"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.