Lucy‘s eyes began to grow accustomed to the light， and she saw the trees that were nearest her more distinctly. A great longing for the old days when the trees could talk in Narnia came over her. She knew exactly how each of these trees would talk if only she could wake them， and what sort of human form it would put on. She looked at a silver birch： it would have a soft， showery voice and would look like a slender girl， with hair blown all about her face， and fond of dancing. She looked at the oak： he would be a wizened， but hearty old man with a frizzled beard and warts on his face and hands， and hair growing out of the warts. She looked at the beech under which she was standing. Ah！ .she wouldbe the best of all. She would be a gracious goddess， smooth and stately， the lady of the wood.
“Oh， Trees， Trees， Trees，” said Lucy （though she had not been intending to speak at all）. “Oh， Trees， wake， wake， wake. Don’t you remember it？ Don‘t you remember me？ Dryads and Hamadryads， come out， come to me.”
