his treasure is concerned. He guards it hisself," his voice sank to an awed whisper, "and there ain't no living man has been able to get it away, either. There's been aplenty as had their try," and he wagged his head knowingly, aiming at the hitching post again.

He had finished saddling the animals. by this time and held the burro ready for me to mount. I jumped into the saddle and took the reins, but my loquacious friend was not ready to let me go yet. "Better let that there house alone," he warned, "you won't get nothin'. There's a presence what guards that treasure; it's been felt."

"Just what do you mean?" I demanded, suppressing a desire to laugh.

"Yes, sir, a presence, what's been seen and felt," he assured me. "Sometimes it ain't seen, but is felt. You can feel things, even if you can't see them, can't you?" he demanded.

I assured him that the point was well taken, and he went on to tell me of a vague, indefinable something in the house, which was as he expressed it 'felt'. This was a very terrifying experience, he assured me, those who had suffered it fleeing from the house in mortal


His story was interesting, but not convincing, and as time was short, I cut him off somewhat abruptly.

"So long, Mister," he called as he stepped nimbly out of the way, "Don't forget the fools ain't all dead yet."

I laughed and waved my hand, as we trotted out into the crisp October air. The idea of nothing more material than a ghost, the perversion of a neurasthenic imagination, guarding anything material greatly amused me, but, at any rate, it was something new in the line of ghost lore, and I was determined to solve the mystery. It was yet early in the morning, as the dew was still glittering on the grass and lowlying shrubs dotting the hillside. The leaves on the trees were turning to bright red and vivid yellows, and there was a sharp tang in the air that sent the life blood pulsing joyously through my veins."

Browne paused and removed his cigar which he placed on a small table beside him.

"I forgot to tell you," he continued casually, "that among other things I had with me was my violin."

"Your violin-?" I don't understand. What's the idea? Do you charm the ghosts with it?"

Browne smiled as he answered quietly: "It's that very old fiddle of mine,

companion on many a similar expedition, that plays a rather prominent part in the story I have to tell. Listen, and judge for yourself:

"I jogged along easily all that morning, as the way was up hill, and I wanted to spare my animals as much as possible. I made a short stop at noon, and after an hour's rest resumed my journey. I had a rough map of the country with me, and knew I was headed in the right direction.

"That night I camped out in my blankets. From where I lay I watched the skies brighten. Presently the full orb of the moon crept from behind the hills, and rose majestically in the heavens. The firmament was bespangled with stars. Tiny will o'the wisps played hide and seek in the shrubs. On the distant mountain top I saw sharply silhoueted the gaunt form of a lone coyote. Presently he lifted his sharp muzzle skyward, and uttered a series of sharp staccato barks. From far across the mountain they were answered; then a full chorus of shrill yelps swelled on the quiet evening air, in which dogs in distant farm houses joined. The air thrilled and pulsated then grew suddenly still, and I fell asleep.

"I was awake at sunrise and after an impromptu breakfast was on my way again. The second day was much like the first. I did not meet any one, but the loneliness did not depress me. Toward noon the road began to descend and I knew that with good luck I would reach my destination by nightfall.

"As I came into the valley that evening a heavy curtain of fog suddenly descended, enveloping me like a blanket. It was so thick I could not see my hand before my face. I dismounted and with the aid of my flash led my tired little burros over the rough, uneven ground.

"Presently through the heavy curtain of fog I saw the sharp outlines of a house. A brooding heap which spread itself sullenly over the landscape. There was something repellent about it, and I felt a strange reluctance to approach it closer.

"I flashed the light over it and saw that it was built of rough unpainted boards to a height of two stories. Nearly all of the windows were broken and from the rickety porch reached by a flight of broken steps, the front door swung half open.

"I made my way around to the back of the house where I found a scrubby tree under which I tethered my animals then returned reluctantly to the house.

"As I pushed open the front door a chill odor greeted me. An un-natural silence hung over the place. As I ad

vanced further into the room I thought I saw in the darkness which hung over the place like a pall, still darker shadows, like shapes of evil, which quickly retreated as I flashed my torch round.

"Suddenly the light was struck forcibly from my hand, and I found myself standing in the midst of Stygian darkness. I could feel the unseen shapes pressing close about me, their loathsome bodies crowding upon me. Something soft, yet nauseous brushed past my face. A feeling of suffocation came over me. The air was full of unknown whirrings. The dim grey light from one of the broken windows was obscured by dark moving shapes. I fell on my knees and began to grope blindly, frantically, for my torch. At last I found it, none the worse for its fall, and by its welcome light saw a myriad of bats whom my coming had disturbed, flying from one of the broken windows into the fog shrouded night. I saw I was in a square room whose walls had once received a coat of paint, but now only flakes remained here and there clinging tenaciously to the rough boards. A rusty iron stove stood opposite the door. Beneath one of the windows was an iron cot and a deal table under another. A broken backed chair converted into a stool completed the furnishings of the room. In one corner was a flight of stairs built into the wall leading to the upper story. Back of the room I was in, was another, much smaller and containing nothing whatever in the way of furniture. These two rooms comprised the entire lower floor.

"Returning to the front room I took from my pack a couple of candles which I lit and placed on the table; kindled a fire in the rusty stove and prepared my supper, and while waiting for it made up my bed on the iron cot.

"All the time I was thus engaged I was subconsciously aware that despite the rousing fire in the stove, that the atmosphere of the place was chill and damp; a depressing cold which seemed to stick and cling. The very air was deadly with the foul deeds that had been committed here.

"After a hasty supper I took one of the candles and crossed the room to the stairs bent on investigating the upper part of the house before I slept. I was arrested at the bottom step by a dark stain, close to the wood work on one of the dusty boards. I examined it closer, running my fingers over it tentatively, and with a shock realized that it was blood. On closer inspection I saw that nearly all the boards in that part of the room bore the same malignant stains. I hurried up the stairs and found (Continued on Page 39)

South of the Rio Grande

F you expect to travel in

Such was typical of the advise of friends here in the States when they knew that we were leaving for that "Land of Revolutions and Bandits! With this advice in mind, was it any wonder that as we stepped off the train in Juarez just after crossing the border, we held our pocket books a little tighter and managed to keep our watches out of sight. Gradually we lost our timidity as we watched the smiling faces of the Mexican peons along the railroad. Was it any wonder that they smiled as this crowd of college students from California tried in their American way to talk with the Mexicans. Before the first day in this country had passed, we felt as much at home among a crowd of potential Mexican bandits as in any American group.

When the Mexican Federal Government invited the American college students and school teachers to visit their country and to attend the summer session of the National University in Mexico City, they had no idea how enthusiastically their invitation would be received. Three years ago, when the offer was first made by the Mexican Government, sixty-seven Americans responded. This year there were three hundred and thirty-one American students and school teachers who had this chance of seeing Mexico at first hand. Doors closed to the average traveler, were opened wide to our group and we could not ask for a better opportunity of seeing the real Mexico.

What do you think of Mexico? Almost everyone has asked that question. I might write a book and then not more than mention my impressions of this nation. This young student went to Mexico with a knowledge of Spanish and a background of Mexican History upon which to build his impressions. More than once was he glad that he had this knowledge for on every side we saw the eighteenth century mingling with the twentieth. We saw how intimately the Mexico of today is connected with the Mexico of yesterday.

The civilization of this country, nearly as oid as that of Egypt itself, has been traced back by historians to some four thousand years before Christ. When the pyramids were being built in Egypt, similar structures were being constructed in Mexico and may still be seen by the traveler today. When New York was no more than an Indian vil


Everywhere the old and the new have

lage, Mexico City with its population joined hands and Mexico is waking up

of 100,000 was the center of culture in the new world. The National University itself was founded one hundred and ten years before any college in the United States.

Everywhere we saw the old and the new standing side by side in striking contrast. Even in the century-old cathedrals the historic setting of the ages was

Consort of the ill-fated Maximilian

broken by the big electric switchboard that had been recently installed. This same contrast was evident in the old monastery of Churubusco which the Americans besieged and finally took in the war with Mexico in 1847. As we walked among the old walls falling into decay and down the halls where centuries ago the Spanish monks walked, we came face to face with a modern telephone. It was like meeting a herd of elephants on Broadway. Down another hall we peeked through an open door and saw an old stone bath cut out of solid rock and worn smooth by the countless numbers of bathers. Above the stone tub was a modern shower bath nozzle.

and a new modern spirit is living beside the civilization of the past.

Nothing in all Mexico surprised me so much as to see the very evident influence of our own country on the everyday life and habits of the Mexican people. Mexico is not the foreign country that I expected. True, the people dress a little differently and eat at different hours and use somewhat different food, but underneath this camouflaged exterior we see the influence of the United States in every phase of Mexican life. The native peon is intensely patriotic and hates to do anything the way the Gringo does it even though it may be the best way. His nationalism more than anything else prevents him from accepting new ideas or new customs that he knows originated in the United States. In the rural districts this feeling is probably more intense than in the city where the American traveler and business man is constantly mingling with the Mexican. The peon farmer still uses his crooked stick and oxen to do his plowing in almost all parts of rural Mexico. Only the owners of the great haciendas have come to see the advantage of using American made steel plows and tractors.

Because of the lack of capital there are some things that Mexico cannot produce herself and must look to the United States. The automobiles, for instance, are almost all of them American made. As we watched the scores of machines on the streets of Mexico City, it was hard to realize that we were not at home. Almost every machine that passed had been made in the States, now and then a car made in Italy or England. would pass, but they were far in the minority.

One point about the machines in Mexico City clearly illustrates the rather great distinction between classes in this country. There are a large number of high priced cars such as one sees comparatively seldom in our own country and a larger number of cheap cars used primarily for commercial purposes. The great number of medium priced cars that we see in every American city seems to be lacking in Mexico. There are, of course, some medium priced cars, but these are not the bulk of the traffic as in our country. The Mexican of the richer class does not buy a car unless he can afford a high priced one with which to show off his family in high society on (Continued on Page 35)


A Delightful Discovery

T THE present time, when rivalry and sham prevail in the struggle for existence, it is a rare treat to meet a person true to self and vocation. These virtues, however, along with talent and application-belong to a California artist who has settled in a secluded spot to work at her art because she loves it.

While traveling through Sonoma and Mendocino counties I came across several small plaques and figurines of Indians of that section, in some of the homes I visited. I think the ruggedness, natural to the subject, made the first appeal and called for a closer inspection that revealed characteristic action and the habitually brilliant and picturesque garb of the "dying race"but I looked in vain for the name of the artist. Upon inquiry I learned that she was Bertha Boye, and that she had a studio in Ukiah in Mendocino County -that she worked for the love of it and often forgot to put her name on the finished product-hence my futile search and additional interest.

I set forth to make her acquaintance, a bit frightened at my temerity since I was told she had little patience with calls that interfered with her work.

My entrance to Ukiah led me into a group of Indians seated on green benches in small park in front of the Court House. Theirs was a formidable group although a picturesque one. Many hued voluminous skirts spread over the park benches-plaided shawls completing the costume, hot as the day wasand days can be very hot in Ukiah. Bare brown feet seemed glued to the scorching pavement. I was quite sure the gathering was occasioned by some religious ceremony to take place. Their silence suggested mysticism-and I felt myself an intruder. However, I soon noticed the townspeople passing across the court, pausing to chat with them, receiving a grunt in return for their pains. My admiration for the realistic art of the woman I had set forth to see, took second place with the great respect that was growing for her courage and patience.

To be repulsed in an attempt at friendliness is not a pleasing anticipation so I selected the least stoical woman of the group, thinking I recognized in her the subject of one of the figurines, to inquire the whereabouts of Miss Boye'.

"Do you know Miss Boye'?" I ad


dressed her with the respect due a


"Naw," she grunted without a glance in my direction.

"The lady who makes pictures," pleadingly this time.

"What you want?" This came with a furtive glance my way-raising my hopes.

"I want to know where she lives. I-"

"She home-up a road," with a slight gesture toward the west end of the town.

A kindly man coming from the Courthouse had evidently heard my request for he paused and gave me full directions to Miss Boye's studio. I went along the street toward the hill then through a meadow and numerous gates to the yard of the studio. Hearing voices, I hesitated, fearing to intrude, but my curiosity led me to the door at the right moment to hear a plaintive voice say,, "Berta, you make my big old upper lip in that picher don't you?"

"Why Topsy," this voice was convincing, "your upper lip isn't big-you have a nice upper lip-besides see how well your eyes look and your dress is beautiful. Please sit down and work on the basket again."

"Berta I ain't got good teeth. I don't like picher thout good teeth."

"Oh Topsy," impatiently this time, "don't be so silly. You know I wouldn't paint an ugly person. You may come back for supper tonight. Come now, start working on your basket again so I can get something done before the children come for their lesson."

When Topsy stepped from in front of the object of discussion, I gave an exclamatory note of pleasure.

Miss Boye turned in surprise. She must have recognized in my exclamation, an appreciation of her work-so gracious was she in coming forward to

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memorial fountain for a man in Honolulu, some illustrating, and I exhibited a few things in San Francisco but after my return from Europe I came up here to rest and was charmed with the place and, while I intend doing some work for the public-for I feel the urge to go ahead-I enjoy the prolonged rest, my class of children, my Indian models, who are but grown up children and— maybe most of all-the privilege to keep my little family of animals that I love and enjoy so much in modeling."

Then she took me out to her menagerie to inspect the bantams, cats, canaries and dogs-duplicates to the point of personality-of those I saw on her studio walls. At my burst of enthusiasm she changed the subject by telling me many interesting things about the Indians and her trials in getting them to pose for her. When I marvelled at her success she laughed merrily and said, "Oh, I just feed them a lot-and sort of play with them."

She was kind enough, after much persuasion to allow me to photograph some of her work but when asked to be allowed to take a picture of herself she said, protestingly, "No, no, no! I am like the Indians-I hate to pose, I hate notoriety-and I'm not hungry."

Then we saw the children coming through the meadow and I felt that my moments were numbered but my kind hostess invited me to stay on to watch the class work-for-as she said they were doing real work. They came trooping in, eager to get at the modeling. Some were making plaques and book ends while others were sketching some object in the room or doing one of the members of the class. They were a merry little group-unrestrictedand each working with all of his or her might to get the best results because they loved it.

I asked one or two of them if they dreaded these afternoon classes, to which they shouted, "Oh, we love them." Several informed me they had given up a BIG party to work with Miss Boye and here may be the secret-they are not in class they are working with Miss Boye!

Many of these children, Miss Boye told me, had marked talent and were developing it by selecting their own subjects, poses and colorings. She explained -and by the way she was a pupil and is now an ardent admirer of Arthur Mathews that the lack of atmosphere (Continued on Page 35)


WHEN you remember me, my dear, Recall my portrait of the past.

Beauty was never mine, and yet,

I had some grace of slenderness—

A lithe and eager movement of arched foot,

And ringless, creamy hand.

A tawny coronet of satin braids;

A never failing arabesque of song

With which to 'broider drab, dull duty.
Too, a knack of dramatizing Life-
A trick of dressing for the part

That did amuse you.

A merry heart was mine; a gay adven


A meager list, indeed, to merit memory, And yet, your letter says I'm unforgot.

So, in remembering, my dear, recall me as I was

And not this later I that far too patient


And too resigned to Life-
Contented grown to sit beside the fire
In slippered sloth, and gypsy forth
But in the pages of the book
Within my withered, jeweled hand.

When you remember me, my dear,
Recall my portrait of the past.

-Ethelyn Bourne Borland.


It's an old abandoned dory

Out upon the marshland bare. Round it sea-weed lies entangled;

Stagnant lies the drowsy air. And the water, still and oily, Holds it, brooding, in the moonlight; Holds the shadow in the moonlight Of the dory lying there.

In the bottom, long untrodden,

Lies a worn and useless oar; And a broken net is trailing,

Swollen once with silver store. Deep there lies the spell of silence Save for sea-gulls lonely mewing; Save for wandering winds a-brewing, Round the dory left ashore. —Katherine C. Sanders


I'll tell you, Brother

Year out, year in,

One man with another,
All's much alike—

A Page of Verse


You dart down

A sunbeam's stairway,
From a lofty nook
Of your clay cliff-town
To the clear spring-brook
That makes a fair way
For you to follow,
Merry swallow.

Down a lane

Of the water lily, You dip and dart, Then circle the plain Back to the start,


Up a sunbeam's stairway
To your house of clay.
Always from earth

To the earth returning!-
Merry swallow,
What haunts your mirth
Of motion? and follow

What fears and what yearning?
That in the cliff's breast
You have hidden your nest.

-Glenn Ward Dresbach

The bronze sheen of your quills
The saffron of your orbs-
Proclaim your kingly traits,
Make plain your noble birth:
The condor of the crags
Has no more perfect poise
And no more grace of wing,
To circle far from earth.

And yet, no brotherhood
You have with tern or gull—
The pelican alone

Can claim you for his kin:
Your gluttony and sloth
Have made of you a serf,
Who dives for smelts to feed
A yellow Mandarin!

-Jay G. Sigmund.

You are
The spirit of golden happiness,
Sparkling-eyed, sun-lashed acacia,
With fragrance that wafts
Through January's budding charm,
And February's full blown spring.
I kiss

Your yellow pollened rays,
Sun-mounted flower,

And they leave

Sunshine on my lips

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She died so very long ago

That grief had softened to a grey blur
In the background of each sunlit day.
A gentle, chastened sorrow that I gave
The tribute of a sigh, or misted eyes
When music laid a poignant hand upon
my heart,

Or rain dripped mournful from the


I had learned to smile, to jest, to find


Full and sweet: and wished it might be long.

And just today, a voice spoke in the train

A casual question as to time and place, And my book fell from my hand, my startled eyes

Beheld a face as like as was the voiceThe very inclination of the head. And all the flattered fabric of my days Is torn to shreds and my sweet sorrow Turned to ravening grief that beats its hands

And tears my heart with longing and a sense of loss

So wide and deep that life is torture
And its only mitigation-death.

-Ethelyn Bourne Borland.

IN EL MONJERIO* All the day and all the night—O, my heart is grieving!

I can scarcely see my loom, watch out for my weaving

As I hear a voice outside, and my fancy wanders

Far beyond Maria there; old, she sits and ponders.

Why should I be forced to stay close within this cloister,

While vaqueros, free as air, ride, and rove, and royster?

Hot the sun and hot the hell that the padre preaches—

Hot the kiss when, in the dark, o'er the wall Juan reaches.

Hot the sun and hot the room; and hot it is out yonder;

Hot the hell the padre threats if I chance to wander.

What knows he, in cassock gray, of the joy he misses?

I'd risk penance, heat, and hell, for Juan's fiery kisses!

-Alice Harriman. *Indian girls were kept, in California Mission days, in separate quarters.

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