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.
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.
“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?”
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.
“That was little Connie Wainwright. She an’ her father live in a little valley t’other side of that bluff,” pointing up the mountain. “She’s a great kid, too. She has a hoss that’s named after a hoss that had wings. I forgit the name she calls him.” The trapper pondered for a moment.
“That’s it. She rides that hoss like a Texas Ranger, an’ she’s a crack shot with the rifle. Funny thing, though, she ain’t ever shot anything to my knowledge ’cept a cougar that tried to get her pet deer. Her father’s jest the same, he won’t kill nothin’ an’ they’ve got all the birds ’round their cabin as tame as chickens. They are always studyin’ birds, flowers, an’ animals. He’s an Englishman of eddication, an’ he’s eddicated the kid, too. Was the ‘Breed’ with her?”