ear to her.
Like women, she was very much afraid of mice, and she had more real
cause for fear than they have, for I might have gnawed through the tree
on which her life depended.

"I spoke to her in a friendly manner and begged her to take courage. At
last she took me up in her delicate hand, and I told her what had
brought me out into the world. She told me that perhaps on that very
evening she would be able to obtain for me one of the two treasures for
which I was seeking. She told me that Phantaesus, the genius of the
imagination, was her very dear friend; that he was as beautiful as the
god of love; that he rested many an hour with her under the leafy boughs
of the tree, which then rustled and waved more than ever. He called her
his dryad, she said, and the tree his tree, for the grand old oak with
its gnarled trunk was just to his taste. The root, which spread deep
into the earth, and the top, which rose high in the fresh air, knew the
value of the drifting snow, the keen wind, and the warm sunshine, as it
ought to be known. 'Yes,' continued the dryad, 'the birds sing up above
in the branches and talk to each other about the beautiful fields they
have visited in foreign lands. On one of the withered boughs a stork has
built his nest--it is beautifully arranged, and, besides, it is pleasant
to hear a little about the land of the pyramids. All this pleases
Phantaesus, but it is not enough for him. I am obliged to relate to him
of my life in the woods and to go back to my childhood, when I was
little and the tree so small and delicate that a stinging nettle could
overshadow it, and I have to tell everything that has happened since
then until now, when the tree is so large and strong. Sit you down now
under the green bindwood and pay attention. When Phantaesus comes I will
find an opportunity to lay hold of his wing and to pull out one of the
little feathers. That feather you shall have. A better was never given
to any poet, and it will be quite enough for you.'

"And when Phantaesus came the feather was plucked," said the little
mouse, "and I seized and put it in water and kept it there till it was
quite soft. It was very heavy and indigestible, but I managed to nibble
it up at last. It is not so easy to nibble oneself into a poet, there
are so many things to get through. Now, however, I had two of them,
understanding and imagination, and through these I knew that the third
was to be found in the library.

"A grea