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"You don't believe the myth about the garden of Eden-do you?" Yes, I believe. And as much and as certainly as I believe that there was a garden on the old farm where I worked as a boy in the noonday's burden and heat; a garden where the honeysuckles, voluntary philanthropists of fragrance, scattered their perfumes on the summer air; a garden where the birds, feathered Beethovens of apple boughs, feathered Homers of hawthorn hedges, feathered Tennysons of twigs, shook silver song from throats all atremble with joy; a garden where the com had ears and heard not, the potatoes eyes and saw not, the cabbages heads and thought not.
"You don't believe the myth about the garden of Eden-do you?" Yes, I believe. And as much and as certainly as I believe that there was a garden on the old farm where I worked as a boy in the noonday's burden and heat; a garden where the honeysuckles, voluntary philanthropists of fragrance, scattered their perfumes on the summer air; a garden where the birds, feathered Beethovens of apple boughs, feathered Homers of hawthorn hedges, feathered Tennysons of twigs, shook silver song from throats all atremble with joy; a garden where the com had ears and heard not, the potatoes eyes and saw not, the cabbages heads and thought not.
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