The Dryad Page #2

								

whole landscape, as far as the Dryad's eye could reach.

Like enormous blue-black blocks of rock, the clouds lay piled over
one another. Gleams of lightning shot forth from them.

"These also are the servants of the Lord God," the old clergyman
had said. And there came a bluish dazzling flash of lightning, a
lighting up as if of the sun itself, which could burst blocks of
rock asunder. The lightning struck and split to the roots the old
venerable oak. The crown fell asunder. It seemed as if the tree were
stretching forth its arms to clasp the messengers of the light.

No bronze cannon can sound over the land at the birth of a royal
child as the thunder sounded at the death of the old oak. The rain
streamed down; a refreshing wind was blowing; the storm had gone by,
and there was quite a holiday glow on all things. The old clergyman
spoke a few words for honorable remembrance, and a painter made a
drawing, as a lasting record of the tree.

"Everything passes away," said the Dryad, "passes away like a
cloud, and never comes back!"

The old clergyman, too, did not come back. The green roof of his
school was gone, and his teaching-chair had vanished. The children did
not come; but autumn came, and winter came, and then spring also. In
all this change of seasons the Dryad looked toward the region where,
at night, Paris gleamed with its bright mist far on the horizon.

Forth from the town rushed engine after engine, train after train,
whistling and screaming at all hours in the day. In the evening,
towards midnight, at daybreak, and all the day through, came the
trains. Out of each one, and into each one, streamed people from the
country of every king. A new wonder of the world had summoned them
to Paris.

In what form did this wonder exhibit itself?

"A splendid blossom of art and industry," said one, "has
unfolded itself in the Champ de Mars, a gigantic sunflower, from whose
petals one can learn geography and statistics, and can become as
wise as a lord mayor, and raise one's self to the level of art and
poetry, and study the greatness and power of the various lands."

"A fairy tale flower," said another, "a many-colored
lotus-plant, which spreads out its green leaves like a velvet carpet
over the sand. The opening spring has brought it forth, the summer
will see it in all its splendor, the autumn winds will sweep it
away, so that not a leaf, not a fragment of its root shall remain."


In front of the Military School extends in time of peace the arena
of war--a field without a blade of grass, a piece of sandy steppe,
as if cut out of the Desert of Africa, where Fata Morgana displays her
wondrous airy castles and hanging gardens. In the Champ de Mars,
however, these were to be seen more splendid, more wonderful than in
the East, for human art had converted the airy deceptive scenes into
reality.

"The Aladdin's Palace of the present has been built," it was said.
"Day by day, hour by hour, it unfolds more of its wonderful splendor."
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