They are cut down, the trees on Main Street, giants of the dusk and caverns of coolness where the green leaves stretched and yawned. All Spring long (oh how we knew them!) they flamed in flower, and all Fall long they flowered in flame. But blossoms need sweeping and leaves take raking -- no one had time for the trees on Main Street. Now the sidewalk is bare as a hair-shorn lip, as a sneer-torn lip; the dry moss shrinks in the chinked brick walks, and shade has fled like a cat to the cellar. They are cut down, the trees on Main Street. In what dusk gather the giants now?