he 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