![]() ![]() There were hazards enough for a dryad, for a tree, without me being careless. I was tempted to get out my magnifying glass for a good look, but I didn’t want to risk scorching her in the sunlight like a small boy torching ants. I peered at the sapling to make sure that the tiny young dryad still clung to the stem. I threw a handful of compost into the bottom, then lowered the tree into the ground and trod down the soil. Soon I had a hole big enough to receive the sapling’s earth-encrusted root-ball. I fetched my pack, took out the trowel, and began to dig. Instinctively, I felt that a dryad would thrive here. An earthworm crawled away into the moss and leaf-litter. I pulled up tussocks of grass to inspect the soil, and found it damp but not sodden, thin but not barren. Behind an outcrop, in a small gully, the wind dropped to a light breeze. The grey rock felt warm under my hand, retaining the heat of the autumn sun. I saw a south-facing escarpment, and scrambled across to investigate. Birch and goat-willow dotted the exposed slopes, hardy species that withstood the storms and chills of the High Tatras. ![]() When I had climbed high enough that my breath came in great panting gasps, and the sheep in the valleys looked like tiny flecks of fallen cloud, I heaved off my backpack and looked for the best spot to plant the final sapling. ![]()
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