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ing intoan Oak. They calmly and cheerfully 
continued their conversation so long as they 
could see, and then took an affectionate farewell 
of each other. As trees, they stood for ages 
before the temple, and were objects of vene- 
ration to all the adjacent country. 
An event of modern times has contributed to 
render the Linden not less dear to all loving 
hearts than the preceding legend of fabulous 
antiquity. About the year 1790, there dwelt 
at Konigsberg, in Prussia, a pair who, united 
in affection, were shortly to be joined in the 
bonds of wedlock. The wedding-day was already 
fixed, when the bride, in the first bloom of 
youthful beauty, suddenly fell sick, and in a 
few hours expired. Such was the grief of the 
lover at the unexpected loss, that he, too, soon 
expired: and on the very day on which they 
were to have been married, the remains of both 
were consigned to one and the same grave. 
Here they had reposed for some years, when 
over their heads sprang up from one root two 
Linden trees, which, firmly entwining each 
other, shot up into a crown, that, with its 
fragrant blossoms, yearly decks the bridal bed 
here nage tee ES ental “ttt ee ee 

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