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A TROPIC GARDEN 
Take an automobile and into it pile a super- 
man, a great evolutionist, an artist, an ornitholo- 
gist, a poet, a botanist, a photographer, a musi- 
cian, an author, adorable youngsters of fifteen, 
and a tired business man, and within half an hour 
I shall have drawn from them superlatives of ap- 
preciation, each after his own method of emo- 
tional expression—whether a flood of exclama- 
tions, or silence. This is no light boast, for at 
one time or another, I have done all this, but in 
only one place—the Botanical Gardens of 
Georgetown, British Guiana. As I hold it sacri- 
lege to think of dying without again seeing the 
Taj Mahal, or the Hills from Darjeeling, so 
something of ethics seems involved in my soul’s 
necessity of again watching the homing of the 
herons in these tropic gardens at evening. 
In the busy, unlovely streets of the water- 
front of Georgetown, one is often jostled; in 
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