Somebody probably changed your mind this week. Maybe it was a friend who talked you out of a purchase, or an article that shifted a position you thought was settled, or your teenager making a case for a later curfew that was, annoyingly, pretty good.

Whatever it was, it worked in one of three ways. The person seemed worth believing. The thing at stake mattered to you. Or the reasoning held up.

Aristotle noticed the same three things about 2,400 years ago and gave them names: ethos, pathos, and logos.

What are ethos, pathos, and logos?

Ethos, pathos, and logos are the three appeals a speaker or writer can use to persuade an audience.

• Ethos is the appeal to character and credibility, the sense that the speaker is trustworthy.
• Pathos is the appeal to emotion, imagination, and values.
• Logos is the appeal to reason, evidence, and sound argument.

Aristotle described them in his Rhetoric (c. 350 BC) as the three available means of persuasion, and they remain the foundation of how we analyze persuasion today. Together they’re often called the rhetorical triangle.

That’s the short answer. The rest of this guide covers how to tell them apart when they overlap, what they look like in real advertising and real speeches, where they go wrong, and how to teach them to students at different ages.

Quick reference

How to remember which is which

There are three English derivatives that can help us remember these terms. All three words came into English through Greek and kept their meanings intact.

Ethos gives us ethics. It’s about character.

Pathos gives us empathy and sympathy. It’s about feeling.

Logos gives us logic. It’s about reasoning.

If that doesn’t stick, try the three questions instead. Every persuasive act has to answer them, whether the speaker realizes it or not:

• Why should you believe me? (ethos)
• Why should you care? (pathos)
• Why should you agree? (logos)

Students who learn the three questions tend to hold onto the concept longer than students who memorize three definitions, because the questions are portable. You can ask them of a commercial, a sermon, a lab report, or a dinner-table argument, and they’ll give you something useful every time.

What are ethos, pathos, and logos called together?

This question comes up frequently, partly because the answer has several correct versions.

The most common name is the three rhetorical appeals. You’ll also see the three modes of persuasion, the three artistic proofs, and the rhetorical triangle. Aristotle’s own term was pisteis, usually translated as “proofs” or “means of persuasion.” He called them artistic proofs to distinguish them from evidence a speaker simply finds and presents, such as a contract or a witness.

Are they rhetorical devices? Not quite. A rhetorical device is a specific technique, usually operating at the level of a sentence: anaphora, antithesis, chiasmus, metaphor. The appeals operate at the level of strategy. Ethos, pathos, and logos are the reasons an argument persuades. Devices are some of the tools that support those reasons.

A useful way to hold it: pathos is what you’re doing, and a well-chosen metaphor is how you’re doing it.

Are they literary devices? They’re used in literature all the time, but they belong to rhetoric rather than to literary analysis. Literary analysis asks what a text means. Rhetorical analysis asks how a text works on the person reading it.

And no, they aren’t capitalized. They’re common nouns in English, like logic or character. You’ll sometimes see them capitalized in worksheets and slide decks, but standard usage is lowercase.

Where ethos, pathos, and logos came from

Persuasion is older than the study of it. What changed in fifth-century Athens was that people started teaching it on purpose.

The sophists were the first professional teachers of rhetoric, and they were extraordinarily good at it. They were also, in Plato’s view, a menace. In the Gorgias, Plato has Socrates compare rhetoric to pastry-making: something that produces pleasure without producing health, flattering an audience rather than serving it. If persuasion could be taught as a skill detached from truth, then the most skillful person would win regardless of whether they were right.

Aristotle, Plato’s student, took the criticism seriously and answered it differently. His Rhetoric treats persuasion as an art that can be studied honestly, because understanding how arguments move people is exactly what allows you to recognize when you’re being moved badly. In Book I he sets out the three appeals, and he’s explicit that ethos does the heaviest lifting. An audience decides whether to trust a speaker before it evaluates a single claim.

The Romans carried this forward and tightened the connection between rhetoric and character. Cicero argued in De Oratore (55 BC) that the ideal orator needed broad learning and genuine virtue, not technique alone. Quintilian went further in his Institutio Oratoria (c. AD 95), defining the orator as vir bonus dicendi peritus, a good man skilled in speaking. The goodness came first in the phrase, and he meant that ordering.

Augustine brought the tradition into Christian education in Book IV of On Christian Doctrine (c. AD 397), arguing that if rhetoric is powerful, then those who have truth to tell had better learn to tell it well. Leaving eloquence to falsehood struck him as a strange kind of surrender.

From there, rhetoric became the third of the three arts of the trivium, the sequence that structured Western education for well over a thousand years. Grammar gave students command of language. Logic gave them command of reasoning. Rhetoric gave them the ability to bring both to bear on a real audience in a real moment. The order was deliberate, and it explains why ethos, pathos, and logos come late in a classical education rather than early. You can’t persuade well until you can reason well.

Ethos: Or, "Why should you believe me?"

Ethos is the audience’s judgment about the speaker. Is this person credible? Do they know what they’re talking about? Are they arguing in good faith, or working an angle?

Aristotle broke ethos into three components, and they’re still the clearest breakdown available:

Practical wisdom. Does the speaker actually know this subject? A pediatrician discussing childhood fevers carries ethos that a stranger on the internet does not.

Virtue. Is the speaker honest? Have they represented the opposing view fairly, or built a straw man they can knock down?

Goodwill. Does the speaker want good things for this audience specifically? This is the one people forget, and it’s often decisive. An audience can believe a speaker is both knowledgeable and honest while suspecting that the speaker’s interests and their own point in different directions.

That third component is where the classical tradition and the Christian one meet, and where they start to pull apart a little. Aristotle treated goodwill as a component of effective persuasion, which it is. The Greeks and Romans wrote a great deal about sound reasoning, orderly thinking, and clear communication. They wrote considerably less about how to love the person you're arguing with.

That gap is the reason our rhetoric courses are built on A Rhetoric of Love by Doug Jones rather than on another updated edition of Aristotle. The book takes the classical tradition seriously and then asks a question the ancients didn't: if Christ called us to love our neighbor, what does that require of us when the neighbor is the one we're trying to persuade? Jones's answer reframes goodwill from a technique for winning an audience into an obligation toward them. It changes what listening is for. It changes what you do with an opponent's strongest argument.

Students tend to find this bracing rather than softening, because a rhetoric of love turns out to be more demanding than a rhetoric of winning. Winning only requires that your argument hold. Love, however, requires that you understand the person well enough to know what they actually need to hear.

Ethos comes from several places at once. Some of it arrives before the speaker opens their mouth, carried by reputation, position, or introduction. Some of it is built inside the communication itself, through the care of the reasoning, the fairness toward opponents, the evident preparation. And some of it is borrowed, which is what an endorsement is: a transfer of trust from someone the audience already believes to someone they don't yet.

Ethos is also the slowest of the three appeals to build and the fastest to lose. A career of careful work can be undone by one visible gap between what a person says and how they live. Quintilian's ordering makes more sense the longer you look at it.

For students, the useful exercise is noticing how much of their own believing runs on ethos. Most of what any of us accepts as true, we accept because we trust the source rather than because we've checked the reasoning. That isn't laziness. Nobody has time to verify everything. But it does mean that learning to evaluate sources well is one of the more consequential intellectual skills a person can develop.

Pathos: Or, "Why should you care?"

Pathos is the appeal to the audience’s emotions, imagination, and values. It’s the appeal most likely to be treated with suspicion, and that suspicion deserves a fair hearing.

Emotional appeals get used to short-circuit thinking all the time. Fundraising letters engineered to produce guilt, political messaging built on fear, advertising designed to make you feel a lack you didn’t have ten seconds ago: all of that is pathos, and all of it is worth being wary of. Anyone who’s felt manipulated by a well-made commercial has learned something true about how this works.

What that wariness can obscure is that emotion isn’t an interruption of good judgment. It’s frequently part of it. Feeling appropriate grief at an injustice is a form of perceiving it accurately. A person who could read a famine report with no emotional response at all wouldn’t be thinking more clearly than the rest of us but less!

Aristotle understood this and spent an enormous portion of the Rhetoric on it, cataloguing individual emotions with real precision: what anger is, what makes people feel it, whom they feel it toward. He treated the emotions as things to be understood rather than either exploited or avoided.

Modern research points the same direction. Green and Brock’s work on narrative transportation, the experience of being absorbed into a story, found that narratives shift attitudes more durably than statistics in many contexts (Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, 2000). Stories do something arguments alone don’t, which is part of why story does so much work in the classroom.

Pathos is built through specificity more than intensity. Vivid detail, concrete cases, particular people rather than aggregate categories, imagery that lets an audience see the thing rather than be told about it. The writer who describes one family’s displacement will usually move readers further than the writer who reports the number displaced, which is a fact about human attention worth knowing in both directions.

The test for whether pathos is honest is proportion, and we’ll come back to it below.

Logos: Or, "Why should you agree?"

Logos is the appeal to reason: the structure of the argument, the quality of the evidence, and the validity of the connections between them.

This is the appeal students are most often taught to produce and least often taught to evaluate. Assembling supporting facts is straightforward. Assessing whether the facts actually support the conclusion is where the difficulty lives.

Logos includes:

Evidence. Data, examples, testimony, documented cases. The material an argument rests on.

Structure. How claims are ordered so that each one has what it needs before it arrives. A well-built argument feels almost inevitable in retrospect, and that feeling is the structure doing its job.

Valid inference. Whether the conclusion actually follows. This is where logic as a discipline earns its place in the sequence. A student who’s worked through formal and informal logic can identify a hasty generalization or an appeal to popularity without having to feel their way toward it.

Aristotle’s characteristic logos form was the enthymeme, an argument that deliberately leaves a premise unstated because the audience already holds it. “She’s a surgeon, so she’ll know what to look for” skips over the premise that surgeons know anatomy. Everyone supplies it silently, and the argument moves faster for it.

Enthymemes are efficient and worth noticing carefully, because the unstated premise is where a great deal of persuasion actually happens. An audience that supplies a premise itself has, in a small way, agreed to the argument before the argument finished. Teaching students to surface hidden premises is one of the higher-yield things a logic or rhetoric course does.

Logos on its own has a recognizable failure mode. An argument can be airtight and land on nobody, because the audience never had a reason to trust the speaker or care about the question. Being right is not the same as being persuasive, and treating them as identical has cost a lot of well-reasoned people a lot of arguments.

Telling them apart when they overlap

Here’s the part most explanations skip, and it’s the part students actually get stuck on. In real communication the three appeals rarely arrive separately. A single sentence can carry all three at once.

Take this one:

As a pediatric nurse, I’ve held children who couldn’t breathe because their apartment had mold the landlord refused to treat. Fourteen units in that building have open violations.

That’s ethos in the first four words, pathos through the middle, and logos in the last sentence, and none of it can be cleanly separated. The credential makes the story credible. The story makes the statistic matter. The statistic keeps the story from being dismissed as one bad case.

So when a student asks whether something is ethos or pathos, the answer is often “both, and here’s why that’s the point.”

A better question than “which one is this?”

Instead of sorting sentences into boxes, ask what each element is doing for the argument. Three diagnostic questions:

1. What would be lost if this were removed? Strip the credential from the example above and the story becomes an anecdote from a stranger. Strip the story and the statistic becomes municipal trivia. Whatever disappears when you remove an element tells you what that element was carrying.

2. What is this asking the audience to do? Ethos asks the audience to extend trust. Pathos asks them to feel the weight of something. Logos asks them to follow a chain of reasoning. Most passages are asking for more than one of these, and identifying which one is primary is more useful than pretending the others aren’t there.

3. Where is the argument’s weight resting? If the audience stopped trusting the speaker, would the argument survive? If they felt nothing, would it still move them? If the reasoning had a hole in it, would they notice? Whichever appeal the argument can least afford to lose is the one it’s built on.

A quick worked comparison

Three ways of making the same case, that a school should keep its music program:

Weighted toward ethos: I’ve taught here nineteen years and directed this program for twelve. I’ve watched what happens to the students who stay in it, and I’ve watched what happens to the ones who leave.

Weighted toward pathos: Last spring a sophomore who hadn’t spoken in class all year played a solo at the winter concert. Her mother cried in the third row. That’s the room we’re deciding about.

Weighted toward logos: Students in the program have averaged higher attendance and higher GPAs than the school median for six consecutive years, and the program costs less per student than any other elective we offer.

All three are legitimate. All three are incomplete alone. A board member who doesn’t trust the speaker will discount the data. A board member who feels nothing will find the data academic. A board member who’s moved but sees no numbers will worry the decision is sentimental.

The best version of that speech uses all three, in an order chosen for that particular room. Which is really what rhetoric is: judgment about what this audience, in this moment, needs in order to arrive somewhere true.

Ethos, pathos, and logos in advertising

Advertising is the easiest place to see the three appeals working, partly because ad budgets buy a great deal of craft and partly because thirty seconds forces the appeals into their purest forms.

Ethos in advertising most often shows up as borrowed credibility. A professional athlete endorsing athletic shoes transfers trust from someone the audience already believes to a product they haven’t tried. Expert endorsement works the same way, which is why toothpaste has been sold by dentists for roughly a century. So does institutional ethos: “family owned since 1948,” certifications, awards, and the numbers brands cite about how many customers they already have. Every one of those is an answer to why should you believe us?

Pathos in advertising is the appeal most associated with the form, and the animal-welfare commercials that pair slow music with footage of shelter animals are the example most people reach for. They work. They also demonstrate the risk clearly, because a great many people report changing the channel rather than sitting through them, which is what happens when an audience senses that a feeling is being extracted rather than invited. Gentler pathos is everywhere too: holiday advertising built on family reunion, insurance ads built on the relief of being covered, any commercial that shows you a life slightly better than yours and lets you draw the connection yourself.

Logos in advertising looks like specifications, comparisons, price-per-unit math, clinical results, and warranty terms. It runs heavier in categories where purchases are considered rather than impulsive, which is why car advertising carries more numbers than soft-drink advertising.

Most effective campaigns run all three. A pharmaceutical ad will show a person living well (pathos), cite trial results (logos), and close with a physician’s voice (ethos), all inside sixty seconds.

For students, ads make excellent practice material precisely because the persuasion is compressed and unmistakable. A useful drill: watch a commercial twice, once normally and once with the sound off. What the images are doing and what the words are doing are often two different appeals, and separating them is a real skill.

Ethos, pathos, and logos in speeches and literature

Advertising shows the appeals at their most concentrated. Great speeches and essays show them at their most sophisticated.

The Declaration of Independence (1776) is probably the best single teaching text in English for seeing all three at once, because it's short enough to read in a sitting and its structure is unusually visible.

Its logos is a syllogism. Governments exist to secure certain rights. When a government becomes destructive of those ends, the people may alter or abolish it. This government has become destructive of those ends. Therefore. Everything between the premises and the conclusion is evidence, which is what that long central list of grievances against the king is doing. Students often read the grievances as filler. They're the proof step.

Its ethos is built in the opening sentence, where the signers explain that a decent respect for the opinions of mankind requires them to state their reasons. Before making a single claim, they establish that they consider themselves accountable to an audience. The closing pledge of lives, fortunes, and sacred honor does the same work from the other end, since a person who accepts real cost for a claim is easier to believe.

Its pathos is deliberately restrained until it isn't. The document keeps a lawyerly tone through most of its length, which makes the sudden concrete violence of plundered seas, ravaged coasts, and burnt towns land much harder than it would in a document that had been shouting the whole time.

You can read the full text here, and it makes an excellent first assignment for a student's first rhetorical analysis.

Lincoln's Second Inaugural Address (1865) is a compact demonstration of all three working under pressure. The address runs about seven hundred words, delivered as the Civil War was ending, to a country that had to decide what to do with its victory.

His logos is the surprising part. Rather than arguing that one side was right, Lincoln built from premises both sides shared: both read the same Bible, both prayed to the same God, both had asked for help against the other. From common ground he reached a conclusion neither side had started with, which is the hardest thing an argument can do.

His ethos comes from restraint. He doesn't speak as the victor. He admits that no one had expected the war to last as long as it did, and the admitted uncertainty makes everything after it easier to receive.

His pathos is disciplined rather than absent. The closing call for malice toward none and charity for all invites an exhausted, grieving nation to choose mercy without ever telling them what to feel.

Martin Luther King Jr.'s "I Have a Dream" (1963) is often taught as pure pathos, which undersells it considerably. King's ethos was established before he spoke, through years of demonstrated cost, and he reinforced it by grounding his case in the founding documents rather than against them. His logos is a straightforward argument about a promise made and unkept. The pathos, the imagery and cadence that made the speech famous, sits on top of a structure that would hold without it. His "Letter from Birmingham Jail" from the same year is even more instructive for students, because it's addressed to sympathetic critics rather than opponents, and it spends most of its length taking their objections seriously before answering them.

Jonathan Swift's A Modest Proposal (1729) is worth studying because it runs the appeals in reverse. Swift adopts the voice of a reasonable economic planner, complete with calculations and cost projections, and applies that perfectly calm logos to a monstrous proposal about Irish children. The essay works by making the reader feel the horror the narrator doesn't. The pathos is produced entirely by the gap between the tone and the content, which is a more advanced move than anything in the ad examples and a good stretch for a strong high schooler.

Scripture is dense with all three, and the rhetorical questions are especially worth noticing. When Paul asks in Romans 8:31 what can stand against us if God is for us, the question isn't seeking information. It's letting the reader arrive at the conclusion through their own reasoning, which makes it stick in a way a flat assertion wouldn't. Job 38 does something similar at scale, answering Job's complaint with a long sequence of questions rather than a lecture.

Texts to practice on

We keep a number of primary sources available free on our resources page, several of which make good analysis material:

• The Declaration of Independence. The best starting point, for the reasons above.
• Wilson's Fourteen Points (1918). A logos-forward speech that repays a skeptical reading. Ask what each point assumes about the audience, and whether the enumerated structure is doing argumentative work or performing authority.
• Slave narratives from the Federal Writers' Project (1936–38). Advanced material, and worth the care it asks for. Most of these interviews were conducted by white interviewers, and the narrators knew it. That makes them a rare chance to study how the rhetorical situation shapes testimony: what gets said, what gets softened, what gets said sideways. Patsy Mitchner's closing image of two snakes, one named slavery and one named freedom, both of which bit, is as controlled a piece of extended metaphor as you will find anywhere.
• Dido's Lament from the Aeneid. Worth hearing rather than reading. Dido's speeches to Aeneas in Book IV are formal rhetoric performed inside a poem, and pathos is easier to feel in the ear than to identify on the page.

Kairos, telos, and the rest of the family

Ethos, pathos, and logos come up together so often that people are sometimes surprised to learn the classical vocabulary doesn’t stop there. Several related terms show up in rhetoric courses, and two of them matter enough to know.

Kairos is the opportune moment. The idea is that the same argument, made to the same audience, can succeed or fail depending entirely on when it arrives. Kairos is the reason a case that goes nowhere in March can carry a room in September, and the reason experienced communicators spend as much attention on timing as on content. It’s frequently taught as a fourth appeal, which is defensible, though it works a little differently from the other three: ethos, pathos, and logos are things you build, while kairos is something you read and respond to.

Telos is the purpose or end of the communication. What is this actually for? A speech intended to inform, one intended to move people to act, and one intended to comfort will make different choices at every level even if the subject is identical. Naming the telos before drafting is one of the more clarifying habits a student writer can develop.

Two more turn up occasionally. Topos (plural topoi) refers to the common lines of argument a speaker can draw on, the standard places one goes looking for material. Mythos is sometimes used for appeals to a culture’s shared stories and values, the arguments that work because of what a particular people already believe about themselves.

You may also see bathos in the same lists, usually by accident. Bathos is an unintentional drop from the elevated to the trivial, a failure of tone rather than a mode of persuasion. It’s a useful word, just not a member of this family.

For most students, ethos, pathos, logos, and kairos are plenty. The others are worth recognizing when they appear.

When pathos becomes manipulation

The line between persuasion and manipulation is the question students ask most often once they understand the appeals, and it’s the right question to be asking.

The distinction isn’t about which appeal is used. It’s about how the appeal relates to what’s true.

Legitimate pathos is proportionate. The emotion invited matches the reality being described. A speech about a genuine injustice that produces anger has produced an accurate response. A speech engineered to produce that same anger about something trivial, because anger is useful to the speaker, has not.

Legitimate pathos engages reasoning rather than replacing it. The test is whether an audience, having felt what the speaker wanted them to feel, would still endorse the conclusion after sitting with it for a week. Manipulation depends on the audience not doing that. It needs the decision made while the feeling is fresh, which is why so much manipulative communication comes with artificial urgency attached.

Legitimate pathos survives disclosure. If a speaker could explain exactly what they were doing and why, and the audience would still find it fair, the appeal is honest. Manipulation requires concealment. It stops working the moment the audience sees the mechanism.

The same tests apply to the other two. Borrowed ethos becomes deceptive when the credential doesn’t actually bear on the question, which is what’s happening whenever a celebrity’s fame is used to underwrite a claim about nutrition. Logos becomes deceptive through selected evidence, statistics stripped of their context, and reasoning that looks valid until you check it.

This is where the classical tradition’s insistence on character stops sounding quaint. Aristotle, Cicero, Quintilian, and Augustine all arrived at some version of the same conclusion: the techniques of persuasion are genuinely powerful, and power in the hands of someone indifferent to truth is a problem that no amount of technique will solve. Teaching rhetoric without teaching character produces exactly the person Plato was worried about.

It's also the pressure A Rhetoric of Love keeps applying, and the reason the book anchors our rhetoric sequence. A student who has been asked, repeatedly, whether an argument serves the person on the other end of it will start asking that of their own work. That habit is worth more than any list of techniques.

Teaching ethos, pathos, and logos by stage

Students can engage the three appeals long before they can analyze them formally. The classical stages of learning suggest a natural progression.

Grammar stage (roughly K through 6): noticing

Young students aren’t ready for the vocabulary, but they’re surrounded by persuasion and perfectly capable of noticing it.

Watch a commercial together and ask what it’s trying to make them want, and how it’s going about it. Read a fable and ask who’s trying to convince whom of what. Play “convince me,” where they argue for something they’d like and you name what worked.

The habit you’re building is attentiveness: the sense that messages are always doing something, and that it’s interesting to ask what.

Logic stage (roughly 7 through 9): mapping

This is the natural moment to introduce the terms, because students at this age have discovered arguing and are usually delighted to find out it has a structure.

Introduce the three appeals with the three questions rather than three definitions. Have them label appeals in an op-ed or a speech. Introduce claim, evidence, and warrant. Argue at the dinner table on purpose and take their positions seriously enough to push back on them, which teaches more than any worksheet.

Formal logic belongs here too. Students who can name a fallacy evaluate logos far more precisely than students working on instinct.

Rhetoric stage (roughly 10 through 12): analysis and production

Older students are ready for full rhetorical analysis and for producing arguments that hold up under challenge.

Work through primary sources rather than textbook summaries. Lincoln, Swift, Paul’s letters, and the great speeches are working models operating at a level worth imitating. Assign extended persuasive writing on questions they actually care about. Put them in front of an audience, because writing an argument and defending one are different skills and only the second one produces the composure students need.

Our self-paced Rhetoric course and the Rhetoric sequence in our live classes both build toward this, culminating in Senior Thesis, where students defend an original argument in front of a panel. There’s no substitute for having to answer for what you’ve claimed.

An exercise for any stage: the appeals audit

Pick a piece of persuasive communication. A speech, a sermon, an op-ed, a commercial, a fundraising letter. Work through it together:

1. Ethos. What does the speaker do to establish credibility? Is it earned within the piece, carried in from outside, or borrowed from someone else? Would you trust them?
2. Pathos. Where does the piece reach for emotion? Which emotions? Is the feeling proportionate to what’s actually being described?
3. Logos. What’s the central claim? What supports it? Does the conclusion follow, or is there a gap the momentum carried you past?
4. Balance. Which appeal is strongest? Which is weakest? Would removing any one of them collapse the argument?
5. Honesty. Would the speaker be comfortable if you could see exactly how the piece was built?

That last question is the one that develops judgment, moving a student from identifying techniques to evaluating them . . . which is the whole point.

The goal is formation

Ethos, pathos, and logos are three terms, and any student can learn to define them in an afternoon. What takes longer, and matters considerably more, is what happens after they're learned.

The student reads differently. They notice that an article’s authority is doing work its evidence isn’t. They write differently, because they’ve started asking what their reader already believes before deciding what to say. They listen differently, catching the moment an argument shifted from reasoning to something else.

And eventually the questions turn inward, which is where the real formation happens. Am I trustworthy here? Is the feeling I’m reaching for honest? Does my conclusion actually follow?

Our students will spend their lives among messages engineered to move them. Many of those messages are very well made. Some of those messages will be true and some won’t, and the difference won’t be marked. Teaching our students how persuasion works is how they learn to tell.

That’s the work of rhetoric, and it’s still worth doing.