“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. Then the years that would have belonged to thee will be contracted to half the span of the ephemeral fly， that lives but a day： one night， and thy life-taper shall be blown out—the leaves of the tree will wither and be blown away， to become green never again!”
Thus the words sounded. And the light vanished away， but not the longing of the Dryad. She trembled in the wild fever of expectation.
“I shall go there!” she cried， rejoicingly. “Life is beginning and swells like a cloud; nobody knows whither it is hastening.”
When the gray dawn arose and the moon turned pale and the clouds were tinted red， the wished-for hour struck. The words of promise were fulfilled.
People appeared with spades and poles; they dug round the roots of the tree， deeper and deeper， and beneath it. A wagon was brought out， drawn by many horses， and the tree was lifted up， with its roots and the lumps of earth that adhered to them; matting was placed around the roots， as though the tree had its feet in a warm bag. And now the tree was lifted on the wagon and secured with chains. The journey began—the journey to Paris. There the tree was to grow as an ornament to the city of French glory.
The twigs and the leaves of the chestnut tree trembled in the first moments of its being moved; and the Dryad trembled in the pleasurable feeling of expectation.
“Away! away!” it sounded in every beat of her pulse. “Away! away” sounded in words that flew trembling along. The Dryad forgot to bid farewell to the regions of home; she thought not of the waving grass and of the innocent daisies， which had looked up to her as to a great lady， a young Princess playing at being a shepherdess out in the open air.
The chestnut tree stood upon the wagon， and nodded his branches; whether this meant “farewell” or “forward，” the Dryad knew not; she dreamed only of the marvellous new things， that seemed yet so familiar， and that were to unfold themselves before her. No child's heart rejoicing in innocence—no heart whose blood danced with passion—had set out on the journey to Paris more full of expectation than she.
Her “farewell” sounded in the words “Away! away!”
The wheels turned; the distant approached; the present vanished. The region was changed， even as the clouds change. New vineyards， forests， villages， villas appeared—came nearer—vanished!
The chestnut tree moved forward， and the Dryad went with it. Steam-engine after steam-engine rushed past， sending up into the air vapory clouds， that formed figures which told of Paris， whence they came， and whither the Dryad was going.
Everything around knew it， and must know whither she was bound. It seemed to her as if every tree she passed stretched out its leaves towards her， with the prayer—“Take me with you! take me with you!” for every tree enclosed a longing Dryad.
What changes during this flight! Houses seemed to be rising out of the earth—more and more—thicker and thicker. The chimneys rose like flower-pots ranged side by side， or in rows one above the other， on the roofs. Great inscriptions in letters a yard long， and figures in various colors， covering the walls from cornice to basement， came brightly out.
“Where does Paris begin， and when shall I be there?” asked the Dryad.
The crowd of people grew; the tumult and the bustle increased; carriage followed upon carriage; people on foot and people on horseback were mingled together; all around were shops on shops， music and song， crying and talking.