WE are traveling 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 cozy 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 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.
France was so great and so glorious, but she could only look across a
little piece of it. The land stretched out, worldwide, 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.
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.
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 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.
"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.
[Continued]
[This message has been edited by Lori (edited August 21, 2000).]
[This message has been edited by Lori (edited August 21, 2000).]
A rustling went through the leaves of the tree; there was a trembling
The Dryad danced, floated, flew, changing her color every moment,
Here she was certainly living, in the deafening tumult. Perhaps she
A few of the
She drew the veil
A heavy stone slab was turned and then lifted. She did not understand
In the distance lamps gleamed, like a reflection from the world-city
The carriage disappeared in the twilight; the Dryad disappeared, 
The soaring upwards of rockets, the splashing of fountains, and the
