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Innumerable crops were growing in the fields, countless ships were sailing or steaming the monotonous leagues of their long wanderings from port to port, some empty, some heavy-laden, like bees between garden and hive: The corn-tops were ripe and the meadows were in bloom And the birds made music all the day. Many of our days must not be the wine, but only small bits of the vine, of life.
He lay with closed eyes for a moment, and then, as he opened them, breathed faintly through his parted lips the words, spoken, not sung, while his hand feebly beat the imagined cadence: "'The sun shines bright in my old Kentucky home; 'Tis summer, the darkies are gay; The corn-tops are ripe, and the meadows are in bloom, And the birds make music all the day."
And Mamma called her a little humbug when she said she was afraid to go for a walk with Jenny lest a funeral should be coming along the road. The five elm trees held up their skirts above the high corn. The flat surface of the corn-tops was still. Hot glassy air quivered like a thin steam over the brimming field. The glazed yellow walls of the old nursery gave out a strong light and heat.
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