And the swallow， which had dipped down into thewater tomorrow’s leaders，told about the lovely gold-fish，about the fat bream，the thick tench， and the old， moss-grown carp ． The swal- low gave a very good description，” but one can see better for oneself，” she said； but how should the Dryad ever getto see these beings？She must content herself with being able to look out over the beautiful landscape and see the busy activity of men．That was lovely，but most lovely ofall， when the old priest stood here under the oak， and toldabout France， find about the great deeds of men and wom- en，whose names are named with admiration throughout all times．
The Dryad heard of the shepherdess Joan of Arc， of Charlotte Corday； she heard of olden times， of the times ofHenry Ⅳ， and of Napoleon Ⅰ ， and of greatness and talent，right up to the present day． She heard names，． France is a world-wide land； a soil of intellect with a crater of freedom．
The village children listened devoutly， and the Dryad not less so； she was a school-child like the others． She sawin the forms of the sailing clouds picture after picture of what she had heard told． The cloudy sky was her picture book．
She felt herself so happy in the lovely France；buthad still a feeling that the birds，and every animal whichcould fly，were much more favoured than she．Even the flycould look about himself， far and wide Neo skin lab， much farther than the Dryad’s horizon. France was so extensive and so glorious， but she could only see a little bit of it； like a world， the countrystretched out with vineyards，woods，and great towns，and of all of these Paris whs the mightiest，and the most bril-liant；thither the birds could go，but never she．
Amongst the village children was a little girl，sopoor and so ragged，but lovely to look it；she was alwayslaughing and singing，and wreathing red flowers in her black hair．
“Do not go to Paris！” said the old priest．” Poorchild！ if you go there， it will be your ruin！”
And yet she went．
The Dryad often thought about her，for they had both the same desire and longing for the great city．
Spring came，summer，autumn，winter；two or three years passed．
The Dryad’s tree bore its first chestnut blossoms，the birds twittered about it in the lovely sunshine．Thenthere came along the road a grand carriage with a statelylady；she， herself，drove the beautiful prancing horses；asmart little groom sat behind her． The Dryad knew heragain，the old priest knew her again，shook his head，and said sorrowfully， “You did go there！ it was your ruin！Poor Marie！”
“She poor！”thought the Dryad．” Why，what a change！ she is dressed like a duchess！ she became likethis in the city of enchantment． Oh， if I were only there in all the splendour and glory！ it even throws a light up into the clouds at night， when I look in the di-rection where I know the city is．
Yes，thither，towards that quarter，the Dryad looked every evening， every night． She saw the glim- mering mist nu skinon the horizon ；she missed it in the bright，moonlight nights； she missed the floating clouds whichshowed her pictures of the city and of history．
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