A stronger breeze swept down the valley, causing the nest to rock with gentle undulations. “A novel idea,” he thought, “and what a restful spot to sleep and dream!”
Donald was tempted to finish his nap in the vacated dryad’s nest, but put the thought aside as being almost a sacrilege. He descended to the ground, picked up his basket and started down the mountain. As he neared the lake he saw the trapper with Douglas and Andy sitting outside the cabin door.
“Any luck, ol’ timer?”
Donald lifted the lid of the basket.
“Whew!” ejaculated the trapper. “Them’s wallopers, ain’t they?”
“John,” queried Donald as he sat down on the grass, “did you ever see a dryad?”
“A what?”
“A dryad.”
The trapper’s wrinkled face puckered. “Yeh,” he answered quizzically, “I seen lots of them fellers in Vancouver one time after I’d bin drinkin’ for a week.”
Donald told of his meeting with the strange child of the forest. “Who is she, John?” he asked.