Currently viewing the tag: "Manuscript Collection"

Yesterday was supposed to be our last day here at the museum, but we decided to come in today to try and finish up with our Risk Assessment in the Manuscripts collection.  We came very close to doing just that, but didn’t get all the way to the end, unfortunately.   However, we tackled a few big collections over the past two days, and even some unprocessed collections.  Along the way we got to see some pretty interesting collections, including our favorite, Lillian Powers, the Squirrel Lady, one last time.

We began this summer doing a shelf read in the Manuscript collection, comparing the items on the shelves with the catalog spread sheet, and when that was finished we proceeded to the Risk Assessment portion of our project.  Both experiences have taught us a great deal.  The shelf read introduced us to different types of formats that can be present in a manuscript collection and some of the best practices for describing them.  We also gained a little experience with using the Library of Congress authority controls during this process.

This thing is HUGE!

While performing risk assessment for this collection, we began learning about what can physically compromise a collection: red rot on leather, acid migration from newspaper, annotations on photographs, and the dastardly metal paper clip!  Every now and again we stumbled upon something which really caught our preservation attention, like a very unstable nitrate negative or x-ray.  We also got a chance to see the wide variety of formats that can be found in these collections, like specimens, reprints (I never want to see another reprint again), slides, cassette tapes, and giant floppy disks that wouldn’t fit in any computer we’ve ever used.

Otherwise our time was spent counting items of varying formats and then logging them into the LARA Access database, a process which was sometimes slow and required a significant amount of attention to detail and discussion.  We were both happy that we didn’t have to go this alone.

In the end, our experience taught us so much about risk assessment and the organization and maintenance of an archive.  And it allowed us to encounter images of U.S. presidents, species of fish we’d never heard of, and wonderful squirrel loving New Yorkers. So we leave you with this:

Goodbye, Special Collections. Thanks for everything.

Most of our afternoon today was spent with Roger Conant. A museum herpetologist, Conant was a meticulous and precise individual to say the least.  The processed portion of the collection housed in the Manuscript department (which does not include the portions of his collection housed in Herpetology or the unprocessed portions) spans 57 linear feet and is comprised of 117 boxes!  The picture hardly does the immensity of this collection justice.  But you get the idea.

The collection was largely correspondence, which was easy enough to go through as far as risk assessment is concerned.  But as we made our way through all of his boxes, we found ourselves confronted with, and stunned by, the plethora of formats and the sheer volume of it all.

While going through a box containing a handful of miscellaneous notebooks we also found 11 old passports belonging to Roger, his second wife Isabella, and one of third wife.  In older passports (which were not always blue, by the way) there was a section where you were supposed to mention any distinguishing characteristics of the bearer.  Turns out Conant was missing his left thumb. We had to find out how and why, and knew that the answer had to be somewhere in these boxes.

And it was.  And the story makes complete sense in the end.  Conant studied snakes, predominately of the southwest. As a 20 year old student, Conant apparently tried to capture a Crotalus mitchelli, commonly known as a speckled rattlesnake, or Mitchell’s rattlesnake.  Tried, and was bitten in the process.  The photo at left was found among some of Conant’s personal papers towards the end of the collection.  The annotation on the back identifies the top photo as being of Conant’s left hand, after being bitten by the snake in the second photo. Yikes!

Risk assessment wise the collection was in great shape with exception of some mounted oil paintings of snakes, lizards, and frogs.  In color these pictures are still enclosed in non-archival plastic with decaying adhesive.

Conant’s archive was full of personal and family records including pictures from his childhood in the early 20th century and memorabilia from his time as a boy scout and a math tutor.  Seeing small artifacts such as these just makes you smile, and then wonder how on earth you are supposed to classify them.  Two wooden boats, one metal cannon, 5 award ribbons…

The George Newbold Lawrence Correspondence Collection

When I first began sorting through the hundreds of letters between Lawrence and his friends and colleagues in this collection, I expected the majority to be highly scientific—difficult for the average person to understand, loaded with terms and concepts foreign to non-ornithologists, and concerned with personal and institutional avifauna collections. Upon deeper inspection, many of the letters confirmed these suspicions. Some of Lawrence’s closest friends, including Baird and Cassin, held important positions in museums just beginning to establish their ornithology departments at the turn of the century. They dedicated their lives to bird study, and much of their correspondence reflects that. Though short, a letter from Robert Ridgway, Curator of Ornithology at the Smithsonian Institution and founding member of the American Ornithologists’ Union, packs in the scientific names of multiple new specimens found by their mutual friend Frederick A. Ober, discusses and compares the descriptions and habitats of the species, and references the exact pages of a source book to support his research.

Letter from Robert Ridgway to Lawrence, September 20, 1872

In another letter from A.L.J.F. Sumichrast, a naturalist and collector, a list of bird species is included in dense letter written completely in French. References are made to small differences between scientific names and other ornithologists like Baird are cited in his discussion. Lawrence’s correspondence with John Grant Wells, an ornithologist, contains more of the same highly specialized talk.

Letter from A.L.J.F. Sumichrast to Lawrence, April 6, 1874

Letter from John Wells Grant to Lawrence, February 22, 1881

But not all of the correspondence in this collection was so serious. In one of many letters to Lawrence, John Porter McCown shares his love of “wandering through the woods and making the acquaintance of the birds.” He talks about eliminating potential predators from his property– “I allow no cats about my shanty and I extend protection to the feathered tribes…The result is that my premises abound in birds – quails raise their young in my yard” — and goes on to note that he refrained from starting a collection of birds as he had “seen none but old friends.”

Letter from John Porter McCown to Lawrence, April 17, 1877

Letters like these display the dual-nature of ornithologists like Lawrence. Fascination with birds, often cultivated from a young age, led many to pursue the science and partake in the rigors of studying, naming and exhibiting species found all around the world. But, when possible, these men also protected birds in their natural habitats and resisted the compulsion to kill and collect for the advancement of science.

Hello everyone! After working through the spring semester with Claire and Becca in Invertebrate Paleontology, I’m two weeks into making my way through the George Newbold Lawrence Correspondence Collection. Lawrence was a nineteenth-century amateur ornithologist and author. His collection of over 8,000 bird skins and 300 new bird species was donated to the American Museum of Natural History in May 1887. The correspondence collection for which I’m currently creating a finding aid was given to the museum in 1929 and comprises hundreds of mostly handwritten letters by Lawrence and his friends and colleagues.

George Newbold Lawrence

Lawrence was born on October 20, 1806 in New York City, but spent a good portion of his childhood at his father’s country home along the Hudson River. As a young man, he enjoyed observing and studying avifauna in their natural habitats across the wooded areas of Manhattan including Fort Washington Point and Manhattanville. Lawrence eventually went into partnership with his father in the wholesale drug business and became head of the firm in 1834. But after being introduced to Spencer Fullerton Baird who would become the first curator at the Smithsonian Institution in 1841, he devoted his life to the study and classification of birds.

Spencer Fullerton Baird and John Cassin

Lawrence used his wealth and business background to finance several Smithsonian expeditions, and in 1842 published his first scientific paper on the Black Brant (Bernicula nigricans). This began his nearly fifty-year-long career of contributing ornithology papers to natural science periodicals. Together with Baird and American ornithologist John Cassin, Lawrence worked on the ninth volume of the Pacific Railway Reports, government-funded explorations, studies and surveys of the American West intended to discover the best route for the trans-continental railroad. The volume was eventually revised, expanded and republished in 1860 as The Birds of North America encyclopedia.
Throughout his life, Lawrence was an active member of the New York Lyceum of Natural History as well as the New York Historical and Geographical Societies. He eventually also became an Honorary Member of both the American Ornithologists’ Union and the Linnaean Society of New York.  His knowledge of New World ornithology is widely celebrated: one genus and twenty bird species are named after Lawrence in recognition of his contribution to the science. He forms, together with Baird and Cassin, the great triumvirate of the Bairdian Epoch of American Ornithology.
The Auk: A Quarterly Journal of Ornithology published by the American Ornithologists’ Union
I’m excited to continue working with and learning from the Lawrence collection.  It’s incredibly well-organized with neatly labeled and alphabetized folders. Despite the fact that the majority of letters are from the mid-to-late nineteenth century, moreover, it’s amazing that the collection is in excellent condition. I’ve only just begun constructing its container list, but I’ve already become well-acquainted with Lawrence and his associates. In the coming weeks, I’ll describe some of the most interesting letters in the collection to provide a better sense of this businessman with a real passion for ornithology. Stay tuned!

When we first encountered this collection the boxes were unprocessed and we didn’t even have a first name.  Upon opening the first box marked “A” we found a list of names all beginning with A.  After some further digging we realized we were looking at daily diary entries chronicaling the lives of squirrels.  All typewritten the records were extensive comprising nine linear feet, and a total of 31 boxes, and two scrapbooks.  It was these two scrapbooks that really helped us put all the pieces together.  While they were full of pretty unscientific material and contained articles of every kind that, in at least some way, shape, or form even mentioned squirrels, it was because of the scrapbooks that it dawned on us that the diary entries were in fact about squirrels, and not something, or someone, else.

While the scrapbooks were a delight to look through, they we nothing compared to the diary entries themselves, which tracked all of the squirrels that lived with Dr. Powers and her husband in Westchester, on Red Squirrel Farm.  The top two floors of the Powers home were dedicated entirely to the approximately 130 squirrels, from all over the world, all with names and personalities.  St. Elmo was one of our favorites, though Stasie came in a close second, after we read about her accidentally imbibing a forgotten glass of whiskey.  (She was fine for the time, but died a year later.)

Dr. Powers really anthropomorphized her pets, to the point that she eventually directed six movies, all about and starring squirrels.

Dr. Powers’ diary spans the years 1914 to 1925 and she produced her films in 1922 and 1923.  Along with the diaries and poster shown at left, the collection contained a variety of photographs, pencil drawings, water colors, and correspondence concerning Dr. Powers’ furry friends.  We do have to mention, however, our concern with the preservation of all of these gems.  There were film negatives housed in the same box with newspaper clippings, ink drawings, paper clips, photographs, etc.  The boxes containing the diary entries were filled to the brim with the fragile paper she used to type on, and certainly required care and patience in handling.

And because we went a little trigger happy with this collection, here is one more photo, of a bit of correspondence, that just made us smile.  Enjoy, and until next week.

reads: Have telegraphed money for squirrel Please deliver immediately Will pay all expenses. Powers

Today was our very first day working in the AMNH library, and after a quick morning of introductions and some picture-taking, we began our work on the 6th floor, doing a shelf read of the manuscript collection.  While the majority of the collections we looked at had already been processed, there were a couple collections that had yet to be organized.  One of these was the James W. Atz collection, conveniently labeled as such by a bright yellow sticky note.

Atz was a fish man, who specialized in cichlids, tilapia, and geophagus, all of which are mouthbrooders.  I know, right?  What’s that?  Also known as oral incubation, these species of fish raise their newborns in their mouths. Needless to say, we certainly learned something new today.

Atz was also the curator and dean bibliographer in the icthyology department here at the museum, and a prolific correspondent.  Going through an unprocessed collection housed in eight cardboard boxes in a, as you can see from the above photo, relatively haphazard order was at first a bit daunting.  You open up that first box and have no real idea of what you are looking at or why it matters and have to keep digging to figure out who this guy was and what he discovered and how to then describe that fully and accurately in order to share that with others. There were certainly moments when I found myself looking at a piece of paper and thinking to myself, “Does this really matter?  Why did he save this?”  But I guess that is one of the main goals, and main challenges, of an archive: to determine what is worth keeping, and keep it well.

Another of the interesting collections we looked at today was of a man named Charles Bonnet, who we admittedly know very little about.  His collection consisted of one box which contained a beautiful hand-written letter in French, and a few illustrated portraits of him from the early 18th century.  While the collection was very small, it was very well preserved in polypropylene sleeves, and piqued our interest because it’s so old! A second similar collection from the 18th century was that of Georges Louis Leclerc, comte de Buffon which also contained a hand-written letter and numerous portraits.

That’s all we have for now, but we have a lot more work ahead of us, and a lot more to learn.  See you next week!

Today I spent some time looking into the box marked Biographical Materials. This is only one of the eighteen boxes of the John Treadwell Nichols’ collection that I’ve been cataloguing this spring. The Biographical Materials section generally takes up a folder or two in collections that center around an individual, and it generally consists of letters between the individual’s relatives and the institution acquiring the personal materials. Although it’s surprising to see the difference in the font, the speech, and the tone, the most jarring thing about the Biographical Materials is realizing how the world really saw the person. In the case of John Treadwell Nichols, the majority of the folder was devoted to the correspondence between his youngest son, David G. Nichols, and various naturalists around the United States.

During his career here at the Museum, John Treadwell Nichols not only over-saw the development of the Department of Herpetology and Ichthyology when it was organized in 1909, but he became the first curator of the newly separated Department of Ichthyology in 1919 after Bashford Dean stepped down. In addition, Nichols founded the American Society of Ichthyologists and Herpetologists (ASIH) and its journal, Copeia, out of his small office here in 1913 while still in his twenties.

The letters in this box between David G. Nichols and the zoologists around the United States date from the early to mid-eighties. Interest in the founding of Copeia had begun to emerge among the zoologist community as the ASIH publication approached its 75th Anniversary. However, in the letters addressed to David, the members confess that they haven’t found any information relating to Nichols and the journal’s founding. A zoologist from Ohio State University observed that even the Museum of Natural History didn’t have a collection of Nichols’ records and “kn[e]w nothing of his files” or their whereabouts. This lack of information on John Treadwell Nichols was shocking, when he contributed hundreds of articles and was President of ASIH during the early thirties in addition to his position as curator for the Museum.

The responses from David G. Nichols introduced a portion of his father’s life that his personal journals and letters hadn’t conveyed. In one letter David, the youngest of Nichols’ four children, recalled his childhood and the relationship with his father. Whereas his siblings had lost their interest in zoology and instead “emerged into the business world” after college, David was removed from high school during his sophomore year and spent the next few years collecting mammals for the Museum throughout North America and Europe. On the outset of World War II, David didn’t even have a high school diploma but had traveled extensively around the world. Despite that his father and he “were unusually close along a number of dimensions…spending much field time together studying mammals and birds,” he never knew about his father’s involvement with ASIH or the journal until a Museum lecturer took him aside and told him.

In addition to his father’s modesty however, letters also alluded to an “isolation” between John Treadwell Nichols and his peers in the fields of Ichthyology or Herpetology. One especially sad letter dated November 18, 1987 from James W. Atz, a Curator Emeritus of the Museum, apologized to Nichols’ son for “these slights and neglect” by the scientific community to his father’s memory. Atz went on to observe that despite Nichols’ accomplishments, “your Father became increasingly isolated” from the two fields he’d been so instrumental in organizing. The entire field, including Charles Breder Jr. a fellow ichthyologist whom Nichols co-authored many articles with and Carl Hubbs who took over as editor of Nichols’ journal, he concluded, “rather discounted your Father’s accomplishments.” It was sad to think that the isolation of his waning years should obscure the rest of his career.

The saddest part—conveyed by the various requests made by zoologists and other scientists on David G. Nichols for his father’s personal records—was that Nichols had become relatively unknown and undocumented after his death, despite how successful and esteemed ASIH and Copeia had become. At the end of the letter, Atz made a revealing analogy when he compared the legacies of Nichols and his peer, Breder. Both of these men became isolated for the field of ichthyology in the years preceding their deaths, but Breder made sure a friend wrote his obituary so he would “not suffer the final dishonor of having that duty performed” by a stranger or a competitor in his field.

This observation illustrates the importance of archives. In the case of John Treadwell Nichols, his life and contributions could’ve been contained in a bibliography or an obituary. The American Museum of Natural History has a brief file on him consisting of a few newspaper articles, printed interviews, and various copies of his obituary. So why can’t this replace a collection of Nichols’ personal materials?

This file is a collection of people writing on Nichols’ life. That’s history, but is it enough? The file doesn’t cover any of the contrasting views I encountered in the Biographical Materials. There’s nothing about how his reputation soured among the scientific community during the last years of his life, and there’s very little on the nature of his relationships with his family, friends, or even peers.

I believe, and I don’t think many would disagree, that archival collections are much more reliable at capturing the true nature of a person or an event—the different threads and contradictions, etc—than history. Archival collections aren’t accessible to everyone and so the historians process the information and analyze it for the public. They aren’t objective, and two historians looking at the same material can come up with different conclusions. That’s how history changes and brings life to the past, and archives fuel these debates. Without archives, history would be at a standstill. If we destroyed a collection after someone wrote on it, then that person would get the last word. If interest hadn’t reemerged for John Treadwell Nichols, there would only be a collection of obituaries. All the other views and aspects of the man would die with his relatives, his friends, and his peers. Everything would be gone. I almost consider the archives alive because the same materials can be analyzed so differently. A few years from now, another intern might discuss Biographical Materials and propose that this reveals something entirely different about Nichols’ personality. Who knows?

I’ve begun drafting a historical note on the establishment on the Department of Ichthyology (fish studies) to provide more context to the John Treadwell Nichols’ personal collection. Although John Nichols became curator of this department in 1920, he was involved in it from its conception in 1909. In my research of the department’s history, I’m struck by how humble and uncertain its beginnings were. The Museum initially established this branch under the Department of Ichthyology and Herpetology (amphibians) and appointed Bashford Dean (1867-1928) as the head. Dean, concurrently the Curator of Arms and Armor at the Metropolitan Museum of Art across the park, was also a specialist on armored fish and during World War I, he’d serve as a Major in the U.S. Ordnance Service, developing improved helmets and special body armor.

Although the Museum had collected an impressive amount of vertebrate zoological specimens, very little attention in comparison was given to its invertebrate holdings. However, in only a decade after its establishment, the young Assistant Curator G.K. Noble observed that the department’s collection “has increased from one of the smallest to the fourth largest museum collection in the United States, and now includes nearly 50,000 specimens.” Dean himself would attribute this tremendous growth to the efforts of the forty-two year old Mary Cynthia Dickerson over herpetology and the twenty-six year old John Treadwell Nichols over ichthyology. Both Dean’s assistant curators realized the importance of generating interest, and Dickerson became Associate Editor of the American Museum Journal from 1909 to 1910 and Editor of the publication from 1910 until 1920, while Nichols launched the journal Copeia from his museum office in 1913.

Furthermore, the staff agreed that early efforts should be put in amassing a collection and producing exhibits for the public over research. In her 1919 annual report, Dickerson wrote that the “department, being still considerably under ten years of age, differs from the other departments of the institution, many of which are a half century old, in having relatively meager and inadequate reference material.” She concluded that “attention must be centered on building up this material for several years before the department will be in a position to do its most efficient and authoritative work.”

The department’s staff fought Dean’s initiatives to exchange its materials with other museums for the purpose of research because they believed that the museum itself could become influential in the field of invertebrate studies. Dickerson and Nichols involved themselves in field work. In the Nichols’ collection, I’ve found countless journals full of observations. His own children testified that Nichols would pay them to catch turtles and frogs and report back to him the location and time. Through this method, Nichols was able to research the distances and patterns turtles traveled throughout their lives. Also, Dickerson and Nichols aided and collaborated with parties sent by the Museum around the world to gather specimens. For example, the 1909-1915 Congo Expedition collection kept in the archives here contains a few letters between Nichols and the various participants.

In less than a decade, Nichols and Dickerson were able to amass a formidable collection of fish, reptile, and amphibian specimens so much that, the Department of Herpetology separated from Ichthyology in 1919 with Dickerson as its curator. Although these are just the early years of Nichols’ involvement with the Museum, they demonstrate how vital Nichols was to invertebrate zoology. His collection reflects the new department’s emphasis on gathering and advertising their specimens. Nichols documented the wildlife in New York City and on his voyages abroad. He sketched and collected numerous samples of the same species to make certain that he knew the general features and could identify abnormalities.

Although I’m not researching Dickerson, I decided to include her because she started out very much like Nichols. Both were passionate naturalists on their own time. Nichols was a young man who had taken time off from his studies at Harvard to travel around the Caribbean on a small boat. Various journals in his collection document the experience—the boredom and tedium of sailing on the open sea surrounded only by seagulls. Dickerson was an older woman who had contributed to various journals and on her own time amassed one of the largest turtle collections in the United States by the time she donated it to the Museum in the early 1900s. Apparently, only one type of turtle known to exist in the United States at the time was missing from it.

Both of these people, driven by a natural love for research and discovery, would bring the Museum’s collection of invertebrate zoology the respect of competing institutions around the world. Both Nichols and Dickerson would become curators of their various departments in 1920; however, Dickerson tragically began to lose her sanity after the appointment and in December later that year was committed to Bellevue hospital. Recording her demeanor during a 1922 visit, one of her colleagues from the museum observed how Dickerson wept when describing the frustration she felt knowing she wouldn’t be the person to finish the collection.

I’m of course not planning to include all of these sordid details in my historical note, but I found the department’s beginning so astounding. The Museum of Natural History is an institution that is respected around the world, but discovering how it got there is inspirational. It is interesting to think that the relatively unknown Nichols and Dickerson played big parts in establishing the department’s reputation, and they did it by focusing efforts on building up a collection, a slow task, rather than go directly into research—a move that would probably have kept the department fairly minimal.

The Kalbfleisch Research Station was located on Long Island in Huntington, and it came into being after August Kalbfleisch willed her estate to the Museum. The hundred acre property was used primarily for ornithological research for about 20 years as Dr. Wesley E. Lanyon, a curator of birds at the museum served as its resident director. At the heart of the station’s activities was its Undergraduate Research Program which brought between 9 and 12 college students to live and work at the station each summer. Students were expected to conduct their own research projects and had the opportunity to study under the scientists from the museum. Although it was extremely popular, budget cuts to a separate institution responsible for funding the program forced it to end in the mid-seventies and the station was shut down by the end of the decade. Some controversy arose when the museum was forced to sell the property to real estate developers in the early eighties after failing to find a similar institution to buy the property.

I’ve only gone through a few pictures thus far, but it from what I can tell, the student program looked like a fun time. Everyone seems to have stayed in the in the estate’s main house, and there are shots of everyone eating around a large kitchen table. This collection seems to include a ton of photos, so hopefully I’ll find some good ones to share with you all here, and either way, it will be interesting to see how the museum utilized this unique, though short lived, research station.

This spring, I’m creating a finding aid on the journals, manuscripts, and other documents in the John Treadwell Nichols’ Collection here at the Museum. A member of the staff at the American Museum of Natural History for fifty three years, Nichols initially began his career here as an assistant curator of recent fishes in the newly established Department of Ichthyology in 1909. (Before that, fishes were categorized under the museum’s department devoted to insects.) He became curator from 1927 until retiring in 1952 and had the position of curator emeritus until his death in 1958.

At the beginning of his career, Nichols traveled around mostly in the Atlantic, around New York and the New England region. He kept detailed notes on the animals he encountered and collected the basis of the Department’s collection of marine fish in his early years at the Museum. He traveled from Nova Scotia to Alaska, New York to Puerto Rico, and even from the United States to China to research the theory of whether some fresh fish had migrated from China to America when the two continents were joined.

Known for his efforts in the field, Nichols was attributed with personally establishing and over-seeing the Department’s expansive collection of specimens. In their profile pieces on him, several newspapers noted Nichols’ collection of fishes preserved in pickle jars that had survived his time there. When asked if the Museum encountered any problems with their fish collection, Nichols admitted that during Prohibition some employees had sipped a lot of the alcohol used for preservation of the specimens, and the fluids had run dangerously low in some jars.

In addition to his hands-on field work with the Department, Nichols published many books on fish, like “The Fresh-Water Fishes of China” and would found the American Society of Herpetologists and Ichthyologists during the forties. He’s also famous for his work on the identification of a large 998 pound white shark that that was caught off the New Jersey shore in 1935. He was an explorer and a devoted researcher who was deeply interested in the entire field of zoology.

Today, I broke into the initial journals Nichols kept. Spreading from 1907 until 1916, the journals cover Nichols’ time as a zoology major at Harvard University where he earned his BA in 1907 to his time spent as an associate curator for the new Department. The settings range from Central Park, New York City, to Havana, Cuba; however, Nichols’ analysis of the areas generally depicts the weather. He details the creatures he encounters, describing color, measurements, sex, and movements.

A strictly professional correspondence, the journal illustrates Nichols’ many travels and his high regard for detail and analysis. In writing the finding aid, I hope I can depict the information half as thoroughly as Nichols. He draws pictures and takes from the accounts of his peers, local boys from Cuban ports to New Jersey farms, and other natives to build a narrative of each new encounter. It becomes apparent what a devoted zoologist he was, and I found myself trying to keep track of his various colleagues and new locations. It was difficult to avoid getting lost in his descriptions of Mourning Warblers’ yellow bellies and their sharp short “chip chip” or the Sea Lions lying on the rocks in San Francisco. I am excited to see his personal correspondence and even get a better sense of his peers who appear generally as acronyms in these journal entries.