She was obliged to be satisfied withbeing able to look over the beautiful country and see the busyindustry of men.
It was glorious; but most glorious of all when the old clergymansat under the oak tree and talked of France, and of the great deeds ofher sons and daughters, whose names will be mentioned withadmiration through all time.
Then the Dryad heard of the shepherd girl, Joan of Arc, and ofCharlotte Corday; she heard about Henry the Fourth, and Napoleon theFirst; she heard names whose echo sounds in the hearts of the people.
The village children listened attentively, and the Dryad no lessattentively; she became a school-child with the rest. In the cloudsthat went sailing by she saw, picture by picture, everything thatshe heard talked about. The cloudy sky was her picture-book.
She felt so happy in beautiful France, the fruitful land ofgenius, with the crater of freedom. But in her heart the stingremained that the bird, that every animal that could fly, was muchbetter off than she. Even the fly could look about more in theworld, far beyond the Dryad's horizon.
France was so great and so glorious, but she could only lookacross a little piece of it. The land stretched out, world-wide,with vineyards, forests and great cities. Of all these Paris was themost splendid and the mightiest. The birds could get there; but she,never!
Among the village children was a little ragged, poor girl, but apretty one to look at. She was always laughing or singing andtwining red flowers in her black hair.
"Don't go to Paris!" the old clergyman warned her. "Poor child! ifyou 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, andfelt the same longing for the great city.
The Dryad's tree was bearing its first chestnut blossoms; thebirds were twittering round them in the most beautiful sunshine.Then a stately carriage came rolling along that way, and in it sat agrand lady driving the spirited, light-footed horses. On the back seata little smart groom balanced himself. The Dryad knew the lady, andthe old clergyman knew her also. He shook his head gravely when he sawher, 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 fora countess" (she had become one in the city of magic changes). "Oh, ifI were only there, amid all the splendor and pomp! They shine upinto the very clouds at night; when I look up, I can tell in whatdirection the town lies."
Towards that direction the Dryad looked every evening. She sawin the dark night the gleaming cloud on the horizon; in the clearmoonlight nights she missed the sailing clouds, which showed herpictures of the city and pictures from history.
The child grasps at the picture-books, the Dryad grasped at thecloud-world, her thought-book. A sudden, cloudless sky was for her ablank leaf; and for several days she had only had such leaves beforeher.
It was in the warm summer-time: not a breeze moved through theglowing hot days. Every leaf, every flower, lay as if it weretorpid, and the people seemed torpid, too.
Then the clouds arose and covered the region round about where thegleaming 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 thewhole landscape, as far as the Dryad's eye could reach.
Like enormous blue-black blocks of rock, the clouds lay piled overone another. Gleams of lightning shot forth from them.
"These also are the servants of the Lord God," the old clergymanhad said. And there came a bluish dazzling flash of lightning, alighting up as if of the sun itself, which could burst blocks ofrock asunder. The lightning struck and split to the roots the oldvenerable oak. The crown fell asunder. It seemed as if the tree werestretching forth its arms to clasp the messengers of the light.
No bronze cannon can sound over the land at the birth of a royalchild as the thunder sounded at the death of the old oak. The rainstreamed down; a refreshing wind was blowing; the storm had gone by,and there was quite a holiday glow on all things. The old clergymanspoke a few words for honorable remembrance, and a painter made adrawing, as a lasting record of the tree.
"Everything passes away," said the Dryad, "passes away like acloud, and never comes back!"