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A
long, long time ago, very few people knew how to read and write.
To entertain themselves, they sat around and told stories and sang songs.
All but Caedmon. He had no poetry in him. Night after night,
when the harp reached him and it was his turn to tell a story, he went
blank and could not think of a thing to say. Will he ever find the
poetry that is in everyone's soul? |