Yesterday I saw my 95 year old grandmother, who reminisced about how home radios were a new invention in her childhood.
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During our conversation, she recited a fragment of a poem she'd learned at school, lamenting that she didn't know what it was from.
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It was distinctive enough that I could easily Google it on my phone: Tarantella by Hilaire Belloc, published in 1929, when grandma was 7.
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