They had come to see the Exhibition,
They had come to see the Exhibition, and now contemplated itfrom their fresh or salt-water position. They looked attentively atthe crowds of people who passed by them early and late. All thenations in the world, they thought, had made an exhibition of theirinhabitants, for the edification of the soles and haddocks, pike andcarp, that they might give their opinions upon the different kinds. “Those are scaly animals” said a little slimy Whiting. “They puton different scales two or three times a day, and they emit soundswhich they call speaking. We don’t put on scales, and we makeourselves understood in an easier way, simply by twitching the cornersof our mouths and staring with our eyes. We have a great manyadvantages over mankind.” “But they have learned swimming of us,” remarked a well-educatedCodling. “You must know I come from the great sea outside. In thehot time of the year the people yonder go into the water; first theytake off their scales, and then they swim. They have learnt from thefrogs to kick out with their hind legs, and row with their forepaws. But they cannot hold out long. They want to be like us, but theycannot come up to us. Poor people!” And the fishes stared. They thought that the whole swarm of peoplewhom they had seen in the bright daylight were still moving aroundthem; they were certain they still saw the same forms that had firstcaught their attention. A pretty Barbel, with spotted skin, and an enviably round back,declared that the “human fry” were still there. “I can see a well set-up human figure quite well,” said theBarbel. “She was called ‘contumacious lady,’ or something of thatkind. She had a mouth and staring eyes, like ours, and a great balloonat the back of her head, and something like a shut-up umbrella infront; there were a lot of dangling bits of seaweed hanging about her.She ought to take all the rubbish off, and go as we do; then she wouldlook something like a respectable barbel, so far as it is possible fora person to look like one!” “What’s become of that one whom they drew away with the hook? Hesat on a wheel-chair, and had paper, and pen, and ink, and wrotedown everything. They called him a ‘writer.'” “They’re going about with him still,” said a hoary old maid of aCarp, who carried her misfortune about with her, so that she was quitehoarse. In her youth she had once swallowed a hook, and still swampatiently about with it in her gullet. “A writer? That means, as wefishes describe it, a kind of cuttle or ink-fish among men.” Thus the fishes gossipped in their own way; but in theartificial water-grotto the laborers were busy; who were obliged totake advantage of the hours of night to get their work done bydaybreak. They accompanied with blows of their hammers and withsongs the parting words of the vanishing Dryad. “So, at any rate, I have seen you, you pretty gold-fishes,” shesaid. “Yes, I know you;” and she waved her hand to them. “I have knownabout you a long time in my home; the swallow told me about you. Howbeautiful you are! how delicate and shining! I should like to kissevery one of you. You others, also. I know you all; but you do notknow me.” The fishes stared out into the twilight. They did not understand aword of it. The Dryad was there no longer. She had been a long time in theopen air, where the different countries- the country of black bread,the codfish coast, the kingdom of Russia leather, and the banks ofeau-de-Cologne, and the gardens of rose oil- exhaled their perfumesfrom the world-wonder flower. When, after a night at a ball, we drive home half asleep andhalf awake, the melodies still sound plainly in our ears; we hearthem, and could sing them all from memory. When the eye of themurdered man closes, the picture of what it saw last clings to itfor a time like a photographic picture. So it was likewise here. The bustling life of day had not yetdisappeared in the quiet night. The Dryad had seen it; she knew,thus it will be repeated tomorrow. The Dryad stood among the fragrant roses, and thought she knewthem, and had seen them in her own home. She also saw redpomegranate flowers, like those that little Mary had worn in herdark hair. Remembrances from the home of her childhood flashed through herthoughts; her eyes eagerly drank in the prospect around, andfeverish restlessness chased her through the wonder-filled halls.
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