đ The Phoenix and the Carpet (day 1)
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joi, 16 mai, 01:53 (acum 3 zile)
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The Phoenix and the Carpet
I
The Egg
It began with the day when it was almost the Fifth of November, and a doubt arose in some breastâ âRobertâs, I fancyâ âas to the quality of the fireworks laid in for the Guy Fawkes celebration.
âThey were jolly cheap,â said whoever it was, and I think it was Robert, âand suppose they didnât go off on the night? Those Prosser kids would have something to snigger about then.â
âThe ones I got are all right,â Jane said; âI know they are, because the man at the shop said they were worth thribble the moneyâ ââ
âIâm sure thribble isnât grammar,â Anthea said.
âOf course it isnât,â said Cyril; âone word canât be grammar all by itself, so you neednât be so jolly clever.â
Anthea was rummaging in the corner-drawers of her mind for a very disagreeable answer, when she remembered what a wet day it was, and how the boys had been disappointed of that ride to London and back on the top of the tram, which their mother had promised them as a reward for not having once forgotten, for six whole days, to wipe their boots on the mat when they came home from school.
So Anthea only said, âDonât be so jolly clever yourself, Squirrel. And the fireworks look all right, and youâll have the eightpence that your tram fares didnât cost today, to buy something more with. You ought to get a perfectly lovely Catharine wheel for eightpence.â
âI daresay,â said Cyril, coldly; âbut itâs not your eightpence anyhowâ ââ
âBut look here,â said Robert, âreally now, about the fireworks. We donât want to be disgraced before those kids next door. They think because they wear red plush on Sundays no one else is any good.â
âI wouldnât wear plush if it was ever soâ âunless it was black to be beheaded in, if I was Mary Queen of Scots,â said Anthea, with scorn.
Robert stuck steadily to his point. One great point about Robert is the steadiness with which he can stick.
âI think we ought to test them,â he said.
âYou young duffer,â said Cyril, âfireworks are like postage-stamps. You can only use them once.â
âWhat do you suppose it means by âCarterâs tested seedsâ in the advertisement?â
There was a blank silence. Then Cyril touched his forehead with his finger and shook his head.
âA little wrong here,â he said. âI was always afraid of that with poor Robert. All that cleverness, you know, and being top in algebra so oftenâ âitâs bound to tellâ ââ
âDry up,â said Robert, fiercely. âDonât you see? You canât test seeds if you do them all. You just take a few here and there, and if those grow you can feel pretty sure the others will beâ âwhat do you call it?â âFather told meâ ââup to sample.â Donât you think we ought to sample the fireworks? Just shut our eyes and each draw one out, and then try them.â
âBut itâs raining cats and dogs,â said Jane.
âAnd Queen Anne is dead,â rejoined Robert. No one was in a very good temper. âWe neednât go out to do them; we can just move back the table, and let them off on the old tea-tray we play toboggans with. I donât know what you think, but I think itâs time we did something, and that would be really useful; because then we shouldnât just hope the fireworks would make those Prossers sit upâ âwe should know.â
âIt would be something to do,â Cyril owned with languid approval.
So the table was moved back. And then the hole in the carpet, that had been near the window till the carpet was turned round, showed most awfully. But Anthea stole out on tiptoe, and got the tray when cook wasnât looking, and brought it in and put it over the hole.
Then all the fireworks were put on the table, and each of the four children shut its eyes very tight and put out its hand and grasped something. Robert took a cracker, Cyril and Anthea had Roman candles; but Janeâs fat paw closed on the gem of the whole collection, the jack-in-the-box that had cost two shillings, and one at least of the partyâ âI will not say which, because it was sorry afterwardsâ âdeclared that Jane had done it on purpose. Nobody was pleased. For the worst of it was that these four children, with a very proper dislike of anything even faintly bordering on the sneakish, had a law, unalterable as those of the Medes and Persians, that one had to stand by the results of a toss-up, or a drawing of lots, or any other appeal to chance, however much one might happen to dislike the way things were turning out.
âI didnât mean to,â said Jane, near tears. âI donât care, Iâll draw anotherâ ââ
âYou know jolly well you canât,â said Cyril, bitterly. âItâs settled. Itâs Medium and Persian. Youâve done it, and youâll have to stand by itâ âand us too, worse luck. Never mind. Youâll have your pocket-money before the Fifth. Anyway, weâll have the jack-in-the-box last, and get the most out of it we can.â
So the cracker and the Roman candles were lighted, and they were all that could be expected for the money; but when it came to the jack-in-the-box it simply sat in the tray and laughed at them, as Cyril said. They tried to light it with paper and they tried to light it with matches; they tried to light it with Vesuvian fusees from the pocket of fatherâs second-best overcoat that was hanging in the hall. And then Anthea slipped away to the cupboard under the stairs where the brooms and dustpans were kept, and the rosiny firelighters that smell so nice and like the woods where pine-trees grow, and the old newspapers and the beeswax and turpentine, and the horrid stiff dark rags that are used for cleaning brass and furniture, and the paraffin for the lamps. She came back with a little pot that had once cost sevenpence-halfpenny when it was full of red-currant jelly; but the jelly had been all eaten long ago, and now Anthea had filled the jar with paraffin. She came in, and she threw the paraffin over the tray just at the moment when Cyril was trying with the twenty-third match to light the jack-in-the-box. The jack-in-the-box did not catch fire any more than usual, but the paraffin acted quite differently, and in an instant a hot flash of flame leapt up and burnt off Cyrilâs eyelashes, and scorched the faces of all four before they could spring back. They backed, in four instantaneous bounds, as far as they could, which was to the wall, and the pillar of fire reached from floor to ceiling.
âMy hat,â said Cyril, with emotion, âYouâve done it this time, Anthea.â
The flame was spreading out under the ceiling like the rose of fire in Mr. Rider Haggardâs exciting story about Allan Quatermain. Robert and Cyril saw that no time was to be lost. They turned up the edges of the carpet, and kicked them over the tray. This cut off the column of fire, and it disappeared and there was nothing left but smoke and a dreadful smell of lamps that have been turned too low.
All hands now rushed to the rescue, and the paraffin fire was only a bundle of trampled carpet, when suddenly a sharp crack beneath their feet made the amateur firemen start back. Another crackâ âthe carpet moved as if it had had a cat wrapped in it; the jack-in-the-box had at last allowed itself to be lighted, and it was going off with desperate violence inside the carpet.
Robert, with the air of one doing the only possible thing, rushed to the window and opened it. Anthea screamed, Jane burst into tears, and Cyril turned the table wrong way up on top of the carpet heap. But the firework went on, banging and bursting and spluttering even underneath the table.
Next moment mother rushed in, attracted by the howls of Anthea, and in a few moments the firework desisted and there was a dead silence, and the children stood looking at each otherâs black faces, and, out of the corners of their eyes, at motherâs white one.
The fact that the nursery carpet was ruined occasioned but little surprise, nor was anyone really astonished that bed should prove the immediate end of the adventure. It has been said that all roads lead to Rome; this may be true, but at any rate, in early youth I am quite sure that many roads lead to bed, and stop thereâ âor you do.
The rest of the fireworks were confiscated, and mother was not pleased when father let them off himself in the back garden, though he said, âWell, how else can you get rid of them, my dear?â
You see, father had forgotten that the children were in disgrace, and that their bedroom windows looked out on to the back garden. So that they all saw the fireworks most beautifully, and admired the skill with which father handled them.
Next day all was forgotten and forgiven; only the nursery had to be deeply cleaned (like spring-cleaning), and the ceiling had to be whitewashed.
And mother went out; and just at teatime next day a man came with a rolled-up carpet, and father paid him, and mother saidâ â
âIf the carpet isnât in good condition, you know, I shall expect you to change it.â And the man repliedâ â
âThere ainât a thread gone in it nowhere, mum. Itâs a bargain, if ever there was one, and Iâm moreân âarf sorry I let it go at the price; but we canât resist the lydies, can we, sir?â and he winked at father and went away.
Then the carpet was put down in the nursery, and sure enough there wasnât a hole in it anywhere.
As the last fold was unrolled something hard and loud-sounding bumped out of it and trundled along the nursery floor. All the children scrambled for it, and Cyril got it. He took it to the gas. It was shaped like an egg, very yellow and shiny, half-transparent, and it had an odd sort of light in it that changed as you held it in different ways. It was as though it was an egg with a yolk of pale fire that just showed through the stone.
âI may keep it, maynât I, mother?â Cyril asked.
And of course mother said no; they must take it back to the man who had brought the carpet, because she had only paid for a carpet, and not for a stone egg with a fiery yolk to it.
So she told them where the shop was, and it was in the Kentish Town Road, not far from the hotel that is called the Bull and Gate. It was a poky little shop, and the man was arranging furniture outside on the pavement very cunningly, so that the more broken parts should show as little as possible. And directly he saw the children he knew them again, and he began at once, without giving them a chance to speak.
âNo you donât!â he cried loudly; âI ainât a-goinâ to take back no carpets, so donât you make no bloominâ errer. A bargainâs a bargain, and the carpetâs puffik throughout.â
âWe donât want you to take it back,â said Cyril; âbut we found something in it.â
âIt must have got into it up at your place, then,â said the man, with indignant promptness, âfor there ainât nothing in nothing as I sell. Itâs all as clean as a whistle.â
âI never said it wasnât clean,â said Cyril, âbutâ ââ
âOh, if itâs moths,â said the man, âthatâs easy cured with borax. But I expect it was only an odd one. I tell you the carpetâs good through and through. It hadnât got no moths when it left my âandsâ ânot so much as an hegg.â
âBut thatâs just it,â interrupted Jane; âthere was so much as an egg.â
The man made a sort of rush at the children and stamped his foot.
âClear out, I say!â he shouted, âor Iâll call for the police. A nice thing for customers to âear you a-coming âere a-charging me with finding things in goods what I sells. âEre, be off, afore I sends you off with a flea in your ears. Hi! constableâ ââ
The children fled, and they think, and their father thinks, that they couldnât have done anything else. Mother has her own opinion.
But father said they might keep the egg.
âThe man certainly didnât know the egg was there when he brought the carpet,â said he, âany more than your mother did, and weâve as much right to it as he had.â
So the egg was put on the mantelpiece, where it quite brightened up the dingy nursery. The nursery was dingy, because it was a basement room, and its windows looked out on a stone area with a rockery made of clinkers facing the windows. Nothing grew in the rockery except London pride and snails.
The room had been described in the house agentâs list as a âconvenient breakfast-room in basement,â and in the daytime it was rather dark. This did not matter so much in the evenings when the gas was alight, but then it was in the evening that the blackbeetles got so sociable, and used to come out of the low cupboards on each side of the fireplace where their homes were, and try to make friends with the children. At least, I suppose that was what they wanted, but the children never would.
On the Fifth of November father and mother went to the theatre, and the children were not happy, because the Prossers next door had lots of fireworks and they had none.
They were not even allowed to have a bonfire in the garden.
âNo more playing with fire, thank you,â was fatherâs answer, when they asked him.
When the baby had been put to bed the children sat sadly round the fire in the nursery.
âIâm beastly bored,â said Robert.
âLetâs talk about the Psammead,â said Anthea, who generally tried to give the conversation a cheerful turn.
âWhatâs the good of talking?â said Cyril. âWhat I want is for something to happen. Itâs awfully stuffy for a chap not to be allowed out in the evenings. Thereâs simply nothing to do when youâve got through your homers.â
Jane finished the last of her home-lessons and shut the book with a bang.
âWeâve got the pleasure of memory,â said she. âJust think of last holidays.â
Last holidays, indeed, offered something to think ofâ âfor they had been spent in the country at a white house between a sandpit and a gravel-pit, and things had happened. The children had found a Psammead, or sand-fairy, and it had let them have anything they wished forâ âjust exactly anything, with no bother about its not being really for their good, or anything like that. And if you want to know what kind of things they wished for, and how their wishes turned out you can read it all in a book called Five Children and It (It was the Psammead). If youâve not read it, perhaps I ought to tell you that the fifth child was the baby brother, who was called the Lamb, because the first thing he ever said was âBaa!â and that the other children were not particularly handsome, nor were they extra clever, nor extraordinarily good. But they were not bad sorts on the whole; in fact, they were rather like you.
âI donât want to think about the pleasures of memory,â said Cyril; âI want some more things to happen.â
âWeâre very much luckier than anyone else, as it is,â said Jane. âWhy, no one else ever found a Psammead. We ought to be grateful.â
âWhy shouldnât we go on being, though?â Cyril askedâ ââlucky, I mean, not grateful. Whyâs it all got to stop?â
âPerhaps something will happen,â said Anthea, comfortably. âDo you know, sometimes I think we are the sort of people that things do happen to.â
âItâs like that in history,â said Jane: âsome kings are full of interesting things, and othersâ ânothing ever happens to them, except their being born and crowned and buried, and sometimes not that.â
âI think Pantherâs right,â said Cyril: âI think we are the sort of people things do happen to. I have a sort of feeling things would happen right enough if we could only give them a shove. It just wants something to start it. Thatâs all.â
âI wish they taught magic at school,â Jane sighed. âI believe if we could do a little magic it might make something happen.â
âI wonder how you begin?â Robert looked round the room, but he got no ideas from the faded green curtains, or the drab Venetian blinds, or the worn brown oilcloth on the floor. Even the new carpet suggested nothing, though its pattern was a very wonderful one, and always seemed as though it were just going to make you think of something.
âI could begin right enough,â said Anthea; âIâve read lots about it. But I believe itâs wrong in the Bible.â
âItâs only wrong in the Bible because people wanted to hurt other people. I donât see how things can be wrong unless they hurt somebody, and we donât want to hurt anybody; and whatâs more, we jolly well couldnât if we tried. Letâs get the Ingoldsby Legends. Thereâs a thing about Abracadabra there,â said Cyril, yawning. âWe may as well play at magic. Letâs be Knights Templars. They were awfully gone on magic. They used to work spells or something with a goat and a goose. Father says so.â
âWell, thatâs all right,â said Robert, unkindly; âyou can play the goat right enough, and Jane knows how to be a goose.â
âIâll get Ingoldsby,â said Anthea, hastily. âYou turn up the hearthrug.â
So they traced strange figures on the linoleum, where the hearthrug had kept it clean. They traced them with chalk that Robert had nicked from the top of the mathematical masterâs desk at school. You know, of course, that it is stealing to take a new stick of chalk, but it is not wrong to take a broken piece, so long as you only take one. (I do not know the reason of this rule, nor who made it.) And they chanted all the gloomiest songs they could think of. And, of course, nothing happened. So then Anthea said, âIâm sure a magic fire ought to be made of sweet-smelling wood, and have magic gums and essences and things in it.â
âI donât know any sweet-smelling wood, except cedar,â said Robert; âbut Iâve got some ends of cedarwood lead pencil.â
So they burned the ends of lead pencil. And still nothing happened.
âLetâs burn some of the eucalyptus oil we have for our colds,â said Anthea.
And they did. It certainly smelt very strong. And they burned lumps of camphor out of the big chest. It was very bright, and made a horrid black smoke, which looked very magical. But still nothing happened. Then they got some clean tea-cloths from the dresser drawer in the kitchen, and waved them over the magic chalk-tracings, and sang the hymn of the Moravian nuns at Bethlehem, which is very impressive. And still nothing happened. So they waved more and more wildly, and Robertâs tea-cloth caught the golden egg and whisked it off the mantelpiece, and it fell into the fender and rolled under the grate.
âOh, crikey!â said more than one voice.
And everyone instantly fell down flat on its front to look under the grate, and there lay the egg, glowing in a nest of hot ashes.
âItâs not smashed, anyhow,â said Robert, and he put his hand under the grate and picked up the egg. But the egg was much hotter than anyone would have believed it could possibly get in such a short time, and Robert had to drop it with a cry of âBother!â It fell on the top bar of the grate, and bounced right into the glowing red-hot heart of the fire.
âThe tongs!â cried Anthea. But, alas, no one could remember where they were. Everyone had forgotten that the tongs had last been used to fish up the dollâs teapot from the bottom of the water-butt, where the Lamb had dropped it. So the nursery tongs were resting between the water-butt and the dustbin, and cook refused to lend the kitchen ones.
âNever mind,â said Robert, âweâll get it out with the poker and the shovel.â
âOh, stop,â cried Anthea. âLook at it! Look! look! look! I do believe something is going to happen!â
For the egg was now red-hot, and inside it something was moving. Next moment there was a soft cracking sound; the egg burst in two, and out of it came a flame-coloured bird. It rested a moment among the flames, and as it rested there the four children could see it growing bigger and bigger under their eyes.
Every mouth was agape, every eye a-goggle.
The bird rose in its nest of fire, stretched its wings, and flew out into the room. It flew round and round, and round again, and where it passed the air was warm. Then it perched on the fender. The children looked at each other. Then Cyril put out a hand towards the bird. It put its head on one side and looked up at him, as you may have seen a parrot do when it is just going to speak, so that the children were hardly astonished at all when it said, âBe careful; I am not nearly cool yet.â
They were not astonished, but they were very, very much interested.
They looked at the bird, and it was certainly worth looking at. Its feathers were like gold. It was about as large as a bantam, only its beak was not at all bantam-shaped. âI believe I know what it is,â said Robert. âIâve seen a picture.â
He hurried away. A hasty dash and scramble among the papers on fatherâs study table yielded, as the sum-books say, âthe desired result.â But when he came back into the room holding out a paper, and crying, âI say, look here,â the others all said âHush!â and he hushed obediently and instantly, for the bird was speaking.
âWhich of you,â it was saying, âput the egg into the fire?â
âHe did,â said three voices, and three fingers pointed at Robert.
The bird bowed; at least it was more like that than anything else.
âI am your grateful debtor,â it said with a high-bred air.
The children were all choking with wonder and curiosityâ âall except Robert. He held the paper in his hand, and he knew. He said so. He saidâ â
âI know who you are.â
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.
âYou are the Phoenix,â said Robert; and the bird was quite pleased.
âMy fame has lived then for two thousand years,â it said. âAllow me to look at my portrait.â It looked at the page which Robert, kneeling down, spread out in the fender, and saidâ â
âItâs not a flattering likenessâ ââ ⌠And what are these characters?â it asked, pointing to the printed part.
âOh, thatâs all dullish; itâs not much about you, you know,â said Cyril, with unconscious politeness; âbut youâre in lots of booksâ ââ
âWith portraits?â asked the Phoenix.
âWell, no,â said Cyril; âin fact, I donât think I ever saw any portrait of you but that one, but I can read you something about yourself, if you like.â
The Phoenix nodded, and Cyril went off and fetched Volume X of the old Encyclopedia, and on page 246 he found the following:â â
âPhoenixâ âin ornithology, a fabulous bird of antiquity.â
âAntiquity is quite correct,â said the Phoenix, âbut fabulousâ âwell, do I look it?â
Everyone shook its head. Cyril went onâ â
âThe ancients speak of this bird as single, or the only one of its kind.â
âThatâs right enough,â said the Phoenix.
âThey describe it as about the size of an eagle.â
âEagles are of different sizes,â said the Phoenix; âitâs not at all a good description.â
All the children were kneeling on the hearthrug, to be as near the Phoenix as possible.
âYouâll boil your brains,â it said. âLook out, Iâm nearly cool now;â 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 tablecloth.
âItâs only a very little scorched,â said the Phoenix, apologetically; âit will come out in the wash. Please go on reading.â
The children gathered round the table.
âThe size of an eagle,â Cyril went on, âits 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 gaveâ ââ
âNever mind what they gave,â said the Phoenix, ruffling its golden feathers. âThey never gave much, anyway; they always were people who gave nothing for nothing. That book ought to be destroyed. Itâs most inaccurate. The rest of my body was never purple, and as for myâ âtailâ âwell, I simply ask you, is it white?â
It turned round and gravely presented its golden tail to the children.
âNo, itâs not,â said everybody.
âNo, and it never was,â said the Phoenix. âAnd that about the worm is just a vulgar insult. The Phoenix has an egg, like all respectable birds. It makes a pileâ âthat partâs all rightâ âand 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 forever and ever. I canât tell you how weary I got of itâ âsuch a restless existence; no repose.â
âBut how did your egg get here?â asked Anthea.
âAh, thatâs my life-secret,â said the Phoenix. âI couldnât tell it to anyone who wasnât really sympathetic. Iâve always been a misunderstood bird. You can tell that by what they say about the worm. I might tell you,â it went on, looking at Robert with eyes that were indeed starry. âYou put me on the fireâ ââ
Robert looked uncomfortable.
âThe rest of us made the fire of sweet-scented woods and gums, though,â said Cyril.
âAndâ âand it was an accident my putting you on the fire,â said Robert, telling the truth with some difficulty, for he did not know how the Phoenix might take it. It took it in the most unexpected manner.
âYour candid avowal,â it said, âremoves my last scruple. I will tell you my story.â
âAnd you wonât vanish, or anything sudden will you?â asked Anthea, anxiously.
âWhy?â it asked, puffing out the golden feathers, âdo you wish me to stay here?â
âOh yes,â said everyone, with unmistakable sincerity.
âWhy?â asked the Phoenix again, looking modestly at the tablecloth.
âBecause,â said everyone at once, and then stopped short; only Jane added after a pause, âyou are the most beautiful person weâve ever seen.â
âYou are a sensible child,â said the Phoenix, âand I will not vanish or anything sudden. And I will tell you my tale. I had resided, as your book says, for many thousand years in the wilderness, which is a large, quiet place with very little really good society, and I was becoming weary of the monotony of my existence. But I acquired the habit of laying my egg and burning myself every five hundred yearsâ âand you know how difficult it is to break yourself of a habit.â
âYes,â said Cyril; âJane used to bite her nails.â
âBut I broke myself of it,â urged Jane, rather hurt, âYou know I did.â
âNot till they put bitter aloes on them,â said Cyril.
âI doubt,â said the bird, gravely, âwhether even bitter aloes (the aloe, by the way, has a bad habit of its own, which it might well cure before seeking to cure others; I allude to its indolent practice of flowering but once a century), I doubt whether even bitter aloes could have cured me. But I was cured. I awoke one morning from a feverish dreamâ âit was getting near the time for me to lay that tiresome fire and lay that tedious egg upon itâ âand I saw two people, a man and a woman. They were sitting on a carpetâ âand when I accosted them civilly they narrated to me their life-story, which, as you have not yet heard it, I will now proceed to relate. They were a prince and princess, and the story of their parents was one which I am sure you will like to hear. In early youth the mother of the princess happened to hear the story of a certain enchanter, and in that story I am sure you will be interested. The enchanterâ ââ
âOh, please donât,â said Anthea. âI canât understand all these beginnings of stories, and you seem to be getting deeper and deeper in them every minute. Do tell us your own story. Thatâs what we really want to hear.â
âWell,â said the Phoenix, seeming on the whole rather flattered, âto cut about seventy long stories short (though I had to listen to them allâ âbut to be sure in the wilderness there is plenty of time), this prince and princess were so fond of each other that they did not want anyone else, and the enchanterâ âdonât be alarmed, I wonât go into his historyâ âhad given them a magic carpet (youâve heard of a magic carpet?), and they had just sat on it and told it to take them right away from everyoneâ âand it had brought them to the wilderness. And as they meant to stay there they had no further use for the carpet, so they gave it to me. That was indeed the chance of a lifetime!â
âI donât see what you wanted with a carpet,â said Jane, âwhen youâve got those lovely wings.â
âThey are nice wings, arenât they?â said the Phoenix, simpering and spreading them out. âWell, I got the prince to lay out the carpet, and I laid my egg on it; then I said to the carpet, âNow, my excellent carpet, prove your worth. Take that egg somewhere where it canât be hatched for two thousand years, and where, when that timeâs up, someone will light a fire of sweet wood and aromatic gums, and put the egg in to hatch;â and you see itâs all come out exactly as I said. The words were no sooner out of my beak than egg and carpet disappeared. The royal lovers assisted to arrange my pile, and soothed my last moments. I burnt myself up and knew no more till I awoke on yonder altar.â
It pointed its claw at the grate.
âBut the carpet,â said Robert, âthe magic carpet that takes you anywhere you wish. What became of that?â
âOh, that?â said the Phoenix, carelesslyâ ââI should say that that is the carpet. I remember the pattern perfectly.â
It pointed as it spoke to the floor, where lay the carpet which mother had bought in the Kentish Town Road for twenty-two shillings and ninepence.
At that instant fatherâs latchkey was heard in the door.
âOh,â whispered Cyril, ânow we shall catch it for not being in bed!â
âWish yourself there,â said the Phoenix, in a hurried whisper, âand then wish the carpet back in its place.â
No sooner said than done. It made one a little giddy, certainly, and a little breathless; but when things seemed right way up again, there the children were, in bed, and the lights were out.
They heard the soft voice of the Phoenix through the darkness.
âI shall sleep on the cornice above your curtains,â it said. âPlease donât mention me to your kinsfolk.â
âNot much good,â said Robert, âtheyâd never believe us. I say,â he called through the half-open door to the girls; âtalk about adventures and things happening. We ought to be able to get some fun out of a magic carpet and a Phoenix.â
âRather,â said the girls, in bed.
âChildren,â said father, on the stairs, âgo to sleep at once. What do you mean by talking at this time of night?â
No answer was expected to this question, but under the bedclothes Cyril murmured one.
âMean?â he said. âDonât know what we mean. I donât know what anything means.â
âBut weâve got a magic carpet and a Phoenix,â said Robert.
âYouâll get something else if father comes in and catches you,â said Cyril. âShut up, I tell you.â
Robert shut up. But he knew as well as you do that the adventures of that carpet and that Phoenix were only just beginning.
Father and mother had not the least idea of what had happened in their absence. This is often the case, even when there are no magic carpets or Phoenixes in the house.
The next morningâ âbut I am sure you would rather wait till the next chapter before you hear about that.
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