ss
every one of you. You others, also. I know you all; but you do not
know me."

The fishes stared out into the twilight. They did not understand a
word of it.

The Dryad was there no longer. She had been a long time in the
open air, where the different countries--the country of black bread,
the codfish coast, the kingdom of Russia leather, and the banks of
eau-de-Cologne, and the gardens of rose oil--exhaled their perfumes
from the world-wonder flower.

When, after a night at a ball, we drive home half asleep and
half awake, the melodies still sound plainly in our ears; we hear
them, and could sing them all from memory. When the eye of the
murdered man closes, the picture of what it saw last clings to it
for a time like a photographic picture.

So it was likewise here. The bustling life of day had not yet
disappeared in the quiet night. The Dryad had seen it; she knew,
thus it will be repeated tomorrow.

The Dryad stood among the fragrant roses, and thought she knew
them, and had seen them in her own home. She also saw red
pomegranate flowers, like those that little Mary had worn in her
dark hair.

Remembrances from the home of her childhood flashed through her
thoughts; her eyes eagerly drank in the prospect around, and
feverish restlessness chased her through the wonder-filled halls.

A weariness that increased continually, took possession of her.
She felt a longing to rest on the soft Oriental carpets within, or
to lean against the weeping willow without by the clear water. But for
the ephemeral fly there was no rest. In a few moments the day had
completed its circle.

Her thoughts trembled, her limbs trembled, she sank down on the
grass by the bubbling water.

"Thou wilt ever spring living from the earth," she said
mournfully. "Moisten my tongue--bring me a refreshing draught."

"I am no living water," was the answer. "I only spring upward when
the machine wills it."

"Give me something of thy freshness, thou green grass," implored
the Dryad; "give me one of thy fragrant flowers."

"We must die if we are torn from our stalks," replied the
Flowers and the Grass.

"Give me a kiss, thou fresh stream of air--only a single
life-kiss."

"Soon the sun will kiss the clouds red," answered the Wind;
"then thou wilt be among the dead--blown away, as all the splendor
here will be blown away before the year shall have ended. Then I can
play again with the light loose sand on the place here, and whirl
the