The Elms and the Hackberries 



of systems that becomes more complex every year. Buzzing 

 like msistent and inquisitive bumblebees, they awaken the 

 sleepiest hamlet, haling its inhabitants to the cities and unloading 

 weary, city-bound mortals in the green country. They stir the 

 torpid, stagnant pool of existence; they wake the old nomadic 

 cravings of the primitive race. The most indignant farmer or 

 villager, once he gets thoroughly awake, ceases to grumble; for 

 his feet of clay the trolley gives him the wings of a bird. 



1 am not an idolater, I hope, and I would chiefly scorn to 

 worship the almighty dollar. But the vast extent of picturesque 

 country one can see for this sum by trolley in New England fills 

 me with a surprise akin to awe. 



The striking ornament of New England landscapes is the 

 American elm. The countryside abounds with splendid speci- 

 mens. They are the pride of cities and villages. Down fine old 

 avenues arched over with their mighty arms the trolley cars 

 take their noisy way. The Westerner, stands astonished at the 

 giant size of these trees, and wonders why he cannot match them 

 at home. It is largely a matter of time. In the early days our 

 ancestors took up the trees from the woods and planted them by 

 their roadsides and about their dwellings. Memories of elm.s 

 at homes — the beautiful Ulmus campestris in England and on the 

 Continent — guided their choice. Trees twenty years old were 

 transplanted with safety, for this elm has fibrous roots that keep 

 near the surface of the ground. Then the busy home-makers 

 let the trees alone. They had no time to prune and cultivate. 

 The trees needed no such attention. The roots ranged freely in 

 the virgin soil. The spreading tops were self-pruning — the 

 strong limbs choked the weak ones, keeping an open, symmetrical 

 head. Every year added to the tree's stature. It is a race 

 of giants now, against whom insect hosts have come — the tussock 

 moths, the elm-leaf beetle and the brown tail. No wonder the 

 people have made the fight their own. 



The elm is familiar to everybody — its vase-like form is in 

 sight whenever we look out of a window. It grows everywhere 

 east of the Rocky Mountains, and ignorance of it is a mark of 

 indifference or stupidity. No village of any pride but plants it 

 freely as a street tree. 



The Etruscan vase form — a base gradually flaring to a 

 round dome — is most common. The trunk soon divides into 



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