April 29, 1960 — Fort Laramie is declared a National Historic Site

In 1834 Robert Campbell and William Sublette established the first “Fort Laramie” at the confluence of the Laramie Fort_Laramieand North Platte Rivers in southeast Wyoming. Officially named Fort William, the post was rectangular, and measured only 100 by 80 feet. Hewn cottonwood logs 15 feet high formed the fort’s palisade. With the beaver trade already in decline, the future of the fur trade lay in trading with the Native population for buffalo robes. Fort William enjoyed a near monopoly on the buffalo trade in this region until a competing trading post, Fort Platte, was built a mile away in 1841. This rivalry spurred Fort William’s owners to replace their own aging fort with a larger, adobe walled structure named Fort John.

The Lakota traded tanned buffalo robes here for a variety of manufactured goods. Each spring caravans arrived with trade goods at the fort. In the fall, tons of buffalo hides and other furs were shipped east. Throughout the 1840’s, however, the take of buffalo robes declined and Fort John’s role changed. In 1841, the first of many westward-bound emigrants arrived at Fort John.
Tens of thousands of emigrants bound for Oregon, California, and the Salt Lake Valley would eventually stop at the fort. The traders at Fort John did a brisk seasonal business catering to the needs of emigrants.

In 1849, the U.S. Army purchased Fort John as part of a plan to establish a military presence along the emigrant trails. The post was officially renamed Fort Laramie, and it began its tenure as a military post. The Army quickly constructed new buildings for stables, officers’ and soldiers’ quarters, a bakery, a guardhouse, and a powder magazine to house and support the fort garrison.

As the years went by, the post continued to grow in size and importance. Fort Laramie soon became the principal military outpost on the Northern Plains. Fort Laramie also became the primary hub for transportation and communication through the central Rocky Mountain region as emigrant trails, stage lines, the Pony Express, and the transcontinental telegraph all passed through the post.

Fort Laramie played an important role hosting several treaty negotiations with the Northern Plains Indian Nations, the most famous of which were the Horse Creek Treaty of 1851 and the still contested Treaty of 1868.

When the Indian Wars came to a close Fort Laramie’s importance diminished. The post was abandoned and sold at public auction in 1890. Over the next 48 years, it nearly succumbed to the ravages of time. Preservation of the site was finally secured, however, when Fort Laramie became part of the National Park System.

April 28, 1948 — Fort Sumter is Declared a National Monument

Just after Christmas of 1860, in the dark of night, Union Major Robert Anderson moved his men from Fort Moultrie on the South Carolina mainland to shield them from sniper attacks and the inevitable conflicts with civilians.Ft_Sumter_in_battle

South Carolina had just seceded from the Union and tensions were high, and Anderson had no desire to further fan the flames. By shifting to the island or Fort Sumter, Anderson greatly reduced the potential for armed confrontation.

The Confederacy wasn’t officially organized until February 1861 in Montgomery, Ala., so there was no Confederate navy, and an attack seemed unlikely, but by April of 1861, the Confederacy had become more organized.

At 4:30 a.m. on April 12. Confederate General P.T.G. Beauregard, began bombarding Fort Sumter

Captain Abner Doubleday (who was later credited with inventing baseball) waited until shortly before 7 a.m. for the advantage of daylight; then aimed a 32-pounder at the Ironclad Battery on Cumming’s Point, stepped back and yelled “Fire!” The Union’s reply, including Doubleday’s first shot, had little effect. For 34 hours, the Confederates directed more than 3,000 shells at Fort Sumter.

“The crashing of the shot, the bursting of the shells, the falling of the walls, and the roar of the flames, made a pandemonium of the fort,” Doubleday wrote the following day.

Miraculously, no one was killed or seriously wounded on either side. Anderson surrendered on April 13 and, the next day, Beauregard allowed Anderson to evacuate, rather than take Union prisoners.

The Battle of Fort Sumter was relatively brief, full of glory and mercifully bloodless. Everyone thought that the squabble between the States would be over soon.

April 27, 1962 — Alexander Hamilton’s Grange is declared a National Memorial

Like many other scrappy immigrant, when Alexander Hamilton set out from his homeland (the Caribbean island of Nevis), he made his way to New York City to make his mark on the world.Grange

The illegitimate son of a hapless Scottish merchant and a mother of doubtful morals, Hamilton was brilliantly outspoken, prideful of his accomplishments, wary of human passions yet primed for confrontation. He was a man of the city – fascinated by debt and investment, by the expectations we should have of government, and the tension between democratic ideals and the practical management of affairs – he was everything that Thomas Jefferson was not.

It was only after considerable success in the law and government affairs, and many years of renting quarters about town, that Hamilton finally built a home of his own.

It was never as grand as Mt Vernon or Monticello, but it stood on a bluff overlooking the Hudson River in a part of northern Manhattan long since known as Hamilton Heights. It takes a bit of imagination today to envision the house standing alone atop a plot of land — a little over 32 acres — with expansive views of both the Hudson and Harlem Rivers from the house’s capacious windows and from the long piazzas that stretch along its sides, which lend its Federalist-style solidity a faint hint of the West Indies.

The Grange might have been Hamilton’s rivalrous answer to Jefferson, for though he was not the designer of his own home as Jefferson was, he was involved in every detail with John McComb Jr., who was also the architect for both Gracie Mansion and New York’s City Hall.

The house has been moved twice, first in 1889 as the Manhattan street grid was creeping north. Over time it became hemmed in by other buildings. Stripped of its porches and in disrepair; the National Park Service was given the house in 1962 on the condition that it be moved and renovated. Neighborhood opposition delayed the move until finally, in 2008, the house was mounted on hydraulic lifts and rolled on dollies around the corner to the north end of St. Nicholas Park, where it now sits.

Hamilton enjoyed his brief time at the Grange greatly. “A garden, you know,” he wrote in 1802 when the house was completed “is a very usual refuge of a disappointed politician.”

April 26, 1822: Birth of Frederick Law Olmsted

Born in Hartford, Connecticut. Frederick Law Olmsted was raised as a gentleman. He never fully attended college, but he did become a very learned man. When he was 18, he moved to New York to begin a career as a “scientific” farmer. That career soon failed, so he toured Europe, served as a merchant seaman, and traveled throughout the South as a newspaper correspondent.Frederick_Law_Olmsted

Through several New York connections, Olmsted wrangled an appointment in 1857 as Superintendent of the planned Central Park in Manhattan, early in the development of was at that time the northern fringe of New York City. He soon met Calvert Vaux, and their plan, titled Greensward, was ultimately selected as the winning design.

In 1861, Olmsted took a leave from his duties at Central Park to serve as the Executive Secretary of the United States Sanitary Commission, aiding the wounded soldiers of the Union Army during the Civil War. In 1863, he headed west and took a position as manager of the Mariposa Estate in California, a gold mining venture north of San Francisco.

He returned to New York when the project failed, and joined Vaux in designing Prospect Park, Chicago’s Riverside subdivision, Buffalo’s park system, and the Niagara Reservation at Niagara Falls, and he served as the first head of the commission in charge of preserving Yosemite Valley..

In 1883, he relocated to Brookline, Massachusetts where he designed an extensive park system for the City of Boston known as the Emerald Necklace. Between 1872 and 1895 Olmsted’s firm carried out 550 projects. Besides Central and Prospect Parks, and the Emerald Necklace, Olmstead designed the Grounds to the US Capitol, The Biltmore Estate in Asheville NC, Stanford University’s campus, and the grounds to the 1893 World’s Fair in Chicago.

In 1895, due to failing health Olmsted turned the firm over to his partners, and senility forced him to be confined in the McLean Hospital at Waverly, Massachusetts, where he must have felt at home – Olmsted had designed the grounds of the institution.

Frederick Law Olmsted died on August 28, 1903. The landscape architecture firm he founded was continued by his sons and their successors until 1980. His home and office were purchased by the National Park Service and opened to the public as museum. His papers are now housed in the Library of Congress, while the Olmsted National Historic site preserves the drawings and plans for much of Olmsted and his firm’s body of work.

April 25, 1947: Theodore Roosevelt National Park is established

Theodore Roosevelt came to the North Dakota Badlands in September 1883 to hunt buffalo. By the end of his 15-day hunting trip, he had entered the cattle business with the purchase of the Chimney Butte Ranch, also known as the Maltese Cross Ranch. Theodore Roosevelt National Park is an enduring memorial to TR’s frontier spirit.TR North Dak

Life in the west was exhilarating, particularly when Teddy stopped in to a local hotel:

“It was late in the evening when I reached the place. I heard one or two shots in the bar-room as I came up, and I disliked going in. But there was nowhere else to go, and it was a cold night. Inside the room were several men, who, including the bartender, were wearing the kind of smile worn by men who are making believe to like what they don’t like. A shabby individual in a broad hat with a cocked gun in each hand was walking up and down the floor talking with strident profanity. He had evidently been shooting at the clock, which had two or three holes in its face.

…As soon as he saw me he hailed me as ‘Four Eyes,’ in reference to my spectacles, and said, ‘Four Eyes is going to treat.’ I joined in the laugh and got behind the stove and sat down, thinking to escape notice. He followed me, however, and though I tried to pass it off as a jest this merely made him more offensive, and he stood leaning over me, a gun in each hand, using very foul language… In response to his reiterated command that I should set up the drinks, I said, ‘Well, if I’ve got to, I’ve got to,’ and rose, looking past him.

As I rose, I struck quick and hard with my right just to one side of the point of his jaw, hitting with my left as I straightened out, and then again with my right. He fired the guns, but I do not know whether this was merely a convulsive action of his hands, or whether he was trying to shoot at me. When he went down he struck the corner of the bar with his head… if he had moved I was about to drop on my knees; but he was senseless. I took away his guns, and the other people in the room, who were now loud in their denunciation of him, hustled him out and put him in the shed.”

April 22, 1885: Arbor Day is First Celebrated as a Legal Holiday

The groves were God’s first temples. Ere man learned
To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave,
And spread the roof above them,—ere he framed Sequoia_sempervirens_Big_Basin_Redwoods_State_Park_4
The lofty vault, to gather and roll back
The sound of anthems; in the darkling wood,
Amidst the cool and silence, he knelt down,
And offered to the Mightiest solemn thanks
And supplication. For his simple heart
Might not resist the sacred influences,
Which, from the stilly twilight of the place,
And from the gray old trunks that high in heaven
Mingled their mossy boughs, and from the sound
Of the invisible breath that swayed at once
All their green tops, stole over him, and bowed
His spirit with the thought of boundless power
And inaccessible majesty. Ah, why
Should we, in the world’s riper years, neglect
God’s ancient sanctuaries, and adore
Only among the crowd, and under roofs,
That our frail hands have raised? Let me, at least,
Here, in the shadow of this aged wood,
Offer one hymn—thrice happy, if it find
Acceptance in His ear.
Father, thy hand
Hath reared these venerable columns, thou
Didst weave this verdant roof. Thou didst look down
Upon the naked earth, and, forthwith, rose
All these fair ranks of trees. They, in thy sun,
Budded, and shook their green leaves in the breeze,
And shot towards heaven. The century-living crow,
Whose birth was in their tops, grew old and died
Among their branches, till, at last, they stood,
As now they stand, massy, and tall, and dark,
Fit shrine for humble worshipper to hold
Communion with his Maker. These dim vaults,
These winding aisles, of human pomp and pride
Report not. No fantastic carvings show
The boast of our vain race to change the form
Of thy fair works. But thou art here—thou fill’st
The solitude. Thou art in the soft winds
That run along the summit of these trees
In music; thou art in the cooler breath
That from the inmost darkness of the place
Comes, scarcely felt; the barky trunks, the ground,
The fresh moist ground, are all instinct with thee.
Here is continual worship;—Nature, here,
In the tranquility that thou dost love,
Enjoys thy presence. Noiselessly, around,
From perch to perch, the solitary bird
Passes; and yon clear spring, that, midst its herbs,
Wells softly forth and wandering steeps the roots
Of half the mighty forest, tells no tale
Of all the good it does. Thou hast not left
Thyself without a witness, in these shades,
Of thy perfections. Grandeur, strength, and grace
Are here to speak of thee. This mighty oak—
By whose immovable stem I stand and seem
Almost annihilated—not a prince,
In all that proud old world beyond the deep,
E’er wore his crown as lofty as he
Wears the green coronal of leaves with which
Thy hand has graced him. Nestled at his root
Is beauty, such as blooms not in the glare
Of the broad sun. That delicate forest flower
With scented breath, and look so like a smile,
Seems, as it issues from the shapeless mould,
An emanation of the indwelling Life,
A visible token of the upholding Love,
That are the soul of this wide universe.

My heart is awed within me when I think
Of the great miracle that still goes on,
In silence, round me—the perpetual work
Of thy creation, finished, yet renewed
Forever. Written on thy works I read
The lesson of thy own eternity.
Lo! all grow old and die—but see again,
How on the faltering footsteps of decay
Youth presses—-ever gay and beautiful youth
In all its beautiful forms. These lofty trees
Wave not less proudly that their ancestors
Moulder beneath them. Oh, there is not lost
One of earth’s charms: upon her bosom yet,
After the flight of untold centuries,
The freshness of her far beginning lies
And yet shall lie. Life mocks the idle hate
Of his arch enemy Death—yea, seats himself
Upon the tyrant’s throne—the sepulchre,
And of the triumphs of his ghastly foe
Makes his own nourishment. For he came forth
From thine own bosom, and shall have no end.

There have been holy men who hid themselves
Deep in the woody wilderness, and gave
Their lives to thought and prayer, till they outlived
The generation born with them, nor seemed
Less aged than the hoary trees and rocks
Around them;—and there have been holy men
Who deemed it were not well to pass life thus.
But let me often to these solitudes
Retire, and in thy presence reassure
My feeble virtue. Here its enemies,
The passions, at thy plainer footsteps shrink
And tremble and are still. Oh, God! when thou
Dost scare the world with falling thunderbolts, or fill,
With all the waters of the firmament,
The swift dark whirlwind that uproots the woods
And drowns the village; when, at thy call,
Uprises the great deep and throws himself
Upon the continent, and overwhelms
Its cities—who forgets not, at the sight
Of these tremendous tokens of thy power,
His pride, and lays his strifes and follies by?
Oh, from these sterner aspects of thy face
Spare me and mine, nor let us need the wrath
Of the mad unchained elements to teach
Who rules them. Be it ours to meditate,
In these calm shades, thy milder majesty,
And to the beautiful order of the works
Learn to conform the order of our lives.

– William Cullen Bryant

April 21, 1838: Birth of John Muir

WHEN I was a boy in Scotland I was fond of everything that was wild, and all my life I’ve been growing fonder and muir bfonder of wild places and wild creatures. Fortunately around my native town of Dunbar, by the stormy North Sea, there was no lack of wildness, though most of the land lay in smooth cultivation, With red-blooded playmates, wild as myself, I loved to wander in the fields to hear the birds sing, and along the seashore to gaze and wonder at the shells and seaweeds, eels and crabs in the pools among the rocks when the tide was low; and best of all to watch the waves in awful storms thundering on the black headlands and craggy ruins of the old Dunbar Castle when the sea and the sky, the waves and the clouds, were mingled together as one. We never thought of playing truant, but after I was five or six years old I ran away to the seashore or the fields most every Saturday, and every day in the school vacations except Sundays, though solemnly warned that I must play at home in the garden and back yard, lest I should learn to think bad thoughts and say bad words.

All in vain. In spite of the sure sore punishments that followed like shadows, the natural inherited wildness in our blood ran true on its glorious course as invincible and unstoppable as stars.

My earliest recollections of the country were gained on short walks with my grandfather when I was perhaps not over three years old. On one of these walks grandfather took me to Lord Lauderdale’s gardens, where I saw figs growing against a sunny wall and tasted some of them, and got as many apples to eat as I wished. On another memorable walk in a hayfield, when we sat down to rest on one of the haycocks I heard a sharp, prickly, stinging cry, and, jumping up eagerly, called grandfather’s attention to it. He said he heard only the wind, but I insisted on digging into the hay and turning it over until we discovered the source of the strange exciting sound–a mother field mouse with half a dozen naked young hanging to her teats. This to me was a wonderful discovery. No hunter could have been more excited on discovering a bear and her cubs in a wilderness den.

April 20th, 1865: Robert E. Lee to Jefferson Davis

Richmond, Virginia

Mr. PresidentR E LEE

The apprehensions I expressed during the winter, of the moral condition of the Army of Northern Virginia, have been realized. The operations which occurred while the troops were in the entrenchments in front of Richmond and Petersburg were not marked by the boldness and decision which formerly characterized them. Except in particular instances, they were feeble; and a want of confidence seemed to possess officers and men. This condition, I think, was produced by the state of feeling in the country, and the communications received by the men from their homes, urging their return and the abandonment of the field.

The movement of the enemy on the 30th March to Dinwiddie Court House was consequently not as strongly met as similar ones had been. Advantages were gained by him which discouraged the troops, so that on the morning of the 2d April, when our lines between the Appomattox and Hatcher’s Run were assaulted, the resistance was not effectual: several points were penetrated and large captures made. At the commencement of the withdrawal of the army from the lines on the night of the 2d, it began to disintegrate, and straggling from the ranks increased up to the surrender on the 9th. On that day, as previously reported, there were only seven thousand eight hundred and ninety-two (7892) effective infantry. During the night, when the surrender became known, more than ten thousand men came in, as reported to me by the Chief Commissary of the Army. During the succeeding days stragglers continued to give themselves up, so that on the 12th April, according to the rolls of those paroled, twenty-six thousand and eighteen (26,018) officers and men had surrendered. Men who had left the ranks on the march, and crossed James River, returned and gave themselves up, and many have since come to Richmond and surrendered.

I have given these details that Your Excellency might know the state of feeling which existed in the army, and judge of that in the country. From what I have seen and learned, I believe an army cannot be organized or supported in Virginia, and as far as I know the condition of affairs, the country east of the Mississippi is morally and physically unable to maintain the contest unaided with any hope of ultimate success. A partisan war may be continued, and hostilities protracted, causing individual suffering and the devastation of the country, but I see no prospect by that means of achieving a separate independence.

It is for Your Excellency to decide, should you agree with me in opinion, what is proper to be done. To save useless effusion of blood, I would recommend measures be taken for suspension of hostilities and the restoration of peace.

I am with great respect, yr obdt svt

R. E. Lee

April 19, 1897: John J. McDermott Wins the First Boston Marathon

The Boston Athletic Association, established in 1887, had built a fine clubhouse at the corner of Exeter and Blagden Streets, and had quickly become the leading athletic club in New England.Boston Marathon

Athleticism was in vogue, and John Graham, coach and manager of the B.A.A. athletes, led a cohort from the club to compete at the first modern Olympic Games held in Athens in the summer of 1896. There they enthusiastically observed the Marathon-to-Athens Race and returned to Boston with plans to sponsor a long-distance run the following spring.

With the assistance of Boston businessman Herbert H. Holton, various routes were plotted out. A measured distance of 24.5 miles from Metcalf’s Mill in Ashland to the Irvington Oval in Boston was finally selected. The race was called the “American Marathon” and scheduled for Patriot’s Day (April 19th) as the final event of the 1897 Boston Athletic Association Games.

Fifteen runners started the race but only 10 made it to the finish line. John J. McDermott, representing the Pastime Athletic Club of New York City, took the lead from Harvard athlete Dick Grant over the hills in Newton. Exhausted by the extended distance of the race McDermott slowed to a walk several times during the last miles, but he still won by almost seven minutes, in two hours, fifty-five minutes and ten seconds.

It took Larry Brignola, Harry Franklin, and AT Howe over four hours to complete the course – but they finished the race!

1. John J. McDermott (NY) 2:55:10
2. James J. Kiernan (NY) 3:02:02
3. Edward P. Rhell (MA) 3:06:02
4. Hamilton Gray (NY) 3:11:37
5. H. D. Eggleston (NY) 3:17:50
6. John Mason (NY) 3:31:00
7. W. Ryan (MA) 3:41:25
8. Lawrence Brignolia (MA) 4:06:12
9. Harry Franklin (MA) 4:08:00
10. A. T. Howe (MA) 4:10:00

April 18, 1775: Paul Revere Sounds the Alarm

Listen, my children, and you shall hear
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,
On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-Five:
Hardly a man is now alive PaulReveresRide
Who remembers that famous day and year.

He said to his friend, “If the British march
By land or sea from the town to-night,
Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry-arch
Of the North-Church-tower, as a signal-light,–
One if by land, and two if by sea;
And I on the opposite shore will be,
Ready to ride and spread the alarm
Through every Middlesex village and farm,
For the country-folk to be up and to arm.”

Then he said “Good night!” and with muffled oar
Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore,
Just as the moon rose over the bay,
Where swinging wide at her moorings lay
The Somerset, British man-of-war:
A phantom ship, with each mast and spar
Across the moon, like a prison-bar,
And a huge black hulk, that was magnified
By its own reflection in the tide.

Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street
Wanders and watches with eager ears,
Till in the silence around him he hears
The muster of men at the barrack door,
The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,
And the measured tread of the grenadiers
Marching down to their boats on the shore.

Then he climbed to the tower of the church,
Up the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,
To the belfry-chamber overhead,
And startled the pigeons from their perch
On the sombre rafters, that round him made
Masses and moving shapes of shade,–
By the trembling ladder, steep and tall,
To the highest window in the wall,
Where he paused to listen and look down
A moment on the roofs of the town,
And the moonlight flowing over all.

Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead,
In their night-encampment on the hill,
Wrapped in silence so deep and still
That he could hear, like a sentinel’s tread,
The watchful night-wind, as it went
Creeping along from tent to tent,
And seeming to whisper, “All is well!”
A moment only he feels the spell
Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread
Of the lonely belfry and the dead;
For suddenly all his thoughts are bent
On a shadowy something far away,
Where the river widens to meet the bay, —
A line of black, that bends and floats
On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats.

Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,
Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride,
On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.
Now he patted his horse’s side,
Now gazed on the landscape far and near,
Then impetuous stamped the earth,
And turned and tightened his saddle-girth;
But mostly he watched with eager search
The belfry-tower of the old North Church,
As it rose above the graves on the hill,
Lonely and spectral and sombre and still.
And lo! as he looks, on the belfry’s height,
A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!
He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,
But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight
A second lamp in the belfry burns!

A hurry of hoofs in a village-street,
A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,
And beneath from the pebbles, in passing, a spark
Struck out by a steed that flies fearless and fleet:
That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,
The fate of a nation was riding that night;
And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,
Kindled the land into flame with its heat.

He has left the village and mounted the steep,
And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,
Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;
And under the alders, that skirt its edge,
Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,
Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.

It was twelve by the village clock
When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.
He heard the crowing of the cock,
And the barking of the farmer’s dog,
And felt the damp of the river-fog,
That rises when the sun goes down.

It was one by the village clock,
When he galloped into Lexington.
He saw the gilded weathercock
Swim in the moonlight as he passed,
And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare,
Gaze at him with a spectral glare,
As if they already stood aghast
At the bloody work they would look upon.

It was two by the village clock,
When be came to the bridge in Concord town.
He heard the bleating of the flock,
And the twitter of birds among the trees,
And felt the breath of the morning breeze
Blowing over the meadows brown.
And one was safe and asleep in his bed
Who at the bridge would be first to fall,
Who that day would be lying dead,
Pierced by a British musket-ball.

You know the rest. In the books you have read,
How the British Regulars fired and fled,–
How the farmers gave them ball for ball,
From behind each fence and farmyard-wall,
Chasing the red-coats down the lane,
Then crossing the fields to emerge again
Under the trees at the turn of the road,
And only pausing to fire and load.

So through the night rode Paul Revere;
And so through the night went his cry of alarm
To every Middlesex village and farm,–
A cry of defiance, and not of fear,
A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,
And a word that shall echo forevermore!
For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,
Through all our history, to the last,
In the hour of darkness and peril and need,
The people will waken and listen to hear
The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed,
And the midnight message of Paul Revere.

-Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

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