The “dryad” shook her head bashfully, then with a quick, bird-like motion sprang straight out into the air, her golden hair streaming and flashing in the sunshine. She landed gracefully on her moccasined feet and went bounding across the valley, leaping the creek with the ease and grace of an antelope, and, without turning her head, disappeared in the dark forest aisles.
Donald’s black eyes remained fixed on the spot where the fairy-like vision vanished from view. His whole attitude registered astonishment. He was completely mystified by the appearance of a girl in this remote wilderness.
He climbed the trees for a glimpse of the golden-haired fairy’s bower. A rope was tied around the tops of the four cedars, with interlacings of cord between. This rope pocket was filled with pine boughs, and these covered with ferns and moss. A cord that led to a nearby spruce was, he decided, used to impart a swinging motion to this strange maiden’s cosy retreat.
In the centre of this cosy nest lay a copy of “Tennyson’s Poems” and a book on “Bird Life.” As Donald leaned closer a gentle breeze fluttered the leaves of the book of poems.
“Fairy hands turned to the right page,” he mused aloud as he read these lines from “Maud.”
“My bird with the shining head.
My own dove with the tender eye. . . .
Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls,
To the flowers, and be their sun.”
“A corner of dreamland,” murmured Donald.