were sold and shipped to distant places, and one is now doing 

 duty in an Erie butcher shop to-day. Such parts of the tree 

 as were not suitable for this use were left to rot upon the 

 ground, and, mostly, are lying there now. The elm tree of 

 which I have spoken stood about fifty yards west of this 

 sycamore. It was twenty-two feet and a fraction over in 

 circumference at the base, and was fully a hundred and fifty 

 feet high. It was in a condition of perfect health and vigor 

 from base to crest, and there was not a dead branch upon it 

 anywhere. In my rambles on the island in pleasant seasons 

 of the year I would frequently go to this tree, and from a near 

 distance would stand and admire its symmetry and wonderful 

 beauty. And on such occasions there was pleasure in pon- 

 dering on the ancient history it knew, the many strange things 

 it had seen and heard, of the countless wild animals and birds, 

 (now extinct, or nearly so) that had once reposed beneath or 

 within its shade. What interesting and thrilling stories it 

 could tell if it only had the gift of human speech! Of the 

 Indians of the forests and of the plains, and of weird and 

 solemn councils they had held beneath its broad canopy; of 

 the dark-browed early Spanish explorers, who had bivouacked 

 under its leafy screen; of the later black-robed Catholic mis- 

 sionaries, who perhaps had performed the rites of their ancient 

 church within its shade; of the shaggy buffalo and the mild- 

 eyed deer that had grazed at its base; of the grim, prowling 

 bears that had ascended its trunk and reposed upon its branches ; 

 of the myriads of wild pigeons (now, alas! all gone) that had 

 rested in its top while on their extensive flights; — of all these 

 events and creatures, and many more, could the elm tell, if 

 it could only talk. There are queer fancies that come to one, 

 when he is alone, out in the woods, and sometimes as I stood 

 gazing with admiring look upon this forest monarch, it seemed 

 as if it noticed and appreciated my admiration. Its leaves 

 would suddenly be agitated, and their shining faces would 

 turn eagerly in my direction, and sometimes the extremity 

 of a large branch would bend toward me, and seemingly shake 

 itself and gesture rapidly, as if the tree were struggling to engage 

 with me in some sylvan conversation. But its language was 



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