November

November wears a Paisley shawl
To keep ker sagging shoulders warm.
Her bonnet's decked with rusty flowers,
An apple basket's on her arm,
And with a dusty, rustly sound
Her wide skirts sweep along the ground.


She trudges up the sunset hills,
In spite of winds a-blowing,
To seek a shelter on beyond -
She must know where she's going -
For, wrapped in Paisley red and brown,
She rustles, rustles through the town.


Hilda Morris


Aside from the fact that I like red and brown together, I was taken with this short poem found in Favorite Poems for the Children's Hour (1967).

The line that I am pondering today is *She must know where she's going*


I do.

Do you?

Happy 150th Birthday















Oil Portrait of Theodore Roosevelt, 1903

Artist John Singer Sargent painted Theodore Roosevelt in a pose worthy of the president’s bold manner. In 1901 President Roosevelt issued an executive order changing the official name of the Executive Mansion to the White House, and proceeded to redecorate it in 1902. While the original exterior of the White House was preserved, the interior layout changed dramatically. Roosevelt wanted the house to reflect its historical nature instead of a home filled with “modern” furniture.

Credit: White House Historical Association (White House Collection)



From a 2005 NYTimes article:

Mr. Allman, curator, then pointed to what is considered the best portrait in the
collection, a John Singer Sargent of a forceful, irritated Theodore Roosevelt
that hangs in an East Room corner. Sargent took up residence in the White House
in the winter of 1903 for portrait sittings, but soon drove the president to
distraction by chasing him around trying to decide on the right pose. The final
portrait captures Roosevelt in a particularly exasperated moment with the
artist. "I don't think the president wanted to share as much time as Mr. Sargent
was hoping to have," Mr. Allman said.

And from John Milton Hay (1838–1905) American statesman, diplomat, author, journalist, and private secretary and assistant to Abraham Lincoln, a poem -


To Theodore Roosevelt


Son of a sire whose heart beat ever true
To God, to country, and the fireside love
To which returning, like a homing dove,
From each high duty done, he gladly flew,
Complete, yet touched by genius through and through,
The lofty qualities that made him great,
Loved in his home and priceless to the state,
By Heaven's grace are garnered up in you.
Be yours, we pray, the dauntless heart of youth,
The eye to see the humor of the game,
The scorn of lies, the large Batavian mirth;
And, past the happy, fruitful years of fame,
Of sport and work and battle for the truth,
A home not all unlike your home on earth.

Christmas Eve, 1902.

John Hay

Two Version's of The Knight, Death and The Devil















Engraving by Albrect Durer, 1513

Under the unreal helmet, the severe profile is cruel like the cruel sword waiting poised. Through the stripped forest rides the horseman unperturbed, clumsily, furtively. The obscene mob closes in on him: the devil with servile eyes, the labyrinthing reptile, and the ashen old man with the hour glass. Iron rider, whoever looks at you knows that in you neither the lie nor pale fear dwells. Your hard fate is to command and offend. You are the brave and you are certainly not unworthy, German, of the devil and death.

There are two roads - that of the man of iron and arrogance who rides firm in his faith through the doubtful woods of the world between the taunts and rigid dance of the devil with death. And the other, the short one, mine.

In what vanished, long-ago night or morning did my eyes discover the fantastic epic, the enduring dream of Durer: the hero and the mob with all its shadows, searching me out and catching me in ambush. It is me and not the paladin whom the hoary old man crowned with sinuous snakes as warning. The future's water clock measures my time not his eternal now. I am the one who will be ashes and darkness. I who set out later will have reached my mortal destination. You, who do not exist, you, rider of the raised sword and the rigid woods, your pace will keep on going as long as there are men: composed, imaginary, eternal.

by Luis Borges
Argentine writer
1899 - 1986



I transcribed this poem by listening to it on YouTube. I feel sure I have butchered the dynamics, but will come back to correct whenever I find it.

It was just too good to pass up.

Hey, Cindy! Do you know this poem?

Birthday Haiku

Granddaddy Jordan
Born this day Eighteen Eight Eight
Doctor Soldier Dad

Artwork by his DIL Margaret Linch Jordan 

Pencil on vellum -  2000

Solitude

Laugh, and the world laughs with you;
Weep, and you weep alone;
For the sad old earth must borrow its mirth,
But has trouble enough of its own.
Sing, and the hills will answer;
Sigh, it is lost on the air;
The echoes bound to a joyful sound,
But shrink from voicing care.

Rejoice, and men will seek you;
Grieve, and they turn and go;
They want full measure of all your pleasure,
But they do not need your woe.
Be glad, and your friends are many;
Be sad, and you lose them all,—
There are none to decline your nectared wine,
But alone you must drink life’s gall.

Feast, and your halls are crowded;
Fast, and the world goes by.
Succeed and give, and it helps you live,
But no man can help you die.
There is room in the halls of pleasure
For a large and lordly train,
But one by one we must all file on
Through the narrow aisles of pain.


By Ella Wheeler Wilcox
1850 - 1919


"But no man can help you die" is the phrase that jumps out at me this morning. Corey's father (Tongue in Cheek) died yesterday. She's spent the last ninety days blogging about this final journey. She's a wonderful muse. Very artistic.

There are a couple of people I follow like this....

Do you?

Forgetfulness

The name of the author is the first to go
followed obediently by the title, the plot,
the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel
which suddenly becomes one you have never read,
never even heard of,

as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor
decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,
to a little fishing village where there are no phones.

Long ago you kissed the names of the nine Muses good-bye
and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag,
and even now as you memorize the order of the planets,

something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps,
the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay.

Whatever it is you are struggling to remember,
it is not poised on the tip of your tongue,
not even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen.

It has floated away down a dark mythological river
whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall,
well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those
who have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle.

No wonder you rise in the middle of the night
to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war.
No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted
out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.

Billy Collins
1941 -
American Poet Laureate





Ah, this poem is way too a propos for me.....I'm blogging furiously to record life, because I feel like there will be a time when I dont remember.... Then I can clean out closets. In the meantime, I will continue to ignore the mess..



At any rate, if you've made it this far in the post you must click over to the Poetry Out Loud: National Recitation webpage. Scroll down to find last year's winner who recited this delightful poem. On the right his name is Jack Hille from Ohio. I hope you find the time to listen.



This year's competition is taking place today. I'm following the student from Georgia. I read about him in the AJC newspaper.



Reading aloud and poetry are not passe.

Go see!

When Daisies Pied and Violets Blue
by William Shakespeare

When daisies pied and violets blue
And lady-smocks all silver-white
And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue
Do paint the meadows with delight,



The cuckoo then, on every tree,

Mocks married men;

for thus sings he,

Cuckoo;

Cuckoo, cuckoo:

O, word of fear,

Unpleasing to a married ear!






When shepherds pipe on oaten straws,
And merry larks are ploughmen's clocks,
When turtles tread, and rooks, and daws,
And maidens bleach their summer smocks,
The cuckoo then, on every tree,
Mocks married men; for thus sings he,
Cuckoo;
Cuckoo, cuckoo: O, word of fear,
Unpleasing to a married ear!



These lines, along with their companion piece "When Icicles Hang by the Wall" come at the end of Love's Labour's Lost. The pun on "cuckoo" and "cuckold" is a reminder that the words are related, supposedly because of the behavior of the female bird. (Wm Harmon's comments)


This is my first introduction to this early comedy by Shakespeare. I look forward to reading the play which I *won* in a contest over at Buried Treasure. I correctly guessed a line from Taming of the Shrew :)

Little Giffen

OUT of the focal and foremost fire,
Out of the hospital walls as dire;
Smitten of grape-shot and gangrene,
(Eighteenth battle, and he sixteen!)
Spectre! such as you seldom see,
Little Giffen, of Tennessee!


“Take him and welcome!” the surgeons said;
Little the doctor can help the dead!
So we took him; and brought him where
The balm was sweet in the summer air;
And we laid him down on a wholesome bed,—
Utter Lazarus, heel to head!


And we watched the war with abated breath,—
Skeleton Boy against skeleton Death.
Months of torture, how many such?
Weary weeks of the stick and crutch;
And still a glint of the steel-blue eye
Told of a spirit that would n’t die,


And didn’t. Nay, more! in death’s despite
The crippled skeleton “learned to write.”
“Dear mother,” at first, of course; and then
“Dear captain,” inquiring about the men.
Captain’s answer: “Of eighty-and-five,
Giffen and I are left alive.”


Word of gloom from the war, one day;
Johnson pressed at the front, they say.
Little Giffen was up and away;
A tear—his first—as he bade good-by,
Dimmed the glint of his steel-blue eye.
“I ’ll write, if spared!” There was news of the fight;
But none of Giffen.—He did not write.


I sometimes fancy that, were I king
Of the princely Knights of the Golden Ring,
With the song of the minstrel in mine ear,
And the tender legend that trembles here,
I ’d give the best on his bended knee,
The whitest soul of my chivalry,
For “Little Giffen,” of Tennessee.



by Francis Orray Ticknor
1822 - 1874
Georgia physican and poet


The character, Little Giffen, could easily have been my great-great grandfather, William Ferguson Smith (1845-1912) because he left home for battle as young as Giffen. Providentially spared, he returned to his native Butts County and became a well-respected citizen. In fact, he wrote a book, Rival Lovers: A Story of The War Between the States.

E S P

E S P

"I'm a Pisces, what are you?" she asked. "A Baptist," I replied.

We live in this life in a winter wood.
On each bare tree, and on the vacant-seeming ground
about what leaf, what growth? Eye cannot tell:
by Word, and rare Experience, we know.
"Keep to the path," HE warned us,
"Follow Me." (There are no shortcuts here,
no scenic routes).

In chill of winterness, the safe not-knowing,
suspended growth of demon poison ivy,
thorn and briar,
quicksand, bandit, pitfall, storm or snare
or fears of being lost, present no threat
to our clearcutting eyes.

Our vision wintertime seems clear, if stark.
It isn't that we do not dare believe
in the existence there of things unseen--
but that we fear
our own inexpert, foolish exploration
(they called it "whoring after" in the past)
in ways uncharted, into dells of death ...
The beech that seems to blossom is a wraith;
what look as flowers, but sunlit decay.

Yet in time's grim denouement, blooms will tell:
the crooked leaf, the wakened wasp, the fang...
and we who held the narrow way will tremble
in awe and horror at our near escape,
till safely meadowed, on beyond the Hill.



by Harriet Stovall Kelley
Georgia-born artist and poet


In this third year of highlighting poems in April in honor of National Poetry Month, I've spent more time reading and learning about the writers, authors, and poets from my own state and my own family.

Harriet is my cousin and frightfully creative. I have lifted the artwork from the cover of her originally published booklet The ArctAngel and Other Cold Poems where I found E S P. I must ask her public forgiveness for not knowing enough HTML to indent properly some of the lines of this compelling poem.

But I promise to find out.

While you wait for me to fix that, click over to my Xanga site and view one of her paintings.

The Adoration

If I but had a little dress,
A little dress of the flax so fair
I’d take it from my clothespress
And give it to Him to wear,
To wear,
And give to Him to wear.


If I but had a little girdle
A girdle stained with the purple dye,
Or green as grass or green as myrtle
About His waist to tie,
To tie,
About His waist to tie!


If I but had a little coat,
A coat to fit a no-year old,
I’d button it close about His throat
To cover Him from the cold,
The cold,
To cover Him from the cold.


If I but had a little shoe,
A little shoe as might be found
I’d lace it on with a sheepskin thew
To keep His foot from the ground,
The ground,
To keep His foot from the ground.


If my heart were a shining coin,
A silver coin or a coin of gold
Out of my side I’d it purloin
And give it to Him to hold,
To hold,
And give it to Him to hold.


If my heart were a house also,
A house also with room to spare
I never would suffer my Lord to go
Homeless, but house Him there,
O there,
Homeless, but house Him there.


By Byron Herbert Reece
Georgia author and poet
1917 - 1958


Here's a link to a short biography of Reece, born not too far from where I live. In my research I discovered there's a trail near the AT named after him, a newly formed society to promote his work, and apparent funding to redevelop his farm and stage a heritage center. Even some of his sermon notes!

Sounds like a fun field trip.

Wedding Sermon


"NOW, while she's changing," said the Dean,
"Her bridal for her traveling dress,
I'll preach allegiance to your queen!
Preaching's the thing which I profess;
And one more minute's mine! You know
I've paid my girl a father's debt,
And this last charge is all I owe.
She's yours; but I love more than yet
You can; such fondness only wakes
When time has raised the heart above
The prejudice of youth, which makes
Beauty conditional to love.
Prepare to meet the weak alarms
Of novel nearness; recollect
The eye which magnifies her charms
Is microscopic for defect.
Fear comes at first; but soon, rejoiced,
You'll find your strong and tender loves,
Like holy rocks by Druids poised,
The least force shakes, but none removes.
Her strength is your esteem; beware
Of finding fault; her will's unnerved
By blame; from you 'twould be despair;
But praise that is not quite deserved
Will all her noble nature move
To make your utmost wishes true.
Yet think, while mending thus your Love,
Of matching her ideal too!
The death of nuptial joy is sloth;
To keep your mistress in your wife,
Keep to the very height your oath,
And honor her with arduous life.
Lastly, no personal reverence doff.
Life's all externals unto those
Who pluck the blushing petals off,
To find the secret of the rose. --
How long she's tarrying! Green's Hotel
I'm sure you'll like. The charge is fair,
The wines good. I remember well
I stayed once, with her mother, there.
A tender conscience of her vow
That mother had! She's so like her!"
But Mrs. Fife, much flurried, now
Whispered, "Miss Honor's ready, sir."

Coventry Patmore
English Poet and Critic
1823 - 1896



Thank goodness for witnesses and guests at weddings or the bride and groom might remember nothing. My sister reminded me that our preacher covered I Peter 3:1-7 for our ceremony. Even though it is quite popular today, we're not recording (DVD or audio) our weddings. It makes for better stories :)

Remember

Remember me when I am gone away,
Gone far away into the silent land;
When you can no more hold me by the hand,
Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay.
Remember me when no more day by day
You tell me of our future that you planned:
Only remember me; you understand
It will be late to counsel then or pray.
Yet if you should forget me for a while
And afterwards remember, do not grieve:
For if the darkness and corruption leave
A vestige of the thought that once I had,
Better by far you should forget and smile
Than that you should remember and be sad.

Christina Rossetti
English Poet
1830 - 1894



When I remember I mostly smile. I think this is a gift from God....for which I am very thankful.

My glass is always half full.

Sad is short-lived.

We Sing to Him

We sing to him whose wisdom form'd the ear.
Our songs, let him who gave us voices, hear.
We joy in God who is the spring of mirth.
Who loves the harmony of heav'n and earth;
Our humble sonnets shall his praise rehearse,
Who is the music of the universe.
And whilst we sing we consecrate our art.
And offer up with ev'ry tongue a heart.







by Henry Purcell
published in 1688

An English composer during the Baroque era, Purcell was considered one of the finest of his time.

This sacred song opened DD#4's voice recital yesterday.

The Sniffle

In spite of her sniffle,
Isabel's chiffle.
Some girls with a sniffle
Would be weepy and tiffle;
They would look awful,
Like a rained-on waffle,
But Isabel's chiffle
In spite of her sniffle.
Her nose is more red
With a cold in her head,
But then, to be sure,
Her eyes are bluer.
Some girls with a snuffle,
Their tempers are uffle,
But when Isabel's snivelly
She's snivelly civilly,
And when she is snuffly
She's perfectly luffly.


I just love Ogden Nash!!








This poem is a perfect one to add to the collection I'm preparing for DH. In the not to distant future, I hope to create a booklet of poems about doctors and illness - pleasant ones.....so, it can be on a table in the waiting room.

Already on the list is Shel Silverstein's *Sick*; A A Milne's *Sneezles*; Will Carleton's *The Doctor's Story*; and a couple of ones written by his own patients.

Let me know if you have a favorite.

Brownie Smile Song

I've something in my pocket.
It belongs across my face,
And I keep it very close at hand
In a most convenient place.

I'm sure you couldnt guess it
If you guessed a long, long while,
So, I'll take it out and put it on -
It's a great big Brownie Smile!!


Words by Harriett F. Heywood


Today is *Poem in Your Pocket Day* and this is the one I'm carrying around and sharing.

I hope it brings back fond memories for you AND makes you smile.



Added later: Even though this is a children's song/poem, I find it applicable to me as an adult.

There's nothing like a smile.

Here are some additional beauty tips I'll be carrying around

....in my pocket!

The Dormouse and the Doctor


There once was a Dormouse who lived in a bedOf delphiniums (blue) and geraniums (red),And all the day long he'd a wonderful viewOf geraniums (red) and delphiniums (blue).

A Doctor came hurrying round, and he said:"Tut-tut, I am sorry to find you in bed. Just say 'Ninety-nine,' while I look at your chest. . . . Don't you find that chrysanthemums answer the best?"

The Dormouse looked round at the view and replied(When he'd said "Ninety-nine") that he'd tried and he'd tried,And much the most answering things that he knew Were geraniums (red) and delphiniums (blue).The Doctor stood frowning and shaking his head,And he took up his shiny silk hat as he said:"What the patient requires is a change," and he wentTo see some chrysanthemum people in Kent.The Dormouse lay there, and he gazed at the viewOf geraniums (red) and delphiniums (blue),And he knew there was nothing he wanted insteadOf delphiniums (blue) and geraniums (red).


The Doctor came back and, to show what he meant,He had brought some chrysanthemum cuttings from Kent."Now these," he remarked, "give a much better viewThan geraniums (red) and delphiniums (blue)."They took out their spades and they dug up the bedOf delphiniums (blue) and geraniums (red),And they planted chrysanthemums (yellow and white)."And now," said the Doctor, "we'll soon have you right."The Dormouse looked out, and he said with a sigh: "I suppose all these people know better than I. It was silly, perhaps, but I did like the view Of geraniums (red) and delphiniums (blue)."The Doctor came round and examined his chest,And ordered him Nourishment, Tonics, and Rest."How very effective," he said, as he shookThe thermometer, "all these chrysanthemums look!"The Dormouse turned over to shut out the sightOf the endless chrysanthemums (yellow and white)."How lovely," he thought, "to be back in a bedOf delphiniums (blue) and geraniums (red)."

The Doctor said, "Tut! It's another attack!"And ordered him Milk and Massage-of-the-back,And Freedom-from-worry and Drives-in-a-car,And murmured, "How sweet your chrysanthemums are!"

The Dormouse lay there with his paws to his eyes, And imagined himself such a pleasant surprise: "I'll pretend the chrysanthemums turn to a bed Of delphiniums (blue) and geraniums (red)!"

The Doctor next morning was rubbing his hands,And saying, "There's nobody quite understandsThese cases as I do! The cure has begun!How fresh the chrysanthemums look in the sun!"The Dormouse lay happy, his eyes were so tightHe could see no chrysanthemums, yellow or white.And all that he felt at the back of his headWere delphiniums (blue) and geraniums (red).

And that is the reason (Aunt Emily said) If a Dormouse gets in a chrysanthemum bed, You will find (so Aunt Emily says) that he lies Fast asleep on his front with his paws to his eyes.



Alan Alexander Milne
1882 - 1956



Yup, that's the idea! Delphiniums and Geraniums for my container gardening.

Delphiniums (blue)!

Geraniums (red)!

I'm heading to the market for seedlings.



While I have seen a chipmunk around my flowers and birdseed on the back deck, I've never met a dormouse.

Have you?

Sister Cat

Cat stands at the fridge,
Cries loudly for milk.
But I've filled her bowl.
Wild cat, I say, Sister,
Look, you have milk.
I clink my fingernail
Against the rim. Milk.
With down and liver,
A word I know she hears.
Her sad miaow. She runs
To me. She dips
In her whiskers but
Doesn't drink. As sometimes
I want the light on
When it is on. Or when
I saw the woman walking
toward my house and
I thought there's Frances.
Then looked in the car mirror
To be sure. She stalks
The room. She wants. Milk
Beyond milk. World beyond
This one, she cries.


by Frances Mayes
1940 -

I could relate to the independence and finicky nature of Sister Cat, even tho' my cat(s) never drank milk. In the 1979 photo see my cat, Athena, who lived seventeen years.

While I prefer T S Eliot's cat poems, I'm highlighting Mrs. Mayes today because she is Georgia-born/bred. Learn more about her at this Georgia Encylopedia website.

She's well-known. Did you recognize the name before looking her up?

Tell me about a famous poet from your state.

The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald
by Gordon Lightfoot

The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down
Of the big lake they call Gitche Gumee
The lake, it is said, never gives up her dead
When the skies of November turn gloomy.

With a load of iron ore - 26,000 tons more
Than the Edmund Fitzgerald weighed empty
That good ship and true was a bone to be chewed
When the gales of November came early.


The ship was the pride of the American side
Coming back from some mill in Wisconson
As the big freighters go it was bigger than most
With a crew and the Captain well seasoned.

Concluding some terms with a couple of steel firms
When they left fully loaded for Cleveland
And later that night when the ships bell rang
Could it be the North Wind they'd been feeling?

The wind in the wires made a tattletale sound
And a wave broke over the railing.
And every man knew, as the Captain did, too,
T'was the witch of November come stealing.

The dawn came late and the breakfast had to wait
When the gales of November came slashing
When afternoon came it was freezing rain
In the face of a hurricane West Wind.

When supper time came the old cook came on deck
Saying fellows it's too rough to feed ya
At 7pm a main hatchway caved in
He said fellas it's been good to know ya.

The Captain wired in he had water coming in
And the good ship and crew was in peril
And later that night when his lights went out of sight
Came the wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.

Does anyone know where the love of God goes
When the words turn the minutes to hours
The searchers all say they'd have made Whitefish Bay
If they'd fifteen more miles behind her.

They might have split up or they might have capsized
They may have broke deep and took water
And all that remains is the faces and the names
Of the wives and the sons and the daughters.

Lake Huron rolls, Superior sings
In the ruins of her ice water mansion
Old Michigan steams like a young man's dreams,
The islands and bays are for sportsmen.

And farther below Lake Ontario
Takes in what Lake Erie can send her
And the iron boats go as the mariners all know
With the gales of November remembered.



In a musty old hall in Detroit they prayed
In the Maritime Sailors' Cathedral
The church bell chimed, 'til it rang 29 times
For each man on the Edmund Fitzgerald.





The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down
Of the big lake they call Gitche Gumee
Superior, they say, never gives up her dead
When the gales of November come early.



This past February we heard Gordon Lightfoot in concert. At the age of 69, and after recouperating from a ruptured aneurism in 2000, he continues to serenade crowds with his folk music.

That's a testimony!

All Things Bright and Beautiful

Refrain

All things bright and beautiful,

All creatures great and small,

All things wise and wonderful:

The Lord God made them all.









Each little flower that opens,
Each little bird that sings,
He made their glowing colors,
He made their tiny wings.





Refrain

[Most hymnals omit the following verse]
The rich man in his castle,
The poor man at his gate,
He made them, high or lowly,
And ordered their estate.

Refrain

The purple headed mountains,
The river running by,
The sunset and the morning
That brightens up the sky.

Refrain

The cold wind in the winter,
The pleasant summer sun,
The ripe fruits in the garden,
He made them every one.

Refrain

The tall trees in the greenwood,
The meadows where we play,
The rushes by the water,
To gather every day.

Refrain

He gave us eyes to see them,
And lips that we might tell
How great is God Almighty,
Who has made all things well.

Refrain



Words by Cecil Alexander
Hymns for Little Children, 1848

Tune : Royal Oak
17th Century English Melody
arranged by Martin F. Shaw in 1915

Photos by my niece

In the Garden of the Lord

The word of God came unto me,
Sitting alone among the multitudes;
And my blind eyes were touched with light.
And there was laid upon my lips a flame of fire.

I laugh and shout for life is good,
Though my feet are set in silent way,
In merry mood I leave the crowd
To walk in my garden. Ever as I walk
I gather fruits and flowers in my hands.
And with joyful heart I bless the sun
That kindles all the place with radiant life.
I run with playful winds that blow the scent

Of rose and jessamine in eddying whirls.
At last I come where tall lilies grow,
Lifting their faces like white saints to God,
While the lilies pray, I kneel upon the ground;

I have strayed into the holy temple of the Lord.


by Helen Adams Keller
(1880 - 1968)