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I have a book 'Local Rhymes' by Henry Nutter. It looks like it was given as a gift to a Betty Shackleton. Inside it says

"Darwin House

Burnley

Sept 18 1897

To Miss Betty Shackleton

With Henry Nutter

Kind Regards"

I think it's supposed to be with kind regards Henry Nutter.

There is a picture of Henry Nutter also inside (which I will scan later)

as for printing, it says "B Moore, "Gazette" Printing Works, Bridge Street. 1890.

Preface

The following songs and poems have appeared from time to time in the Burnley Gazette. The author, not deeming them worthy of more than a passing notice, never intended placing them before the public in any other way; but in consequence of the interest taken in a few of the pieces, he has considered it his duty to publish them in the present cheap form. This little volume contains poems written chiefly on local topics, and can therefore be of little interest except to those readers who have some aquaintance with the circumstance or subject of each piece.

Yours truly,

Henyr Nutter

_________________
Mel

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To Mr. Henry Houlding, Editor of the Burnley “Gazette”
To Mr. George Crompton, Violinist, Laund, near Burnley
The New Borough of Nelson on its Charter Day
Answer to a Late Invitation to Dinner from Mr. Gott, Provisional Mayor of Nelson
Address to Mr. Tattersall Wilkinson, the Local Antiquarian
Reply to the Antiquarian’s Intercepted Letter
The Astronomers Reply to the Antiquarians Second Poetic Letter
Reply to Mr. H.Burrows, a Local Poet
Answer to Mr. Alderman Greenwood, (Mayor). Invitation to Dinner
Marriage of Mr.Charles Whittle and Miss Mary Bond
A Song of Buxton
Reply to the Slanders of Higgins and Addison
The Fall of Alexandria (Sung at the Mechanic’s Jubilee)
Healey Height
The Girl in the Calico Dress
Old Jim the Engineer (Redford)
Old Jim the engine Driver (Redford)
On the Introduction of Steam Trams into Burnley
A Burlesque on the Burnley Water Scheme, and in answer to Mr. Clement (signing himself “Good Health”) in his correspondence in the Burnley Gazette
The Programme of the Burnley Literary and Scientific Club. Sung at Dinner
On the Removal of the Mayors Lamps
A Brave Townsman
On the Birthday of a Niece
The Mayor of Brunswick – Alderman Baron
A Birthday Rhyme
Ten Members of the Scientific Club
On Miss Horner Leaving Burnley
On the Presentation to Mr. Lewis Grant
Job Whittam Hartley (Memento)
To Miss Nannie May C. on her Birthday
Flowers from the Tombs of the Bards. To Mr. J Whittaker
To Miss F.E.J on her Twenty-First Birthday
A Story of a Poodle
A Poem in Scotch to Dr Mackenzie
On the Occasion of the Rev. Wm. Reid leaving Nelson
Royal visit to Burnley
The queen and John Bright
The Mayor’s Dinner (Alderman Keighley)
In Answer to a Present from a Lady
Written for the Victoria Assembly Room (Dec 31st 1887)
To the Chairman of the Nelson Local Board, Mr. John Wilkinson
Song of Two Burnley Fishermen
Opening of theTown Hall, Burnley, by Mr. Alderman Sutcliffe, Mayor
Dissolution of the Odd-Fellows Club, Barrowford
On the Death of a Nephew
Mayor’s Dinner (Alderman Thornber)
John England’s 74th Birthday
To Mr and Mrs Herbert Sutcliffe, on their Wedding Day
Christmas song (Cronkshaw’s), Dec. 31, 1872
Song on Evolution (Cronkshaw’s), Dec. 31, 1873
Geological song (Cronkshaw’s), Dec. 31, 1874
Song on Spiritualism – Burlesque (Cronkshaw’s) Dec. 28, 1876
Song. – Man and the Ape (Cronkshaw’s), Dec. 26, 1877
Song. – New Inventions (cronkshaw’s), Dec. 31, 1878
Song. – The Burnley Water Scheme (Cronkshaw’s) Dec. 31, ‘82
Song. – Trades and Professions of the Guests at Cronkshaw’s Dinner, December 31st, 1870
Scientific Song (Cronkshaw’s), Dec. 31, 1888
Song – Michael the Brave
Answer to an Inviation (from Mr. J.S.B.) to Dinner
To Dr. Burns on his Silver Wedding-Day
To Mr. Carrington on receiving a Brace of Pheasants
An Elegy on Edwin Waugh, the Lancashire Poet
To Mr. William Christie on his Silver Wedding-Day
Long Sermons
From Burnley. – To Alderman Scarr, Leeds
The Turkish Atrocities
Song. – On Co-operation (Cronkshaw’s), Dec. 31, 1875
A New Year’s Address to Mr. C. M. Foden. – In Recognition of his extraordinary services for the Burnley Mechanic’s Institution, for 22 years
To Mr. Abraham Stansfield, Kersal Moor, Manchester
Old Bethesda

_________________
Mel

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Dissolution of the Oddfellow's Club, Barrowford

The following lines were given on Saturday evening, December 11th, 1886, on the dissolution of the Oddfellows' Club, which had held its meetings at the 'Fleece Inn', Barrowford, for nearly sixty years;-

Most noble grand, and past grandmasters, too,
And loyal vice, this night we bid adieu.
Ye grand provincial masters of the past,
This noble lodge, to fate succumbs at last.
The club you loved through many a toiling year,
Must close this night a useful, grand career.
As all things have an end beneath the sun,
So must our club, its mission now is done.
The Ward who safely kept the outer door,
With broad brimmed hat, alas! we see no more;
The Tylers cheerful voice and kindly glance
Will never more his brethren's names announce;
He'll welcome us no more with heart and hand,
Nor sign or password at the door demand.
We give no more the deferential bow,
Nor raise our willing fingers to our brow.
The costumes which our high officials wore,
Who graced those benches in the days of yore,
The gilded valance and the masters chair
Will soon be classed among the things that were;
No sounds harmonius will fraternal ring,
Nor sacred mystic rites new pleasures bring.
In bygone happy years, good heavens, how long!
Since these old walls resounded our first song;
This room where secret ties were knit secure,
Where no fantastic show could long endure.
At festive seasons long ago we joined
In councils sweet, in one firm bond combined.
'Tis true our club has reached its journeys end;
To aid the poor, yet willing hands we'll lend-
Love mercy still, be generous, kind and wise,
Like brethren live in peace and fraternize.

Although our institution now is nil,
For all that's good we stand united still.
Clubs end like all things mortal in decay;
So empires fall and kingdons pass away;
Conditions ever change, and we with them
Are doomed to fall, like branches from the stem.
May we, like wise and prudent men, resolve
To male the best of things as they evolve.
Be bounteous still, without the mystic line,
And emulate the days of auld lang syne.

_________________
Mel

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The New Borough of Nelson
Tune: "St Patrick was a Gintleman."

Come, listen to my simple song with patience and attention;
Keep silent every restless tongue while here with joy I mention
That Nelson is my glorius theme-her charter, brief, and story-
Her municipal borough scheme, in all its coming glory.

Chorus
Success to Nelson's Council Board, her Aldermen, and Mayor;
That they may live in sweet accord, is our united prayer.

This day with cheerful hearts we toast the Nelson Corporation
(And England of that name will boast long as the earths duration);
Though honours high are on her piled, in meritorious stages,
She is but yet a budding child to bloom in future ages.
Success to Nelson's, &c.

Young Nelson boasts an upright trade in all her various classes;
Her matchless fancy goods are made by Nelson's bonny lasses,
Her brilliant spots and gay sateens adorn each local heiress,
Her fine jeanettes and lovely jeans would grace a Nelson Mayoress.
Success to Nelson's, &c.

Your sixteen squares are full or more, without the least disguising,
Where every inch counts sixty-four, or sterling counts comprising;
Thus merchants get their proper dues, goods are what you define them,
And Oldham's honest thirty-twos are just as they consign them.
Success to Nelson's, &c.

From right your tradesmen never flinch, sound principles impel them,
Their warp and weft in every inch are truly as they sell them.
These truths are clear, which I record, with your entire permission,
No agent ever doubts their word, or charges imposition.
Success to Nelson's, &c.

The Queen that wears the British crown has granted you a charter,
The reason is that Nelson town is sound in every quarter;
Then cast away all care and gloom, throughout the coming winter,
And may you clear in every loom, a shilling on each printer.
Success to Nelson's, &c.

Expand your wings, ye sage-like Board, in neighbourly alliance,
But take care not dear old Barrowford without her full compliance.
The lovely vale might joy reflect with her green banks and bowers,
Her generous heart and intellect would raise your mental powers.
Success to Nelson's, &c.

Her stately piles of ancient halls would throw a lustre o'er you,
Her healing springs and waterfalls would dance with joy before you!
The banks of Hutherstone would ring with stock-doves sweetly cooing,
Above the groves where maidens sing when lovers fond are wooing.
Success to Nelson's, &c.

Include fair rosy Brierfield, and lovely Reedley Hallows,
Then charming Wheatley Lane would yield, which Pendle Forest follows;
Spen Brook and Thornyhome you'll take without the slightest parley,
And for your future honour's sake include Newchurch and Barley.
Success to Nelson's, &c.

Take calm Roughlee, the boggart's lair, where witches walked abroad in,
And Blacko bright, and Foulridge fair, and Laneshawbridge and Trawden,
And bonny Colne, which monarchs prized and poured their blessings on her;
Although you think she's fossilized, she still maintains her honour.
Success to Nelson's, &c.

On ancient charters do not trench, for these she takes her pride in;
On her impartial County Bench stern justice sits deciding;
For these prerogatives she'll fight, Nelsonians may rest on;
She must maintain her sacred right, of sending roughs to Preston.
Success to Nelson's, &c.

Her dear old church and charming bells, with their associations,
The organ's diapason swells, with pious intonations,
Are sweet and sacred to the town by filial true affection;
To take in Colne with her renown would be a sad reflection.
Success to Nelson's, &c.

Let Nelson still discreetly reign, and hold what she possesses;
In honour's path she'll yet obtain far more sublime successes.
Her borders still may she extend, may all her works be thorough,
And at the next Reform Bill send a member from th borough.
Success to Nelson's, &c.

Old Burnley sends her love by me, and tenders you her greeting;
From jealous feelings we are free at this your charter meeting;
Wide may your borough still expand by well directed labour,
Till Burnley grasps you by the hand a close and friendly neighbour.
Success to Nelson's, &c.

for Nelson's Council thus we'll pray, in love and faith fraternal;
May heaven bless their lives each day, their sins forgive nocturnal!
Long may your lads be strong and true, in honour's path abiding
And Nelson's bonny lasses you, be cautious in deciding!
Success to Nelson's, &c.

Accept a simple poet's prayer, each Nelson saint and sinner,
May every local magnate there, enjoy the chairman's dinner:
My pen I now lay on the shelf, and feel a little slighted;
I should have dinnered there myself, but never Gott invited!

_________________
Mel

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On The Marriage of Mr Charles Whittle and Miss Mary Bond, Burnley

Dear Mary, you tender your freedom this day,
You sacrifice your body and purse;
Then be not rebellious, but love and obey,
And take him for better and worse.

A nervous sensation creeps over my skin,
That some of your friends must have shared,
When thinking that you will this morning begin
To be with a Whittle close pared.

This day you engage in a treaty, dear girl,
No trifling, gossip or parley;
Yet if the man's noble he'll find you a pearl,
A wife and blessing to Charlie.

How sweet were your lips, Mary, when you were little,
Your nature was gentle and fond:
Thus may they remain when you turn to a Whittle
And give up your heart with a Bond.

May Charlie in Bond-age be joyful and free
And his board supplied with good vicyuals;
Long may his dear partner live happy and be
The mother of twenty sharp Whittles.

And now from my heart may you flourish in peace,
May Charles never sullenly mutter:
As seasons advance may your pleasures increase,
Is the prayer of yours, Harry Nutter.

_________________
Mel

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On the Death of a Nephew in his 21st Year, Nov. 1, 1888

In silence I entered the home of my youth:
There death had again cast a gloom,
The lad that I valued for honour and truth,
Was cut like a flower in its bloom.

A brother sat pensive and gazed in the fire,
Depressed by affection profound;
His darling old mother, his sisters and sire,
In sorrow sat weeping around.

The charming old fiddle lay mute in the case,
The bow by its side was unstrung;
The fiddler lay sleeping in death's cold embrace,
Once noble, still life-like and young.

There close wept an angel attendant and ward,
A loving companion and friend,
Who cherished and nursed with a tender regard,
The poor suffering youth to the end.

In solo, or trio, or in the full score,
He cheerfully tendered his part;
Those hands will, alas! be responsive no more,
To gladden his dear honest heart.

Attentive, acute, and refined were his ears,
To music, to morals, and worth:
Those eyes that oft bathed in affectionate tears,
Are closed to all things upon earth.

Those fingers which tunefully tempered the screw,
And swept each melodius string
With timely precision, so graceful and true,
Will nevermore harmony bring.

Alas! that musicians should sicken and die,
That draw out the heart-stirring tone;
Alas! that such merit and attributes high,
Should perish in life's blushing dawn.

_________________
Mel

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A Story of a Poodle

My Dear Mister Editor Houlding,
With poets I was never classed;
I neither want praising nor scolding,
For either the present or the past.

But I ask to relate you a story,
In plain honest doggerel verse;
Though clear as the waters of Shorey,
The spring is undoubtedly worse.

A man of a generous nature,
Though not over fooish or wise,
Will love a kind inncoent creature,
And not o'er a brute tyrannise.

Their use and devotion compel us
To love them and even caress;
Yet cruel cantankerous fellows
Will torture the things they possess.

I once had a bonny French poodle,
A cunning affectionate thing,
At my feet she would fondle and cuddle,
But she strayed one morning in spring.

She deserted the home she was born in,
The cottage wherein she was reared;
In your paper on Saturday morning,
This curious notice appeared:

"Lost, stolen, or strayed, I cannot tell which,
A beautiful dark faced poodle bitch,
With dark brown eyes, and an excellent smell,
Her ears are uncut, and she answers to Nell.
Her action is good, though her tail is unfurled,
She's a regular swell as she trots through the world,
A handsome reward any person will get,
Who brings to my office that brute of a pet."

On the morrow she came with a caper,
I know not how she was constrained;
But she followed the boy with your paper,
As if she knew what it contained.

I had scarcely unfastened the shutter,
The boy had just opened the door;
'Tis as true as my name's Harry Nutter,
That Nellie jumped onto the floor.

_________________
Mel

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To Mr. H. Houlding, Burnley

Hail! sweetest poet of the Brun,
To you these heartfelt lines are spun;
Long may your kind autumnal sun
Keep bright and clear,
And safely through its orbit run
For many a year.

My dear old minstrel, tell me why
Your Muse of late has been so shy?
While in peculiar metre I
Dare touch the strings:
Or with spasmodic efforts fly
On broken wings.

This minor bard has long revered
The poet who has nobly steered
A faithful pen; while cowards feared
A soul so brave:
Long may his patriarchal beard
In honour wave!

Your Muse, my friend, is sweet and true;
I've read the volume sent by you,
With growing interest through and through,
My reverend sire;
And find each time more credit due
To your sweet lyre.

Your notes are touched with graceful ease
Their modulated numbers please
Like zephyrs playing through the trees
"In Summer Days;"
With tuneful pure Parnassian breeze
You pour your lays.

Then come, dear Houlding, strike yout lyre,
And like the soaring lark aspire;
Or to your favourite shades retire
Among the woods,
And join the cheerful feathered choir
By Calder's floods.

Sing gently your sweet "Songs of Rest,"
Or read to me of "Pendle's" crest,
Or "Walks in Snow" where children pressed
Their "tiny feet:"
Or "By the River" which you blessed
With musings sweet.

In "Summer Skies" and "Moonrise" eves,
When "In the Woods" your fancy weaves,
"Forget-me-nots," and "Autumn Leaves"
"In Peace"; and "Rest,"
"Friendship" to "The Soul's Answer" cleaves
In "Wild Flowers" dressed.

Come then your humble friend to greet;
Leave every proof and leader sheet,
And that hard Editorial seat,
And darksome ink:
In bowers ambrosial let us meet,
And nectar drink.

I, like the simple robin sing,
The last in autumn, first in spring;
At dusk or dawn, with shivering wing
I chant along:
To you dedicate and bring
This simple song.

The critic may such lines despise,
And carping look profoundly wise:
His scowling deep tempestuous eyes
May roll away:
He harms me not, he may chastise,
But cannot slay.

With pen from fear or favour loose,
The honest critic must conduce
To raise the poet's aim and use
Whom he assails:
If free from bias, or abuse,
He holds the scales.

But if his tooth be piercing sharp,
And badger bound in woof and warp,
He then in vain may carve and carp,
And cast his sting:
He cannot silence one sweet harp,
Or break a string.

My Muse is now on danger's brink;
For suddenly I pause: and think,
That you have scribbled critic's ink,
And acid too,
And made artistic authors shrink,
And tremble through.

When to your strictures I allude,
I feel I'm from my latitude:
No further now will I intrude
Upon your time,
But right or wrong I thus conclude
This simple rhyme.

_________________
Mel

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Address To Mr. Tattersall Wilkinson, Antiquarian

Dear Wilkinson, old antiquarian friend,
Of deep philosophical powers,
Whose lectures on science I often attend
In winter's dark, tedious hours:
Your knowledge is vast, and your faculties great,
False teaching through life you've eschewed,
Yet do not on subjects sidereal dilate,
But keep in your own latitude.

In realms of antiquity at will,
On your ghastly mission alone,
Delve up your old cists with sepulchral skill,
Til you find the philosopher's stone.
Root out and unearth some pre-Adamite limb,
Flint implements, bronzes and jars,
Find bones of your ancestors, darksome and grim;
But shun the bright planets and stars.

Unchronicled facts are discovered and solved,
By relics that you have amassed;
Go on and reveal when our parents evolved
From anthropod stems of the past.
Dig out the small skulls from the tombs of your sires,
Examine their thickness and size,
All calcined with antediluvian fires,
But look not, my friend, to the skies.

Lay bare the mysterious tumulous mound,
With shrew antiquarian pains;
There archaeological wonders are found,
And primeval human remains.
These ancient progenitors calmly exhume,
And in your weird mission exult;
Uncover with reverence each primitive tomb,
But touch not the star-spangled vault.

From times pre-historic to Adam you come,
To Nimrod, and Jacob, and Job;
Through Babylon, Nineveh, Athens and Rome,
To recent events on this globe.
Your tales of antiquity I can commend,
Your style is attractive and free,
Then stick to terrestrial manners, my friend,
And leave stellar subjects to me.

_________________
Mel

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Reply To the Antiquarian Intercepted Letter
To The Editor

Some verses from a friend I saw
In your Gazette, four days ago;
An answer quick indeed I owe
To his petition:
So here is my reply below,
With your permission.

I would not for the world offend
My noble antiquarian friend,
But to his prayer at once attend
Without refusal:
the simple lines enclosed I send
For his perusal.

Hail mighty chief of ancient urns!
Who prehistoric tombs discerns,
And in yon haunted vale sojourns
With ghostly notion;
And cists and calcined bones upturns
with weird devotion.

Your kindly tuneful lines I've read,
And shuddered at the life you've led
Among the dark primordial dead,
Without complaining:
Where dismal mounds are grimly spread,
old bones containing.

What find you there to entertain
Your highly convoluted brain,
In delving up with might and main
What death embraces?
How dare you touch with hands profane
Those sacred places?

It seems malicious, vile and strange,
Amid sepulchral scenes to range,
As if you sought an interchange
With some dark shade,
Or spiteful thirsted for revenge
Among the dead.

Now just suppose (I humbly crave)
That some old antiquarian gave
A hungry look upon your grave,
With spade in hand:
Why, man! you'd tremble, curse and rave,
And shake the land!

Pray leave those jars and calcined bones
Where dim deprated echo moans,
And grasp the earth's wide circular zones
Or solar sphere:
Then soar aloft to stray thrones,
And revel there.

Mark Mercury's wild rapid flight,
Watch Venus - lovely Venus bright,
And valiant Mars, in ruddier light,
Who rolls serene,
With isles and continents in sight
In verdure green.

Away to Jupiter my friend,
His belts and moons pray comprehend,
To Saturn's glorius rings then bend
With love and praise:
Uranus and to Neptune lend
Your wondering gaze.

Dig deep in yon star-spangled vault,
Through depths and heights, nor weary halt!
Though doubts and fears thy faith assault,
They cannot sever
Thy mind from themes that must exalt
Thy soul for ever.

No perils shall thy heart despond
Through deep sidereal space beyond
Where distant triple stars are donned
In bright array;
All gravitating in one bond
They roll away.

Behold our winter nights display,
The brilliant constellations gay,
Orion's belt, the Milky Way,
Those vapoury shrouds;
Then near the Southern Cross survey
Magellan's clouds.

Could you each constellation trace
When viewing heaven's starry face,
All single stars and every brace,
With happy soul;
You there would revel deep in space,
From pole to pole.

But still you get a feeble glance
Of yonder boundless wide expanse,
Where suns in countless millions dance,
With worlds around:
In billions more as you advance,
They still abound.

And pray, thou mighty man of jars,
Why ask of solar spectrum bars?
Although there be canals in Mars,
And urns! my friend:
There surely are no farthest stars,
Thet have no end.

For when the keen observer plies
His powerful lense to sweep the skies,
Where unknown galaxies arise
In numbers vast;
Still on imagination flies
To regions past.

On every side, from place to place,
No mind can grasp, no eye can trace,
No numbers count, no words embrace
The infinite scroll:
No end to stars, no end to space,
Alas my soul.

Then from your smouldering bones get free,
With doubtful ghastly pedigree,
And sweep yon starry vault with me
With lightsome heart:
Celestial wonders bright we'll see,
And never part.

No jealous feelings here you'll find;
As Shakespeare writes of human kind
That dark suspicion hauntsthe mind
Of guilty man;
Sublunar things we'll leave behind
For fools to scan.

We envy not the worldly wise
Who never raises his dull eyes
To fields, where suns in distant skies
their rays unfold;
But grovelling on the earth still lies
Scratching for gold.

Then bid farewell to urns and cists,
Your humble friend at once insists;
Go sell your jars to alchemists
With wizard dreams:
And leave your dismal swamps and mists
For loftier themes.

_________________
Mel

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The Astronomer's Reply To The Antiquarian's Second Letter

Dear friend of antiquarian fame,
Whose love fraternal here I claim,
As thus with pride in rhyme I name
Your heavenly vision,
Which, when I read, at once I came
To this decision.

I thought your bugle sounded truce,
That you had slipped the stellar noose,
And vowed when you had broken loose
From yonder stars,
That no man should gain seduce
You from your jars.

But this is folly I perceive,
For which your humble friend will grieve;
Suppose you get a short reprieve
For recreation;
Before you take a final leave
Or observation.

I like your peom, the latter part
Is really written from the heart;
You quote the scripture for a start,
My pious friend:
And ring the chords with tuneful art
On to the end.

Although your verses made me vain,
I've fallen to myself again;
I'm free from envy, pride and pain
As any mortal;
Or like you in your dreamy strain
At heaven's portal.

In yonder spread of suns afar,
There is at times a stellar war;
And though self luminous they are,
As you well know,
At once some dimly-glittering star
Will brighter glow.

In scenes like these stars may collide,
As on through space they swiftly glide;
In all directions, far and wide,
They fiercely meet,
And quickly melt, and then abide
In fervent heat.

These rolling suns, this wondrous mass
Is thus once more reduced to gas,
And must to smaller compass pass,
By radiation;
Ten million years are sepnt, alas!
In condensation.

The awful term of years must run
Before the blazing future sun
Has from its surface, one by one,
The planets cast -
The process must keep moving on
Until the last.

The atoms of this gaseous cloud
would, in condensing, closer crowd:
A rolling ball, thus, boiled aloud
Our infant planet,
Until the cosmoplastic shroud
Cooled into granite.

The cooling planets all, of course,
Move on by centrifugal force,
Around the great attractive source
From which they flew;
This theory you may not endorse,
But yet 'tis true.

As on they roll, there surely must
In cooling down be formed a crust,
Which men of science don't distrust,
Though fools have jeered;
Some say how life evolved, and just
When it appeared.

The rocks that lie above, in turn,
Were from the beds of granite worn:
Then by the sweeping floods were borne
To boiling seas,
Where lava streams, rocks split and torn
Were mixed with these.

Thus all the higher seams we know,
Are made from neighbour rocks below,
And fossil shapes of life there flow
In changing swarms,
Where species, still evolving, show
Improving forms.

When man appeared we'll leave it o'er,
As we have often done before;
Henceforth I'll love you more and more
Where e'er you rove;
You're welcome ever to explore
The skies above.

The truce is embedded, peace is made,
Then roam away, where angels tread;
Yea, soar aloft to scenes o'er head
Among the stars;
Or deeper dig among the dead
For flint and jars.

_________________
Mel

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