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; e