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A recent summer day bade fair to be all that a 

 rambler could wish, and I was off early, for an all- 

 day stroll. Long before noon I met an old man 

 from the town, and stopped a moment at his re- 

 quest. " The silver bells of the field-sparrows 

 tinkle along the fences, just the same," he re- 

 marked, " but I hear no meadow-lark, and no 

 wonder ; the old landmark 's gone. In the middle 

 of this field there stood an old oak, that was half 

 dead when I was a boy, but it was here a year 

 ago when I passed by. Never a May morning 

 that I did n't hear the meadow-lark that stood on 

 the very top and whistled. I heard him sixty 

 years ago, and I heard him last spring. It 's all 

 changed now with that landmark gone. How I 

 wanted to see the old tree just once more ! " And 

 the old man turned away. It was a sad incident, 

 and spoiled for me a fresh June morning. The old 

 man's words kept ringing in my ears, and every 

 warbler seemed to sing the same sad refrain, 

 " the old oak 's gone." 



I remember the tree. It was not so very large. 

 There were no wide-spreading branches, but short, 

 thick-set ones, that bent in upon themselves until 

 the tree looked like a stout man with arms folded 

 on his breast. Standing thus, it had weathered 

 the storms of two or three centuries. It was once 

 a corner tree, and is recorded as such in an old 

 deed, so we have some clue to its age. But this 

 is prosy history at best, and true of many others : 

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