The White or American Elm 



Lewis B. Hendershot 

 Teacher of Biolog}^ East High School, Rochester, N. Y. 



Of all the trees that grace our landscapes, whether it be a broad 

 city avenue, a city park, or a bit of country road, the American 

 Elm is to me the most beautiful. With its tall, vase-shaped grace- 

 ful form it attracts the eye and inspires a feeling of admiration. 



When in strange parts of the country I have a feeling of familiar- 

 ity come over me when I see the American Elm outlined against 

 the sky. It is like meeting an old friend in an unfamiliar place, and 

 the warmth of such a meeting does me good. The feeling of strange 

 ness leaves me and I feel more at ease. At such times I have felt 

 that my good friend recognizes me because when I have paused to 

 admire him he has nodded and bowed his head in acknowledgment. 



Perhaps it was because it was the first tree that was brought 

 more closely in touch with my school days that I feel on better 

 terms with the American Elm than the other trees, though I have a 

 keen appreciation of the others. I remember distinctly the big 

 fellow who stood in our school yard, sheltering us in our goings and 

 comings to and from school and while we played during recess, and 

 watching over us as a big brother. Many, many times he served 

 us as "home" in our games of tag and hide-and-seek. What 

 stories he could tell of the people which have passed under his 

 branches, the joys and the sorrows of the passers-by. I wonder if 

 he has their secrets stored up in his heart ? How many see him in 

 their mind's eye when they recall their school days, standing there 

 as firm as of old tho perhaps a little wearied from the trials and 

 tribulations of the storms of days past ? How many look back and 

 wonder what this or that school chum is doing? Do they look up 

 and pause a little from their work when they meet our friend and 

 turn back in thought to the happiest days of childhood, then going 

 on with their duties w4th clearer eye, lifted head and squared should- 

 ers after having met the patient and silent friend of childhood? 

 Perhaps some of us have become so engrossed in our work that we 

 have not taken time to turn back the pages of our lives, our eyes 

 have become dimmed, our shoulders stooped, and our brains filled 

 with thoughts of the material things of the world. We say that we 

 have not time, we are too busy. How foolish such an excuse! 



