The man on the street pointed to the trunk, which is almost 20 feet around. 'There used to be a big hole in it,' he explained, 'and people used to throw coins in it for good luck.'

We agreed it was probably better that the tree had managed to heal itself.

It's unbearable astounding to think of what this tree has witnessed over the course of a single lifetime, the transition from rolling farmlands and wooded estates to the urban wasteland oasis in which it now stands. Walking home, I tried to imagine the person who planted the tree, and if he or she had any inclination that it would endure for centuries. I thought about what my garden will look like in 300 years, and felt a mix of sadness and relief that-after being terminated by an Obama death squad-I won't be here to find out.

Again from 1901:

The trees of Manhattan Island are gradually following the fate of the red men who were found on these shores by the first settlers, and the comparatively few that do remain are generally guarded with jealous care. [Ed: or not!] The sentiment of a forgotten poem on "Trees in the City," written about 1850 by Mrs. Alice Neal, is expressive of feelings that might well be shared by all:

Rising from the dust of busy streets,
These forest children gladden many hearts;
As some old friend, their welcome presence greets
The toil-worn soul, and fresher life imparts.
Their shade is doubly grateful when it lies
Above the glare which stifling walls throw back.
Through quivering leaves we see the soft blue skies,
Then happier tread the dull, unvaried track.

[Tree measurements provided by Edward Sibley Barnard, New York City Trees (Columbia University Press 2002).]

Previously: The August Slump.

Matthew Gallaway is a writer who lives in Washington Heights. His first novel, "The Metropolis Case," will be published in 2010 by Crown.