The Dryad

								
We are travelling to Paris to the Exhibition.

Now we are there. That was a journey, a flight without magic. We
flew on the wings of steam over the sea and across the land.

Yes, our time is the time of fairy tales.

We are in the midst of Paris, in a great hotel. Blooming flowers
ornament the staircases, and soft carpets the floors.

Our room is a very cosy one, and through the open balcony door
we have a view of a great square. Spring lives down there; it has come
to Paris, and arrived at the same time with us. It has come in the
shape of a glorious young chestnut tree, with delicate leaves newly
opened. How the tree gleams, dressed in its spring garb, before all
the other trees in the place! One of these latter had been struck
out of the list of living trees. It lies on the ground with roots
exposed. On the place where it stood, the young chestnut tree is to be
planted, and to flourish.

It still stands towering aloft on the heavy wagon which has
brought it this morning a distance of several miles to Paris. For
years it had stood there, in the protection of a mighty oak tree,
under which the old venerable clergyman had often sat, with children
listening to his stories.

The young chestnut tree had also listened to the stories; for
the Dryad who lived in it was a child also. She remembered the time
when the tree was so little that it only projected a short way above
the grass and ferns around. These were as tall as they would ever
be; but the tree grew every year, and enjoyed the air and the
sunshine, and drank the dew and the rain. Several times it was also,
as it must be, well shaken by the wind and the rain; for that is a
part of education.

The Dryad rejoiced in her life, and rejoiced in the sunshine,
and the singing of the birds; but she was most rejoiced at human
voices; she understood the language of men as well as she understood
that of animals.

Butterflies, cockchafers, dragon-flies, everything that could
fly came to pay a visit. They could all talk. They told of the
village, of the vineyard, of the forest, of the old castle with its
parks and canals and ponds. Down in the water dwelt also living
beings, which, in their way, could fly under the water from one
place to another--beings with knowledge and delineation. They said
nothing at all; they were so clever!

And the swallow, who had dived, told about the pretty little
goldfish, of the thick turbot, the fat brill, and the old carp. The
swallow could describe all that very well, but, "Self is the man," she
said. "One ought to see these things one's self." But how was the
Dryad ever to see such beings? She was obliged to be satisfied with
being able to look over the beautiful country and see the busy
industry of men.

It was glorious; but most glorious of all when the old clergyman
sat under the oak tree and talked of France, and of the great deeds of
her sons and daughters, whose names will be mentioned with
admiration through all time.

Then the Dryad heard of the shepherd girl, Joan of Arc, and of
Charlotte Corday; she heard about Henry the Fourth, and Napoleon the
First; she heard names whose echo sounds in the hearts of the people.

The village children listened attentively, and the Dryad no less
attentively; she became a school-child with the rest. In the clouds
that went sailing by she saw, picture by picture, everything that
she heard talked about. The cloudy sky was her picture-book.

She felt so happy in beautiful France, the fruitful land of
genius, with the crater of freedom. But in her heart the sting
remained that the bird, that every animal that could fly, was much
better off than she. Even the fly could look about more in the
world, far beyond the Dryad's horizon.

France was so great and so glorious, but she could only look
across a little piece of it. The land stretched out, world-wide,
with vineyards, forests and great cities. Of all these Paris was the
most splendid and the mightiest. The birds could get there; but she,
never!

Among the village children was a little ragged, poor girl, but a
pretty one to look at. She was always laughing or singing and
twining red flowers in her black hair.

"Don't go to Paris!" the old clergyman warned her. "Poor child! if
you go there, it will be your ruin."

But she went for all that.

The Dryad often thought of her; for she had the same wish, and
felt the same longing for the great city.


The Dryad's tree was bearing its first chestnut blossoms; the
birds were twittering round them in the most beautiful sunshine.
Then a stately carriage came rolling along that way, and in it sat a
grand lady driving the spirited, light-footed horses. On the back seat
a little smart groom balanced himself. The Dryad knew the lady, and
the old clergyman knew her also. He shook his head gravely when he saw
her, and said:

"So you went there after all, and it was your ruin, poor Mary!"

"That one poor?" thought the Dryad. "No; she wears a dress fit for
a countess" (she had become one in the city of magic changes). "Oh, if
I were only there, amid all the splendor and pomp! They shine up
into the very clouds at night; when I look up, I can tell in what
direction the town lies."

Towards that direction the Dryad looked every evening. She saw
in the dark night the gleaming cloud on the horizon; in the clear
moonlight nights she missed the sailing clouds, which showed her
pictures of the city and pictures from history.

The child grasps at the picture-books, the Dryad grasped at the
cloud-world, her thought-book. A sudden, cloudless sky was for her a
blank leaf; and for several days she had only had such leaves before
her.

It was in the warm summer-time: not a breeze moved through the
glowing hot days. Every leaf, every flower, lay as if it were
torpid, and the people seemed torpid, too.

Then the clouds arose and covered the region round about where the
gleaming mist announced "Here lies Paris."

The clouds piled themselves up like a chain of mountains,
hurried on through the air, and spread themselves abroad over the

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