A little girl was walking in a California forest. It was a forest containing some of the biggest trees in the world, and the little girl had never seen anything like it. She was wandering on, in a sort of daze, hardly able to believe her eyes.

They had been talking in the car about the “big trees,” the “giant redwoods”; but the words had not meant much to the child. They had been rolling along the highway, twisting and turning on mountain grades, in bright sunlight of a spring day; and suddenly the sunlight was gone, there was twilight, and a solemn hush, and a forest made of the largest of living things.

They had stopped, and got out of the car; and now, by an unusual chance, the little girl was alone with the trees. It would have been no fun with Mama, who would have said: “You will get your shoes dirty,” or “There may be rattlesnakes.”

By the roadside was a tree with a great hole cut in it, and a tavern inside, in which you could sit at a table and drink a glass of beer, or of soda water—“Believe it or not,” said the sign. There were picture postcards of this, and Mama’s traveling companion, Miss Jellife, wanted some to send to friends in the East. Mama was helping her to choose them; the chauffeur was getting some gas; and so Elizabeth was left to gaze at the trees and to walk among them.

Beyond each giant was another, seeming even more marvelous, so that one was drawn on by a magic spell. There were some so big that fifty little girls might have clasped hands and made a ring about their base. The bark was gray-brown and deeply fluted, it looked so soft that you would think to squeeze it with your hands, but it was iron-hard. Under foot was a carpet several feet deep, soft and yielding, made of dust which had dropped from these trees for thousands of years. About the spreading bases of the trees were masses of frail greenery, with faint glimmers of sunlight playing over them; a feeble sunlight, coming from far away, a sun almost played out and dead. Over it all lay a hush as of twilight, of Sunday, the inside of a cathedral—every kind of solemn thing of which you could think.

Beauty and wonder absorbed Elizabeth completely; she went on, softly, reverently, lured by this new sight and that, forgetting the rest of the world. Every tree was different; the ones in the distance seemed bigger than those near at hand. She had been brought up in a city, and knew only shade trees, and woodlands planted by man. Now she had come suddenly into a new world that broke all the rules.

She was not so much surprised at what happened next. If in this forest there were the biggest of all living things, why should there not also be the smallest? Anything was possible where a hundred million years of history confronted you, and the forces of nature were freed from restraint. Elizabeth came upon a tree with a great fire-blackened hole straight through it, a hole so big that Mama’s limousine could have been driven through without being scratched. She started to peer inside, but it was so dark that it frightened her, and instead she tiptoed around the trunk. On the other side was a rock, over which the tree had grown; on the top of the rock was a fringe of lovely plants, azaleas, and oxalis, and ferns; and peering out over the top of these was a tiny face.

A face about the size of your fist, unless you have a very big fist. It might have been the face of a squirrel, of course, or of an owl, or of a bear cub. But as it happened, it wasn’t any of these: it was a face in all ways human, except that it was so small. It had bright, round, rosy cheeks, tiny blue eyes, hair the color of cornsilk, and above it a tiny little peaked brown cap. It was a startled face; and Elizabeth stopped dead still, and the two of them stared at each other.

At last the little man spoke, in a tiny piping voice. “I’m not afraid of you,” he said; and Elizabeth said quickly: “No, you don’t have to be afraid of me.”

The little man studied her gravely, and at last remarked, “You look like a very nice person.” She answered: “Mama is satisfied most of the time.”

The little man studied her some more, and at last inquired: “You do not hurt things?”

“Not if I can help it,” said Elizabeth.

“But do you cut down trees?”

“Oh, no! Truly, I have never cut down a tree.”

“But you will do it when you grow bigger?”

“No, no, I assure you, such a thing would not be ladylike.”

The little man seemed pleased. “That is a pretty dress you have on,” he said next. “Where do you get such things?”

“This came from Marcel’s,” said Elizabeth. “It is a place on Fifth Avenue.” She added: “In New York.”

The little man shook his head. “I have lived all my life in this forest. I am very ignorant.”

“I am sure,” said Elizabeth politely, “you must know lots of things that would be interesting to me.”

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