Blooming shrubs and flowers in pots were ranged around; and

　　 thus a little garden arose in the square.

　　 The tree that had been killed by the fumes of gas, the

　　 steam of kitchens, and the bad air of the city, was put upon

　　   the wagon and driven away. The passers-by looked on. Children

　　 and old men sat upon the bench, and looked at the green tree.

　　 And we who are telling this story stood upon a balcony, and

　　 looked down upon the green spring sight that had been brought

　　 in from the fresh country air, and said, what the old

　　 clergyman would have said, "Poor Dryad!"

　　 "I am happy! I am happy!" the Dryad cried, rejoicing; "and

　　 yet I cannot realize, cannot describe what I feel. Everything

　　 is as I fancied it, and yet as I did not fancy it."

　　 The houses stood there, so lofty, so close! The sunlight

　　 shone on only one of the walls, and that one was stuck over

　　 with bills and placards, before which the people stood still;

　　 and this made a crowd.

　　 Carriages rushed past, carriages rolled past; light ones

　　 and heavy ones mingled together. Omnibuses, those over-crowded

　　 moving houses, came rattling by; horsemen galloped among them;

　　 even carts and wagons asserted their rights.

　　 The Dryad asked herself if these high-grown houses, which

　　 stood so close around her, would not remove and take other

　　 shapes, like the clouds in the sky, and draw aside, so that

　　 she might cast a glance into Paris, and over it. Notre Dame

　　 must show itself, the Vendome Column, and the wondrous

　　 building which had called and was still calling so many

　　 strangers to the city.

　　 But the houses did not stir from their places. It was yet

　　 day when the lamps were lit. The gas-jets gleamed from the

　　 shops, and shone even into the branches of the trees, so that

　　 it was like sunlight in summer. The stars above made their

　　 appearance, the same to which the Dryad had looked up in her

　　 home. She thought she felt a clear pure stream of air which

　　 went forth from them. She felt herself lifted up and

　　 strengthened, and felt an increased power of seeing through

　　 every leaf and through every fibre of the root. Amid all the

　　 noise and the turmoil, the colors and the lights, she knew

　　 herself watched by mild eyes.

　　 From the side streets sounded the merry notes of fiddles

　　 and wind instruments. Up! to the dance, to the dance! to

　　 jollity and pleasure! that was their invitation. Such music it

　　 was, that horses, carriages, trees, and houses would have

　　 danced, if they had known how. The charm of intoxicating

　　 delight filled the bosom of the Dryad.

　　 "How glorious, how splendid it is!" she cried,

　　 rejoicingly. "Now I am in Paris!"

　　 The next day that dawned, the next night that fell,

　　 offered the same spectacle, similar bustle, similar life;

　　 changing, indeed, yet always the same; and thus it went on

　　 through the sequence of days.

　　 "Now I know every tree, every flower on the square here! I

　　 know every house, every balcony, every shop in this narrow

　　 cut-off corner, where I am denied the sight of this great

　　 mighty city. Where are the arches of triumph, the Boulevards,

　　 the wondrous building of the world? I see nothing of all this.

　　 As if shut up in a cage, I stand among the high houses, which

　　 I now know by heart, with their inscriptions, signs, and

　　 placards; all the painted confectionery, that is no longer to

　　 my taste. Where are all the things of which I heard, for which

　　 I longed, and for whose sake I wanted to come hither? what

　　 have I seized, found, won? I feel the same longing I felt

　　 before; I feel that there is a life I should wish to grasp and

　　 to experience. I must go out into the ranks of living men, and

　　 mingle among them. I must fly about like a bird. I must see

　　 and feel, and become human altogether. I must enjoy the one

　　 half-day, instead of vegetating for years in every-day

　　 sameness and weariness, in which I become ill, and at last

　　 sink and disappear like the dew on the meadows. I will gleam

　　 like the cloud, gleam in the sunshine of life, look out over

　　 the whole like the cloud, and pass away like it, no one

　　 knoweth whither."

　　 Thus sighed the Dryad; and she prayed:

　　 "Take from me the years that were destined for me, and

　　 give me but half of the life of the ephemeral fly! Deliver me

　　 from my prison! Give me human life, human happiness, only a

　　 short span, only the one night, if it cannot be otherwise; and

　　 then punish me for my wish to live, my longing for life!

　　 Strike me out of thy list. Let my shell, the fresh young tree,

　　 wither, or be hewn down, and burnt to ashes, and scattered to

　　 all the winds!"

　　 A rustling went through the leaves of the tree; there was

　　 a trembling in each of the leaves; it seemed as if fire

　　 streamed through it. A gust of wind shook its green crown, and

　　 from the midst of that crown a female figure came forth. In

　　 the same moment she was sitting beneath the

　　 brightly-illuminated leafy branches, young and beautiful to

　　 behold, like poor Mary, to whom the clergyman had said, "The

　　 great city will be thy destruction."

　　 The Dryad sat at the foot of the tree- at her house door,

　　 which she had locked, and whose key had thrown away. So young!

　　 so fair! The stars saw her, and blinked at her. The gas-lamps

　　 saw her, and gleamed and beckoned to her. How delicate she

　　 was, and yet how blooming!- a child, and yet a grown maiden!

　　 Her dress was fine as silk, green as the freshly-opened leaves

　　 on the crown of the tree; in her nut-brown hair clung a

　　 half-opened chestnut blossom. She looked like the Goddess of

　　 Spring.

　　 For one short minute she sat motionless; then she sprang

　　 up, and, light as a gazelle, she hurried away. She ran and

　　 sprang like the reflection from the mirror that, carried by

　　 the sunshine, is cast, now here, now there. Could any one have

　　 followed her with his eyes, he would have seen how

　　 marvellously her dress and her form changed, according to the

　　 nature of the house or the place whose light happened to shine

　　 upon her.

　　 She reached the Boulevards. Here a sea of light streamed

　　 forth from the gas-flames of the lamps, the shops and the

　　 cafes. Here stood in a row young and slender trees, each of

　　 which concealed its Dryad, and gave shade from the artificial

　　 sunlight. The whole vast pavement was one great festive hall,

　　 where covered tables stood laden with refreshments of all

　　 kinds, from champagne and Chartreuse down to coffee and beer.

　　 Here was an exhibition of flowers, statues, books, and colored

　　 stuffs.

　　 From the crowd close by the lofty houses she looked forth

　　 over the terrific stream beyond the rows of trees. Yonder

　　 heaved a stream of rolling carriages, cabriolets, coaches,

　　 omnibuses, cabs, and among them riding gentlemen and marching

　　 troops. To cross to the opposite shore was an undertaking

　　 fraught with danger to life and limb. Now lanterns shed their

　　 radiance abroad; now the gas had the upper hand; suddenly a

　　 rocket rises! Whence? Whither?

　　 Here are sounds of soft Italian melodies; yonder, Spanish

　　 songs are sung, accompanied by the rattle of the castanets;

　　 but strongest of all, and predominating over the rest, the

　　 street-organ tunes of the moment, the exciting "Can-Can"

　　 music, which Orpheus never knew, and which was never heard by

　　 the "Belle Helene." Even the barrow was tempted to hop upon

　　 one of its wheels.

　　 The Dryad danced, floated, flew, changing her color every

　　 moment, like a humming-bird in the sunshine; each house, with

　　 the world belonging to it, gave her its own reflections.

　　 As the glowing lotus-flower, torn from its stem, is

　　bsp; carried away by the stream, so the Dryad drifted along.

　　 Whenever she paused, she was another being, so that none was

　　 able to follow her, to recognize her, or to look more closely

　　 at her.

　　 Like cloud-pictures, all things flew by her. She looked

　　 into a thousand faces, but not one was familiar to her; she

　　 saw not a single form from home. Two bright eyes had remained

　　 in her memory. She thought of Mary, poor Mary, the ragged

　　 merry child, who wore the red flowers in her black hair. Mary

　　 was now here, in the world-city, rich and magnificent as in

　　 that day when she drove past the house of the old clergyman,

　　 and past the tree of the Dryad, the old oak.

　　 Here she was certainly living, in the deafening tumult.

　　 Perhaps she had just stepped out of one of the gorgeous

　　 carriages in waiting. Handsome equipages, with coachmen in

　　 gold braid and footmen in silken hose, drove up. The people

　　 who alighted from them were all richly-dressed ladies. They

　　 went through the opened gate, and ascended the broad staircase

　　 that led to a building resting on marble pillars. Was this

　　 building, perhaps, the wonder of the world? There Mary would

　　 certainly be found.

　　 "Sancta Maria!" resounded from the interior. Incense

　　 floated through the lofty painted and gilded aisles, where a

　　 solemn twilight reigned.

　　 It was the Church of the Madeleine.

　　 Clad in black garments of the most costly stuffs,

　　 fashioned according to the latest mode, the rich feminine

　　 world of Paris glided across the shining pavement. The crests

　　 of the proprietors were engraved on silver shields on the

　　 velvet-bound prayer-books, and embroidered in the corners of

　　 perfumed handkerchiefs bordered with Brussels lace. A few of

　　 the ladies were kneeling in silent prayer before the altars;

　　 others resorted to the confessionals.

　　 Anxiety and fear took possession of the Dryad; she felt as

　　 if she had entered a place where she had no right to be. Here

　　 was the abode of silence, the hall of secrets. Everything was

　　 said in whispers, every word was a mystery.

　　 The Dryad saw herself enveloped in lace and silk, like the

　　 women of wealth and of high birth around her. Had, perhaps,

　　 every one of them a longing in her breast, like the Dryad?

　　 A deep, painful sigh was heard. Did it escape from some

　　 confessional in a distant corner, or from the bosom of the

　　 Dryad? She drew the veil closer around her; she breathed

　　 incense, and not the fresh air. Here was not the abiding-place

　　 of her longing.

　　 Away! away- a hastening without rest. The ephemeral fly

　　 knows not repose, for her existence is flight.

　　 She was out again among the gas candelabra, by a

　　 magnificent fountain.

　　 "All its streaming waters are not able to wash out the

　　 innocent blood that was spilt here."

　　 Such were the words spoken. Strangers stood around,

　　 carrying on a lively conversation, such as no one would have

　　 dared to carry on in the gorgeous hall of secrets whence the

　　 Dryad came.

　　 A heavy stone slab was turned and then lifted. She did not

　　 understand why. She saw an opening that led into the depths

　　 below. The strangers stepped down, leaving the starlit air and

　　 the cheerful life of the upper world behind them.

　　 "I am afraid," said one of the women who stood around, to

　　 her husband, "I cannot venture to go down, nor do I care for

　　 the wonders down yonder. You had better stay here with me."

　　 "Indeed, and travel home," said the man, "and quit Paris

　　 without having seen the most wonderful thing of all- the real

　　 wonder of the present period, created by the power and

　　 resolution of one man!"

　　 "I will not go down for all that," was the reply.

　　p; "The wonder of the present time," it had been called. The

　　 Dryad had heard and had understood it. The goal of her ardent

　　 longing had thus been reached, and here was the entrance to

　　 it. Down into the depths below Paris? She had not thought of

　　 such a thing; but now she heard it said, and saw the strangers

　　 descending, and went after them.

　　 The staircase was of cast iron, spiral, broad and easy.

　　 Below there burned a lamp, and farther down, another. They

　　 stood in a labyrinth of endless halls and arched passages, all

　　 communicating with each other. All the streets and lanes of

　　 Paris were to be seen here again, as in a dim reflection. The

　　 names were painted up; and every, house above had its number

　　 down here also, and struck its roots under the macadamized

　　 quays of a broad canal, in which the muddy water flowed

　　 onward. Over it the fresh streaming water was carried on

　　 arches; and quite at the top hung the tangled net of gas-pipes

　　 and telegraph-wires.

　　 In the distance lamps gleamed, like a reflection from the

　　 world-city above. Every now and then a dull rumbling was

　　 heard. This came from the heavy wagons rolling over the

　　 entrance bridges.

　　 Whither had the Dryad come?

　　 You have, no doubt, heard of the CATACOMBS? Now they are

　　 vanishing points in that new underground world- that wonder of

　　 the present day- the sewers of Paris. The Dryad was there, and

　　 not in the world's Exhibition in the Champ de Mars.

　　 She heard exclamations of wonder and admiration.

　　 "From here go forth health and life for thousands upon

　　 thousands up yonder! Our time is the time of progress, with

　　 its manifold blessings."

　　 Such was the opinion and the speech of men; but not of

　　 those creatures who had been born here, and who built and

　　 dwelt here- of the rats, namely, who were squeaking to one

　　 another in the clefts of a crumbling wall, quite plainly, and

　　 in a way the Dryad understood well.

　　 A big old Father-Rat, with his tail bitten off, was

　　 relieving his feelings in loud squeaks; and his family gave

　　 their tribute of concurrence to every word he said:

　　 "I am disgusted with this man-mewing," he cried- "with

　　 these outbursts of ignorance. A fine magnificence, truly! all

　　 made up of gas and petroleum! I can't eat such stuff as that.

　　 Everything here is so fine and bright now, that one's ashamed

　　 of one's self, without exactly knowing why. Ah, if we only

　　 lived in the days of tallow candles! and it does not lie so

　　 very far behind us. That was a romantic time, as one may say."

　　 "What are you talking of there?" asked the Dryad. "I have

　　 never seen you before. What is it you are talking about?"

　　 "Of the glorious days that are gone," said the Rat- "of

　　 the happy time of our great-grandfathers and

　　 great-grandmothers. Then it was a great thing to get down

　　 here. That was a rat's nest quite different from Paris. Mother

　　 Plague used to live here then; she killed people, but never

　　 rats. Robbers and smugglers could breathe freely here. Here

　　 was the meeting-place of the most interesting personages, whom

　　 one now only gets to see in the theatres where they act

　　 melodrama, up above. The time of romance is gone even in our

　　 rat's nest; and here also fresh air and petroleum have broken

　　 in."

　　 Thus squeaked the Rat; he squeaked in honor of the old

　　 time, when Mother Plague was still alive.

　　 A carriage stopped, a kind of open omnibus, drawn by swift

　　 horses. The company mounted and drove away along the Boulevard

　　 de Sebastopol, that is to say, the undergroundboulevard, over

　　 which the well-known crowded street of that name extended.

　　 The carriage disappeared in the twilight; the Dryad