The Phoenix and the Carpet | Page 8

A hasty dash and scramble among the papers on
father's study table yielded, as the sum-books say, 'the desired result'.
But when he came back into the room holding out a paper, and crying,
'I say, look here,' the others all said 'Hush!' and he hushed obediently
and instantly, for the bird was speaking.
'Which of you,' it was saying, 'put the egg into the fire?'
'He did,' said three voices, and three fingers pointed at Robert.
The bird bowed; at least it was more like that than anything else.
'I am your grateful debtor,' it said with a high-bred air.
The children were all choking with wonder and curiosity--all except
Robert. He held the paper in his hand, and he KNEW. He said so. He
said--
'I know who you are.'
And he opened and displayed a printed paper, at the head of which was
a little picture of a bird sitting in a nest of flames.

'You are the Phoenix,' said Robert; and the bird was quite pleased.
'My fame has lived then for two thousand years,' it said. 'Allow me to
look at my portrait.' It looked at the page which Robert, kneeling down,
spread out in the fender, and said--
'It's not a flattering likeness ... And what are these characters?' it asked,
pointing to the printed part.
'Oh, that's all dullish; it's not much about YOU, you know,' said Cyril,
with unconscious politeness; 'but you're in lots of books.'
'With portraits?' asked the Phoenix.
'Well, no,' said Cyril; 'in fact, I don't think I ever saw any portrait of
you but that one, but I can read you something about yourself, if you
like.'
The Phoenix nodded, and Cyril went off and fetched Volume X of the
old Encyclopedia, and on page 246 he found the following:--
'Phoenix - in ornithology, a fabulous bird of antiquity.'
'Antiquity is quite correct,' said the Phoenix, 'but fabulous--well, do I
look it?'
Every one shook its head. Cyril went on--
'The ancients speak of this bird as single, or the only one of its kind.'
'That's right enough,' said the Phoenix.
'They describe it as about the size of an eagle.'
'Eagles are of different sizes,' said the Phoenix; 'it's not at all a good
description.'
All the children were kneeling on the hearthrug, to be as near the
Phoenix as possible.

'You'll boil your brains,' it said. 'Look out, I'm nearly cool now;' and
with a whirr of golden wings it fluttered from the fender to the table. It
was so nearly cool that there was only a very faint smell of burning
when it had settled itself on the table-cloth.
'It's only a very little scorched,' said the Phoenix, apologetically; 'it will
come out in the wash. Please go on reading.'
The children gathered round the table.
'The size of an eagle,' Cyril went on, 'its head finely crested with a
beautiful plumage, its neck covered with feathers of a gold colour, and
the rest of its body purple; only the tail white, and the eyes sparkling
like stars. They say that it lives about five hundred years in the
wilderness, and when advanced in age it builds itself a pile of sweet
wood and aromatic gums, fires it with the wafting of its wings, and thus
burns itself; and that from its ashes arises a worm, which in time grows
up to be a Phoenix. Hence the Phoenicians gave--'
'Never mind what they gave,' said the Phoenix, ruffling its golden
feathers. 'They never gave much, anyway; they always were people
who gave nothing for nothing. That book ought to be destroyed. It's
most inaccurate. The rest of my body was never purple, and as for
my--tail--well, I simply ask you, IS it white?'
It turned round and gravely presented its golden tail to the children.
'No. it's not,' said everybody.
'No, and it never was,' said the Phoenix. 'And that about the worm is
just a vulgar insult. The Phoenix has an egg, like all respectable birds.
It makes a pile--that part's all right--and it lays its egg, and it burns
itself; and it goes to sleep and wakes up in its egg, and comes out and
goes on living again, and so on for ever and ever. I can't tell you how
weary I got of it--such a restless existence; no repose.'
'But how did your egg get HERE?' asked Anthea.

'Ah, that's my life-secret,' said the Phoenix. 'I couldn't tell it to any one
who wasn't really sympathetic. I've always been a misunderstood bird.
You can tell that by what they say about the worm. I might tell YOU,' it
went on, looking at Robert with eyes that were indeed starry. 'You put
me on the fire--' Robert looked uncomfortable.
'The rest of us made the