The open fire was blazing well. "Let me draw the chairs about it," said father. "Then we can all enjoy it."

"We do not need chairs, father," said Polly. "Peter and I will sit on the floor. I will sit next to grandmother."

"I will sit next to mother," said Peter.

"When I was little," said grandmother, "I liked to sit on the floor. I thought it quite soft enough. Now that I am older, I like chairs better."

"If you sit in a chair, it is never in the right place," said Polly. "A floor is always in the right place. It is a big seat, too."

"What a good fireplace this is," said the Story Lady. "It is so large that you can put real logs into it. And it never smokes."

"Just think of long ago, when there were no stoves," said grandmother. "How would it seem now to heat our houses with open fires?"

"Why weren't there any stoves, grandmother? And where were the furnaces?"

"People did not know how to make stoves and furnaces, Peter. They had very large fireplaces, instead. My grandmother told me about them."

"What beautiful white birch logs," said the Story Lady. "They make such a good fire."

"They came from our woods," said Peter. "We were up there one day. We went to see next winter's wood. There is plenty. Some is already cut and piled."

"At first, I did not like to see the pretty trees cut down," said Polly. "But father told me that it is sometimes best."

"So it is, Polly," said the Story Lady. "We need the wood to keep us warm, and for many other things, too. What are some of them?"

"Carts, sleds, telephone poles!" shouted Peter.

"Houses, barns, bridges!" shouted Polly.

"Yes, indeed, children, for all those and more. So we must cut down some of the trees. But we must take care that others grow in their places.

"Thousands of years ago, people believed strange things about trees. They believed that in some lived beings called dryads.

"These dryads were like lovely maidens. A maiden is a girl, you know. They could come out of their trees. But still they were a part of the tree.

"If a tree was cut down, the lovely dryad who lived in it died. So, in those days, most people did not wish to cut down trees. They were afraid of hurting the dryads.

"When trees grew old and fell, the dryads died, too. Sometimes kind people propped up old trees. Then the dryads could live a little longer."

"Oh, I wish I could see one," said Polly. "What did they wear?"

"No one knows exactly, Polly, because no one ever saw a dryad. It is one of those stories that have come to us from thousands of years ago.

"Most of the stories are not true. We call them myths. And we like them very much."

"Are myths as good as 'Once upon a time' stories?" asked Peter.

"Yes, indeed, Peter. Get your mother to tell you some, and see."

"Now I shall think of this story, when I see our fire burning a dryad's house," said Polly.

"I shall play that there are dryads in our trees, too. Perhaps, if I play hard enough, one will really be there.

"When spring comes, I shall go to the woods often. I know where there is a hollow tree. That will make a good dryad's house."

"Spring is coming soon," said mother. "The cold winter is nearly over. But, first of all, bedtime is coming. It has nearly come, now. Say good night, Peter and Polly. Then off with you."

So Peter and Polly said good night and went upstairs to bed. Perhaps they dreamed of dryads. Perhaps they dreamed of spring-time. Perhaps they slept soundly and did not dream at all.