wel
leaves.

No wonder the leaves cut my legs! Chris thought to himself. They're
probably emeralds!

Towing the eagle by its beak, he wandered about. There was neither
grass nor flowers; no true plants or trees. All bushes, borders, and
shaded walks were of jewels. They gave out onto the air no scent of
greenness and no welcoming scent of flowers.

Gee! Chris almost said aloud, Who'd want to play on ground-up gold?
Why, except that it's yellow it might as well be gravel. And no
trees--not real ones. Gee! She must be a pretty miserable girl! I
wonder if birds like the jewel trees?

Looking into shrubs of coral, or jade, or amethyst, Chris found no
nests, and shook his head. Guess I brought the right replacement after
all, he decided. Now to work. Which shall I take?

He made a tour of the jewel gardens, and at the end of the pool,
facing the carved jeweled doorway and windows of a pavilion set into
the surrounding walls, Chris found a tree he thought right. Small and
round, as if freshly trimmed, it answered Mr. Wicker's description of
months ago.

"Leaves of emeralds, buds of diamonds, flowers of sapphires, and
fruits of rubies studded thick with pearls."

Taking out his magic knife, in a second Chris had cut away a large
circle of earth in a tub shape to shelter the roots, and carried his
heavy burden to the eagle's back. There, he took off something which
he planted where the Jewel Tree had been, and cupping his hands,
watered it from the pool as best he could.

Just as he finished and was moving away, a movement in the black
rectangle of the pavilion door at the far end of the garden caught his
eye. He had only time enough to pull the eagle, the Jewel Tree, and
himself into the cloaking shadow of a nearby avenue of emerald trees
to avoid being seen.

The movement was pale and slight against the blackness of the open
door, and the night was very still. As Chris held his breath, the
dampened leaves and petals of the bush he had planted sent their green
fragrance lifting and turning on the night air. As if that had been
the signal it had long waited for, a dust-colored bird flew down to
perch on a thorny stem.

It was a nightingale. Its song started slowly and softly at first, and
then, as it forgot that it was alone, the lovely variations grew,
pealing out where no birdsong had ever been heard before. Chris was
not the only one who had never heard a nightingale. To the other
occupant of the jeweled garde