“Hello,” he ventured.
A slight rustling of the branches followed, but no answer.
“Hello, wood-nymph!”
Still no answer, but a low silvery laugh was proof that the occupant of the nest was not a wraith.
“If you are a fairy,” he persisted, “won’t you come down and give me a Terpsichorean exhibition in the fairy ring on the floor of your enchanted glade?”
“I am a dryad,” came the dulcet tone of a childish voice, “and a dryad’s life is bound up in her tree. I cannot leave my arboreal bower until the hour of midnight.
“We’ll see about that,” laughed Donald as he seized the slender cedars and rocked them violently.
A scream of simulated fear came from the tree-tops. “Stop!” the voice cried, “I’ll come down.”
A tiny moccasined foot felt its way to a limb, and a slight figure clad in men’s overalls and a brown cotton shirt, stood erect with downcast eyes.
“Jump,” invited Donald, as he stood with arms outstretched; “fairies don’t weigh much.”