“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?