It was not alone its size, its beauty, its symmetry, its density
of foliage, that made it the glory of the neighborhood, but the low
grown of its branches and the extra-ordinary breadth of its shade.
Passers-by from the adjacent towns were wont to hitch their teams
by the wayside, crawl through the stump fence and walk
across the fields, for a nearer view of its magnificence.
One man, indeed, was known to drive by the tree every day during
the summer, and lift his hat to it, respectfully, each time he passed;
but he was a poet and his intellect was not greatly esteemed
in the village.
The elm was almost as beautiful in one season as in another.
In the spring it rose from moist fields and mellow ploughed ground,
its tiny brown leaf buds bursting with pride at the thought
of the loveliness coiled up inside. In summer it stood
in the midst of a waving garden of buttercups and whiteweed,
a towering mass of verdant leafage, a shelter from the sun
and a refuge from the storm; a cool, splendid, hospitable dome,
under which the weary farmer might fling himself, and gaze
upward as into the heights and depths of an emerald heaven.
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