by the wayside, crawl through the stump fence and walk
across the fields, for a nearer view of its magnificence.
One man, indeed, was known to drive by the tree every day during
the summer, and lift his hat to it, respectfully, each time he passed;
but he was a poet and his intellect was not greatly esteemed
in the village.

The elm was almost as beautiful in one season as in another.
In the spring it rose from moist fields and mellow ploughed ground,
its tiny brown leaf buds bursting with pride at the thought
of the loveliness coiled up inside. In summer it stood
in the midst of a waving garden of buttercups and whiteweed,
a towering mass of verdant leafage, a shelter from the sun
and a refuge from the storm; a cool, splendid, hospitable dome,
under which the weary farmer might fling himself, and gaze
upward as into the heights and depths of an emerald heaven.
As for the birds, they made it a fashionable summer resort,
the most commodious and attractive in the whole country; with no
limit to the accommodations for those of a gregarious turn of mind,
liking the advantages of select society combined with country air.
In the autumn it held its own; for when the other elms changed
their green to duller tints, the nooning tree put on
a gown of yellow, and stood out against the far background
of sombre pine woods a brilliant mass of gold and brown.
In winter, when there was no longer dun of upturned sod,
nor waving daisy gardens, nor ruddy autumn grasses,
it rose above the dazzling snow crust, lifting its bare,
shapely branches in sober elegance and dignity, and seeming
to say, "Do not pity me; I have been, and, please God,
I shall be!"