The baby-elms die, most of them, slain, unrecognized or unheeded, by hand or hoe, as meekly as Herod's innocents.

One of them gets overlooked, perhaps, until it has established a kind of right to stay.

Three generations of carrot and parsnip consumers have passed away, yourself among them, and now let your great-grandson look for the baby-elm.

Twenty-two feet of clean girth, three hundred and sixty feet in the line that bounds its leafy circle, it covers the boy with such a canopy as neither glossy-leafed oak nor insect-haunted linden ever lifted into the summer skies.
Elm Street was the pride of Rockland, but not only on account of its Gothic-arched vista.

In this street were most of the great houses, or "mansion-houses," as it was usual to call them.