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.
