WE are travelling to Paris to the Exhibition.

                        Now we are there. That was a journey, a flight without magic. We flew on the wings of steam over
                        the sea and across the land.
                        Yes, our time is the time of fairy tales.
                        We are in the midst of Paris, in a great hotel. Blooming flowers ornament the staircases, and soft
                        carpets the floors.

                        Our room is a very cosy one, and through the open balcony door we have a view of a great
                        square. Spring lives down there; it has come to Paris, and arrived at the same time with us. It has
                        come in the shape of a glorious young chestnut tree, with delicate leaves newly opened. How the
                        tree gleams, dressed in its spring garb, before all the other trees in the place! One of these latter
                        had been struck out of the list of living trees. It lies on the ground with roots exposed. On the
                        place where it stood, the young chestnut tree is to be planted, and to flourish.

                        It still stands towering aloft on the heavy wagon which has brought it this morning a distance of
                        several miles to Paris. For years it had stood there, in the protection of a mighty oak tree, under
                        which the old venerable clergyman had often sat, with children listening to his stories.

                        The young chestnut tree had also listened to the stories; for the Dryad who lived in it was a child
                        also. She remembered the time when the tree was so little that it only projected a short way above
                        the grass and ferns around. These were as tall as they would ever be; but the tree grew every year,
                        and enjoyed the air and the sunshine, and drank the dew and the rain. Several times it was also, as
                        it must be, well shaken by the wind and the rain; for that is a part of education.

                        The Dryad rejoiced in her life, and rejoiced in the sunshine, and the singing of the birds; but she
                        was most rejoiced at human voices; she understood the language of men as well as she
                        understood that of animals.

                        Butterflies, cockchafers, dragon-flies, everything that could fly came to pay a visit. They could all
                        talk. They told of the village, of the vineyard, of the forest, of the old castle with its parks and
                        canals and ponds. Down in the water dwelt also living beings, which, in their way, could fly under
                        the water from one place to another- beings with knowledge and delineation. They said nothing at
                        all; they were so clever!

                        And the swallow, who had dived, told about the pretty little goldfish, of the thick turbot, the fat
                        brill, and the old carp. The swallow could describe all that very well, but, "Self is the man," she
                        said. "One ought to see these things one's self." But how was the Dryad ever to see such beings?
                        She was obliged to be satisfied with being able to look over the beautiful country and see the
                        busy industry of men.

                        It was glorious; but most glorious of all when the old clergyman sat under the oak tree and talked
                        of France, and of the 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 the clear moonlight nights she missed the sailing clouds, which showed
                        her pictures of the city and pictures from history.

                        The child grasps at the picture-books, the Dryad grasped at the cloud-world, her thought-book. A
                        sudden, cloudless sky was for her a blank leaf; and for several days she had only had such leaves
                        before her.

                        It was in the warm summer-time: not a breeze moved through the glowing hot days. Every leaf,
                        every flower, lay as if it were torpid, and the people seemed torpid, too.

                        Then the clouds arose and covered the region round about where the gleaming 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 the whole landscape, as far as the Dryad's eye could reach.

                        Like enormous blue-black blocks of rock, the clouds lay piled over one another. Gleams of
                        lightning shot forth from them.

                        "These also are the servants of the Lord God," the old clergyman had said. And there came a
                        bluish dazzling flash of lightning, a lighting up as if of the sun itself, which could burst blocks of
                        rock asunder. The lightning struck and split to the roots the old venerable oak. The crown fell
                        asunder. It seemed as if the tree were stretching forth its arms to clasp the messengers of the light.

                        No bronze cannon can sound over the land at the birth of a royal child as the thunder sounded at
                        the death of the old oak. The rain streamed down; a refreshing wind was blowing; the storm had
                        gone by, and there was quite a holiday glow on all things. The old clergyman spoke a few words
                        for honorable remembrance, and a painter made a drawing, as a lasting record of the tree.

                        "Everything passes away," said the Dryad, "passes away like a cloud, and never comes back!"

                        The old clergyman, too, did not come back. The green roof of his school was gone, and his
                        teaching-chair had vanished. The children did not come; but autumn came, and winter came, and
                        then spring also. In all this change of seasons the Dryad looked toward the region where, at night,
                        Paris gleamed with its bright mist far on the horizon.

                        Forth from the town rushed engine after engine, train after train, whistling and screaming at all
                        hours in the day. In the evening, towards midnight, at daybreak, and all the day through, came the
                        trains. Out of each one, and into each one, streamed people from the country of every king. A new
                        wonder of the world had summoned them to Paris.

                        In what form did this wonder exhibit itself?

                        "A splendid blossom of art and industry," said one, "has unfolded itself in the Champ de Mars, a
                        gigantic sunflower, from whose petals one can learn geography and statistics, and can become as
                        wise as a lord mayor, and raise one's self to the level of art and poetry, and study the greatness
                        and power of the various lands."

                        "A fairy tale flower," said another, "a many-colored lotus-plant, which spreads out its green leaves
                        like a velvet carpet over the sand. The opening spring has brought it forth, the summer will see it
                        in all its splendor, the autumn winds will sweep it away, so that not a leaf, not a fragment of its root
                        shall remain." -

                        In front of the Military School extends in time of peace the arena of war- a field without a blade of
                        grass, a piece of sandy steppe, as if cut out of the Desert of Africa, where Fata Morgana displays
                        her wondrous airy castles and hanging gardens. In the Champ de Mars, however, these were to be
                        seen more splendid, more wonderful than in the East, for human art had converted the airy
                        deceptive scenes into reality.

                        "The Aladdin's Palace of the present has been built," it was said. "Day by day, hour by hour, it
                        unfolds more of its wonderful splendor."

                        The endless halls shine in marble and many colors. "Master Bloodless" here moves his limbs of
                        steel and iron in the great circular hall of machinery. Works of art in metal, in stone, in Gobelins
                        tapestry, announce the vitality of mind that is stirring in every land. Halls of paintings, splendor of
                        flowers, everything that mind and skill can create in the workshop of the artisan, has been placed
                        here for show. Even the memorials of ancient days, out of old graves and turf-moors, have
                        appeared at this general meeting.

                        The overpowering great variegated whole must be divided into small portions, and pressed
                        together like a plaything, if it is to be understood and described.

                        Like a great table on Christmas Eve, the Champ de Mars carried a wonder-castle of industry and
                        art, and around this knickknacks from all countries had been ranged, knickknacks on a grand scale,
                        for every nation found some remembrance of home.

                        Here stood the royal palace of Egypt, there the caravanserai of the desert land. The Bedouin had
                        quitted his sunny country, and hastened by on his camel. Here stood the Russian stables, with the
                        fiery glorious horses of the steppe. Here stood the simple straw-thatched dwelling of the Danish
                        peasant, with the Dannebrog flag, next to Gustavus Vasa's wooden house from Dalarne, with its
                        wonderful carvings. American huts, English cottages, French pavilions, kiosks, theatres, churches,
                        all strewn around, and between them the fresh green turf, the clear springing water, blooming
                        bushes, rare trees, hothouses, in which one might fancy one's self transported into the tropical
                        forest; whole gardens brought from Damascus, and blooming under one roof. What colors, what
                        fragrance!

                        Artificial grottoes surrounded bodies of fresh or salt water, and gave a glimpse into the empire of
                        the fishes; the visitor seemed to wander at the bottom of the sea, among fishes and polypi.

                        "All this," they said, "the Champ de Mars offers;" and around the great richly-spread table the
                        crowd of human beings moves like a busy swarm of ants, on foot or in little carriages, for not all
                        feet are equal to such a fatiguing journey.

                        Hither they swarm from morning till late in the evening. Steamer after steamer, crowded with
                        people, glides down the Seine. The number of carriages is continually on the increase. The swarm
                        of people on foot and on horseback grows more and more dense. Carriages and omnibuses are
                        crowded, stuffed and embroidered with people. All these tributary streams flow in one direction-
                        towards the Exhibition. On every entrance the flag of France is displayed; around the world's
                        bazaar wave the flags of all nations. There is a humming and a murmuring from the hall of the
                        machines; from the towers the melody of the chimes is heard; with the tones of the organs in the
                        churches mingle the hoarse nasal songs from the cafes of the East. It is a kingdom of Babel, a
                        wonder of the world!

                        In very truth it was. That's what all the reports said, and who did not hear them? The Dryad knew
                        everything that is told here of the new wonder in the city of cities.

                        "Fly away, ye birds! fly away to see, and then come back and tell me," said the Dryad.

                        The wish became an intense desire- became the one thought of a life. Then, in the quiet silent
                        night, while the full moon was shining, the Dryad saw a spark fly out of the moon's disc, and fall
                        like a shooting star. And before the tree, whose leaves waved to and fro as if they were stirred by
                        a tempest, stood a noble, mighty, and grand figure. In tones that were at once rich and strong, like
                        the trumpet of the Last Judgment bidding farewell to life and summoning to the great account, it
                        said:

                        "Thou shalt go to the city of magic; thou shalt take root there, and enjoy the mighty rushing
                        breezes, the air and the sunshine there. But the time of thy life shall then be shortened; the line of
                        years that awaited thee here amid the free nature shall shrink to but a small tale. Poor Dryad! It
                        shall be thy destruction. Thy yearning and longing will increase, thy desire will grow more stormy,
                        the tree itself will be as a prison to thee, thou wilt quit thy cell and give up thy nature to fly out
                        and mingle among men.