 CHAPTER IX THE BURGLAR'S BRIDE The morning after the adventure of the Persian cats, the muskrats, the common cow, and the uncommon burglar, all the children slept till it was ten o'clock, and then it was only Cyril who woke, but he attended to the others, so that by half past ten everyone was ready to help to get breakfast. It was shivery cold, and there was but little in the house that was really worth eating. The cupboard had arranged a thoughtful little surprise for the absent servants. He had made a neat and delightful booby-trap over the kitchen door, and as soon as they heard the front door click open and knew the servants had come back, all four children hid in the cupboard under the stairs and listened with delight to the entrance, the tumble, the splash, the scuffle, and the remarks of the servants. They heard the cook say it was a judgment on them for leaving the place to itself. She seemed to think that a booby-trap was a kind of plant that was quite likely to grow, all by itself, in a dwelling that was left shut up. But the housemaid, more acute, judged that someone must have been in the house, a view confirmed by the sight of the breakfast-things on the nursery table. The cupboard under the stairs was very tight and paraffiny, however, and a silent struggle for a place on top ended in the door bursting open and discharging Jane, who rolled like a football to the feet of the servants. Now, said Cyril, firmly, when the cook's hysterics had become quieter, and the house made a time to say what she thought of them, don't you begin enjoying us. We aren't going to stand it. We know too much. You will please make an extra-special treacle-rolly for dinner, and we'll have a tinned tongue. I daresay, said the housemaid indignant, still in her outdoor-things, and with her hat very much in one side, don't you come at threatening me, Master Cyril, because I won't stand it. So I tell you, you tell your ma about us being out, and much I care. She'll be sorry for me when she hears about my dear great-out-buy marriage as brought me up from a child, and was a mother to me. She sent for me, she did. She wasn't expected to last the night, from the spasms going to her legs, and cook was that kind and careful she couldn't let me go alone, so don't, said Anthea, in real distress. If you know where liars go to Eliza, at least if you don't, liars indeed, said Eliza. I won't demean myself talking to you. How's Mrs. Wixon, said Robert, and did you keep it up last night? The mouth of the housemaid fell open. Did you douse with Maria or Emily? asked Cyril. How did Mrs. Prosser enjoy herself? asked Jane. Forbear, said Cyril. They've had enough. Whether we tell or not depends on your later life, he went on, addressing the servants. If you are decent to us, we'll be decent to you. You'd better make that treacle-rolly, and if I were you, Eliza, I'd do a little housework and cleaning, just for a change. The servants gave in once and for all. There's nothing like firmness, Cyril went on, when the breakfast things were cleared away, and the children were alone in the nursery. People are always talking of difficulties with servants. It's quite simple when you know the way. We can do what we like now, and they won't peach. I think we've broken their proud spirit. Let's go somewhere by carpet. I wouldn't if I were you, said the phoenix, yawning, as its swooped down from its roost on the curtain-pole. I've given you one or two hints. But now concealment is at an end, and I see I must speak out. It perched on the back of a chair, and swayed to and fro, like a parrot on a swing. What's the matter now, said Anthea? She was not quite so gentle as usual, because she was still weary from the excitement of last night's cats. I'm tired of things happening. I shan't go anywhere in the carpet. I'm going to darn my stockings. Darn, said the phoenix, darn from those young lips, these strange expressions. Men, then, said Anthea, with a needle and wool. The phoenix opened and shut its wings thoughtfully. Your stockings, it said, are much less important than they now appear to you. But the carpet, look at the bare worn patches. Look at the great rent at yonder corner. The carpet has been your faithful friend, your willing servant. How have you required its devoted service? Dear phoenix, Anthea urged, don't talk in that horrid lecturing tone. You make me feel as if I'd done something wrong. And really it is a wishing carpet, and we haven't done anything else to it. She wishes, only wishes, repeated the phoenix, ruffling its neck feathers angrily. And what sort of wishes? Wishing people to be in a good temper, for instance. What carpet did you ever hear of that had such a wish asked of it? But this noble fabric, on which you trample so recklessly, everyone removed its boots from the carpet and stood on the linoleum, this carpet never flinched. Did what you asked, but the wear and tear must have been awful. Then last night I don't blame you about the cats and the rats, for those were its own choice. But what carpet could stand a heavy cow hanging on to it at one corner? I should think the cats and rats were worse, said Robert, and look at all their claws. Yes, said the bird, eleven thousand nine hundred and forty of them. I dare say you noticed. I should be surprised if these had not left their mark. Good gracious! said Jane, sitting down suddenly on the floor and patting the edge of the carpet softly. Do you mean it's wearing out? Its life with you has not been a luxurious one, said the phoenix. French mud, twice. Sand of sunny shores, twice. Everything in southern seas, once. India, once. Goodness knows where in Persia, once. Muscat land, once. And once, wherever the cow came from, hold your carpet up to the light, and with cautious tenderness, if you please, with cautious tenderness the boys held the carpet up to the light. The girls looked, and a shiver of regret ran through them as they saw how there's eleven thousand nine hundred and forty claws had run through the carpet. It was full of little holes. There were some large ones, and more than one thin place. At one corner a strip of it was torn, and hung forlornly. We must mend it, said Anthea. Never mind about my stockings. I can sew them up in lumps with sewing-cotton if there's no time to do them properly. I know it's awful, and no girl would who respected herself and all that, but the poor dear carpet's more important than my silly stockings. Let's go out now, this very minute. So out they all went, and bought wool to mend the carpet, but there is no shop in Camden town where you can buy wishing-wool. No, nor in Kentish town, either. However, ordinary Scotch heather-mixture fingering seemed good enough, and this they bought, and all that day Jane and Anthea darned, and darned, and darned. The boys went out for a walk in the afternoon, and the gentle phoenix paced up and down the table, for exercise, as it said, and talked to the industrious girls about their carpet. It is not an ordinary, ignorant, innocent carpet from Kidermanster, it said. It is a carpet with a past, Persian past. Do you know that in happier years, when that carpet was the property of calyffs, viziers, and kings, and sultans, it never lay on a floor? I thought the floor was the proper home of a carpet, Jane interrupted. Not of a magic carpet, said the phoenix. Why, if it had been allowed to lie about on floors that wouldn't be much left of it now, no indeed! It is lived in chests of cedar wood, inlaid with pearl and ivory, wrapped in priceless tissues of cloth of gold, embroidered with gems of fabulous value. It is reposed in the sandalwood caskets of princesses, and in the rose-atter-scented treasure-houses of kings. Never, never had anyone degraded it by walking on it, except in the way of business. Even wishes were acquired, and then they always took their shoes off. And you? Oh, don't! said Jane, very near-tears. You know you'd never have been hatched at all if it hadn't been for mother wanting a carpet for us to walk on. You needn't have walked so much or so hard, said the bird, but come. Dry that crystal-tear, and I will relate to you the story of the princess Zulika, the prince of Asia, and the magic carpet. Relate away, sedentia! I mean, please do! The princess Zulika, fairest of royal ladies, began the bird, had, in her cradle, been the subject of several enchantments. Her grandmother had been in her day, but what in her day Zulika's grandmother had been was destined never to be revealed, for Cyril and Robert suddenly burst into the room, and on each brow were the traces of deep emotion. On Cyril's pale brows stood beads of agitation and perspiration, and on the scarlet brow of Robert was a large black smear. What hails ye both? asked the phoenix, and it added tartly that story-telling was quite impossible if people would come interrupting like that. Oh, do shut up for any sake! said Cyril, sinking into a chair. Robert smoothed the ruffled golden feathers, adding kindly, Squirrel doesn't mean to be a beast, it's only that the most awful thing has happened, and stories don't seem to matter so much. Don't be cross, you won't be when you've heard what's happened. Well, what has happened? said the bird, still rather crossly, and Anthion Jane paused with long needles poised in air, and long needlefuls of scotch-heather mixture fingering wool drooping from them. The most awful thing you can possibly think of, said Cyril, that nice chap, her own burglar. The police have got him, on suspicion of stolen cats. That's what his brother's misses told me. Oh, begin at the beginning!" cried Anthion patiently. Well, then, we went out, and down by where the undertaker's is, with the china flowers in the window, you know, there was a crowd, and of course he went to have a squint, and it was two bobbies in her burglar between them, and it was being dragged along, and he said, I tell you them cats was give me, I got them in exchange for me milking a cow in a basement parlor up Candom Townway. And then the people laughed, beasts, and then one of the policemen said, perhaps he could give the name and address of the cow, and he said, no he couldn't, but he could take them there if they'd only leave go of his coat-collar, and give him a chance to get his wealth. And the policemen said he could tell all that to the magistrate in the morning. He didn't see us, so we came away. Oh, Cyril, how could you? said Anthion. Don't be a pudding-head, Cyril advised. A fat lot of good it would have done if we'd let him see us. No one would have believed a word we said. They'd have thought we were kidding. We did better than let him see us. We asked a boy where he lived, and he told us, and he went there, and it's a little greengrocer's shop, and we bought some brazil nuts. Here they are. The girls waved away the brazil nuts with loathing and contempt. Well, we had to buy something, and while we were making up our minds what to buy, we heard his brother's missus talking. She said when he came home with all them meowlers, she thought there was more in it than met the eye, but he would go out this morning with the two likeliest of them one under each arm. She said he sent her out to buy blue ribbon to put round their beastly necks, and she said if he got three months hard it was her dying word that he'd got the blue ribbon to thank for it. That, in his own silly, thieving ways, taking cats that anybody would know he couldn't have come by in the way of business, instead of things that wouldn't have been missed, which Lord know there are plenty such, and— Oh, stop! cried Jane, and indeed it was time, for Cyril seemed like a clock that had been wound up and could not help going on. Where is he now? At the police station, said Robert, for Cyril was out of breath. The boy told us they'd put him in the cells, and bring him up before the beak in the morning. I thought it was a jolly lark last night, getting him to take the cats, but now the end of a lark, so the phoenix, is the beak. Let's go to him, cried both the girls jumping up. Let's go and tell the truth. They must believe us. They can't, said Cyril. Let's think. If anyone came to you with such a tale, you couldn't believe it, however much you tried. We should only mix things up worse for him. There must be something we could do, said Jane, sniffing very much. My own dear pet burglar. I can't bear it, and he was so nice, and the way he talked about his father, and how he was going to be so extra honest. Dear phoenix, you must be able to help us. You're so good and kind, and pretty and clever. Do, do tell us what to do." The phoenix rubbed its beak thoughtfully with its claw. You might rescue him, it said, and conceal him here, till the law supporters had forgotten about him. That would be ages and ages, said Cyril, and we couldn't conceal him here. For them I come home at any moment, and if you found a burglar here, he wouldn't believe the truth, truth any more than the police would. That's the worst of the truth. Nobody ever believes it. Couldn't we take him somewhere else? Jane clapped her hands. The sun is southern shore, she cried, where the cook is being queen. He and she would be company for each other. And really, the idea did not seem bad. If only he were consent to go. So all talking at once the children arranged to wait till evening, and then to seek the dear burglar in his lonely cell. Meanwhile, Jane and Anthea darned away as hard as they could to make the carpet as strong as possible, for all felt how terrible it would be if the precious burglar, while being carried to the sunny southern shore, were to tumble through a hole in the carpet, and be lost for ever in the sunny southern sea. The servants were tired after Mrs. Wigson's party, so everyone went to bed early, and when the Phoenix reported that both servants were snoring in a heartfelt and candid manner, the children got up. They had never undressed. Just putting their nightgowns on over their things had been enough to deceive Eliza when she came to turn out the gas. So they were ready for anything, and they stood on the carpet and said, I wish we were in our burglar's lonely cell! And instantly they were. I think everyone had expected the cell to be the deepest dungeon below the castle moat. I'm sure no one had doubted that the burglar, chained by heavy fetters to a ring in the damp stone wall, would be tossing uneasily on a bed of straw, with a pitcher of water and a mouldering crust untasted beside him. Robert, remembering the underground passage and the treasure, had brought a candle and matches. But these were not needed. The cell was a little whitewashed room, about twelve feet long and six feet wide. On one side of it was a sort of shelf, sloping a little towards the wall. On this were two rugs, striped blue and yellow, and a waterproof pillow. Rolled in the rugs, and met his head on the pillow. Lay the burglar fast asleep. He had had his tea, though this the children did not know. It had come from the coffee shop round the corner, in very thick crockery. The scene was plainly revealed by the light of a gas lamp in the passage outside, which shone into the cell through a pane of thick glass over the door. I shall gag him, said Cyril, and Robert will hold him down, and he and Jane in the phoenix can whisper soft nothings to him while he gradually awakes. This plan did not have the success it deserved, because the burglar, curiously enough, was much stronger, even in asleep, than Robert and Cyril. And at the first touch of their hands, he leapt up and shouted out something very loud indeed. Instantly steps were heard outside. Anthea threw her arms round the burglar and whispered, It's us, the ones that gave you the cats. We've come to save you, only don't let on we're here. Can't we hide somewhere? Heavy boots sanded on the flagged passage outside, and a firm voice shouted, Here, you! Stop there, Ra, will you? All right, Governor, replied the burglar. Still was Anthea's arms round him. I was only talking in my sleep. Now, fence! It was an awful moment. Would the boots and the voice come in? Yes, no, the voice said. Well, stoic, will you? And the boots went heavily away, along the passage, and up some sounding stone stairs. Now, then, whispered Anthea. How the blue mose did you get in? Asked the burglar in a hoarse whisper of amazement. On the carpet, said Jane truly. Stow that, said the burglar. One of you could have swallowed, but four. And a yellow fowl. Look here, said Cyril Sternley. Would have believed anyone if they'd told you beforehand about your finding a cow, and all those cats in her nursery. That all I wouldn't, said the burglar, would whispered fervor. So help me, Bob all wouldn't. Well, then, Cyril went on, ignoring this appeal to his brother. Just try to believe what we tell you, and act accordingly. It can't do you any harm, you know? You went on an hoarse whispered earnestness. You can't be very much worse off than you are now, you know? But if you'll just trust us, we'll get you out of this right enough. No one saw us come in. The question is, where would you like to go? I'd like to go to the Boulong, was the instant reply of the burglar. I've always wanted to go on that their trip. But I've never had the ready at the right time of the year. Boulong's a town like London, said Cyril. Well-meaning, but inaccurate. How could you get a living there? The burglar scratched his head in deep doubt. It's hard to get an honest living anywhere as nowadays, he said, and his voice was sad. Yes, isn't it? said Jane sympathetically. But how about a sunny southern shore, where there's nothing to do at all unless you want to? That's my billet, miss, replied the burglar. Oh, I never did care about work. Not like some people. Always fussing about. Did you never like any sort of work? asked Antia severely. Lord Lummi, yes, he answered. Gardening was my hobby, so it was. But father died before he could borrow me to a nursery man, and we'll take you to the sunny southern shore, said Jane. You've no idea what the flowers are like. Aril cooks there, said Antia. She's queen. Oh, chuck it, the burglar whispered, clutching at his head with both hands. Oh, no, the first minute I see them cats and that cow, as there was a judgment on me. I don't know now whether I'm astounding on me at or my boots, so help me, I doubt. If you can get me out, get me, and if you can't, get along with you for goodness' sake, and give me a chance to think about what'll be the most likely to go down with a beak in the morning. Come on to the carpet, then, said Antia, gently shoving. The others quietly pulled, and the moment the feet of the burglar were planted on the carpet, Antia wished. I wish we were all on the sunny southern shore where cook is. And instantly they were. There were the rainbow sands, the tropic glories of leaf and flower, and there, of course, was the cook. Crowned with white flowers, and with all the wrinkles of crossness and tiredness and hard work wiped out of her face. Why, cook, you're quite pretty, Antia said. As soon as she got her breath after the tumble-rush whirl of the carpet, the burglar stood rubbing his eyes and the brilliant tropic sunlight, and gazing wildly round him on the vivid hues of the tropic land. Penny, plain and tuppence-coloured, exclaimed pensively, and well worth any tuppence. However, our darned. The cook was seated on a grassy mound with a court of copper-coloured savages round her. The burglar pointed a grimy finger at these. Are they time? He asked anxiously. Do they bite or scratch or do anthanter you at poisoned arrows or oyster shells or that? Don't you be so timid, said the cook. Looky here! This year's only a dream which you've come into. And as it's only a dream, there's no nonsense about what a young lady like me ought to say or not. So I'll say you're the best-looking fellow I've seen this many a day. And the dream goes on and on, seemingly, as long as you behave. The things what you has to eat and drink taste just as good as real ones. And looky here! said the burglar. I've come here straight out of the police station. These are kids'll tell you what ain't no blame of mine. Well, you were a burglar, you know, said the truthful antheor gently. Only because I was drove to it by dishonest blokes. As well you know's, miss! rejoined the criminal. Plowed if this ain't the oddest january's all I've known for years. Wouldn't you like a bath? asked the queen. And some white clothes like me. I should only look at jugons in a miss. Thanking you all the same, was the reply. But a bath I wouldn't resist. My shirt was only clean on week before last. Cyril and Robert led him to Rocky Pool, where he bathed luxuriously. Then, in shirt and trousers, he sat on the sand and spoke. That cook, or queen, or whatever you call her, or with a white bouquet in her head. She's my sort. Wonder if she'd keep company. I should ask her. I was always a quick hitter, the man went on. It's a word and a blow at me. Oh, I will! In shirt and trousers, and crowned with a scented flurry wreath which Cyril hastily wove as the return to the court of the queen, the burglar stood before the cook and spoke. Look here, miss! He said, you and me being all forlorn like, and both of us, in this ear dream, or whatever you call it, I'd like to tell you straight as I'll like your looks. The cook smiled and looked down bashfully. Oh, I'm a single man. Would you more call a bachelor? Oh, more than me, Abbots! Which these kids'll tell you the same, and I'd like to have the pleasure of walking out with you next Sunday. Oh! said the queen cook. How sudden you are, mister! Walking out means you're going to be married, said Anthea. Why not get married, and have done with it? I would. I don't mind if I do, said the burglar. But the cook said, now, miss, not me, not even in a dream. I don't say anything against the young chap's looks, but I always swore I'll be married in a church, if at all, and anyway, I don't believe these ear savages would know how to keep a register in office, even if I was to show them. Now, mister, think in a kindly, if you can't bring a clergyman into the dream, or live and die like what I am, will you marry her if we get a clergyman? asked the matchmaking, Anthea. Oh, I'm agreeable, miss, I'm sure! said he, pulling his wreath straight. How they see a bouquet, dude! Tiddle a chap's ears, to be sure! So, very hurriedly, the carpers were spread out and instructed to fetch a clergyman. Instructions were written on the inside of Cyril's cap, but a piece of billiard chalk Robert had got from the marker, the hotel at Lindhurst. The carpet disappeared, and more quickly than you would have thought possible, it came back, bearing on its bosom, the reverend Septimus blinkens up. The reverend Septimus was a rather nice young man, but very much mazed and muddled, because when he saw a strange carpet laid out at his feet, in his own study, he actually walked on it to examine it more closely. And he happened to stand on one of the thin places that Jane and Anthea had darned, so that he was half on wishing carpet, and half on plain scotch, heather mixture fingering, which has no magic properties at all. The effect of this was that he was only half there, so that the children could just see through him, as though he had been a ghost. But for him, he saw the sunny southern shore, the cook and the burglar and the children quite plainly, but through them all, he saw, quite plainly also, his study at home with the books and the pictures and the marble clock that had been presented to him when he left his last situation. He seemed to himself to be in a sort of insane fit, so that it did not matter what he did, and he married the burglar to the cook. The cook said she would rather have had a solider kind of clergyman, one that you couldn't see through so plain, but perhaps this was real enough for a dream. And, of course, the clergyman, though misty, was really real, and able to marry people, and he did. When the ceremony was over, the clergyman wondered about the island collecting botanical specimens, for he was a great botanist, and the ruling passion was strong, even an insane fit. There was a splendid wedding feast. Can you fancy Jane and Anthea, and Robert and Cyril, dancing merrily in a ring, hand-in-hand with copper-coloured savages, round the happy couple, the queen cook and the burglar consort? There were more flowers gathered and thrown than you have ever even dreamed of, and before the children took carpet for home, they now married and settled burglar made a speech. Ladies and gentlemen, he said, and savages of both coins. Only I know you can't understand what I'm saying of, but we'll let that pass. If this is a dream, I'm on. If it ain't, I'm oner than ever. If it's betwixt and between, well, I'm honest, I can't say more. I don't want no more oil London society. I've got some on to put my arm round off, and I've got the whole lot of this ear-oilin' from my allotment. And if I don't grow some broccoli as a lopin' that judges I at the cottage flower-shows, well, strike me pink! All I ask is, is these young gents and ladies all bring some parsley seed into the dream, and a penne at the raddish seed, and three penne at the vunion, I wouldn't mind going to Forpins or Fippins for mixed kale. Only I ain't got a brown, so I don't deceive you. And there's one thing more. You might take away the parson. I don't like things what I can see off through. So here's how. He drained a coconut shell of palm wine. It was now past midnight, though it was tea-time on the island. With all good wishes, the children took their leave. They also collected the clergyman, and took him back to a study and his presentation-clock. The phoenix kindly carried the seeds next day to the burglar and his bride, and returned with the most satisfactory news of the happy pair. He's made a wooden spade and started on his allotment. It said, And she is weaving him a shirt and trousers of the most radiant whiteness. The police never knew how the burglar got away. In Kentishtown police station his escape is still spoken of with baited breath as the Persian mystery. As for the reverent Septimus Blenkinsop, he felt that he'd had a very insane fit indeed, and he was sure it was due to overstudy. So he planned a little dissipation and took his two maiden aunts to Paris. Where they enjoyed a dazzling round of museums and picture-galleries, and came back feeling that they had indeed seen life. He never told us aunts or anyone else about the marriage on the island, because no one likes it to be generally known if he has insane fits. However interesting and unusual. End of Chapter 9 The Burglar's Bride Chapter 10 of The Phoenix and the Carpet This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Marion Drouillard. The Phoenix and the Carpet by E. Nesbitt. Chapter 10 The Hole in the Carpet Hooray! Hooray! Hooray! Mother comes home today! Mother comes home today! Hooray! Hooray! Hooray! Jane sang this simple song directly after breakfast, and the Phoenix shed crystal tears of affectionate sympathy. How beautiful, it said, is filial devotion. She won't be home till past bedtime, though, said Robert. We might have one more Carpet Day. He was glad that Mother was coming home. Quite glad. Very glad. But at the same time, that gladness was rudely contradicted by a quite strong feeling of sorrow, because now they could not go out all day on the Carpet. I do wish we could go and get something nice for Mother. Only she'd want to know where we got it, said Anthea. And she'd never, never believe it. The truth. People never do, somehow, if it's at all interesting. I'll tell you what, said Robert, suppose we wished the Carpet to take us somewhere where we could find a purse with money in it, then we could buy her something. Suppose it took us somewhere foreign, and the purse was covered with strange, eastern devices, embroidered in rich silks and full of money that wasn't money at all here, and only foreign curiosities. Then we couldn't spend it, and people would bother about where we got it, and we shouldn't know how on earth to get out of it at all. Cyril moved the table off the Carpet, as he spoke, and its leg caught in one of Anthea's darns and ripped away most of it, as well as a large slit in the Carpet. Well, now you have done it, said Robert. But Anthea was a really first-class sister. She did not say a word till she had got up the scotch, Heather mixed her fingering wool, and the darning needle, and the cymbal, and the scissors, and by that time she had been able to get the better of her natural wish to be thoroughly disagreeable, and was able to say quite kindly, Nevermind, Squirrel, I'll soon mend it. Cyril thumped her on the back. He understood exactly how she had felt, and he was not an ungrateful brother. Respecting the purse containing coins, the phoenix said, scratching its invisible ear thoughtfully with its shining claw, it might be as well, perhaps, to say clearly the amount you wish to find, as well as the country where you wish to find it, and the nature of coins which you prefer. It would be, indeed, a cold moment in which you should find a purse containing but three obeloi. How much is an obeloi? An obel is about twopence half-penny, the phoenix replied. Yes, said Jane, and if you find a purse, I suppose, it is only because someone has lost it, and you ought to take it to the policeman. The situation, remarked the phoenix, does, indeed, wrestle with difficulties. What about a buried treasure? said Cyril, and everyone was dead that it belonged to. Mother wouldn't believe that, said more than one voice. Suppose, said Robert, suppose we asked to be taken where we could find a purse, and give it back to the person it belonged to, and they would give us something for finding it. We aren't allowed to take money from strangers. You know we aren't, Bob, said the anthea, making a knot at the end of a needleful of Scotch-Heather mixture fingering wool, which is very wrong, and you must never do it when you are a darling. No, that wouldn't do, said Cyril. Let's chuck it and go to the North Pole, or somewhere really interesting. No, said the girls together, there must be some way. Wait a sec, anthea added. I've got an idea coming, don't speak. There was a silence as she paused with a darning needle in the air. Suddenly she spoke. I see, let's tell the carpet to take it somewhere where we can get the money for mother's present and get it some way that she'll believe in and not think wrong. I must say you are learning the way to get the most out of the carpet, said Cyril. He spoke more heartily and kindly than usual because he remembered how anthea had refrained from snarking him about tearing the carpet. Yes, said the phoenix, you certainly are, and you have to remember that if you take a thing out, it doesn't stay in. No one paid any attention to this remark at the time, but afterwards everyone thought of it. Do hurry up, panthers, said Robert, and that was why anthea did hurry up and why the big darn in the middle of the carpet seemed like some webby like a fishing net, not tight and close like woven cloth, which is what a good well-behaved darn should be. Then everyone put on its outdoor things. The phoenix fluttered on to the mantelpiece and arranged its golden feathers in the glass and all was ready. Everyone got on to the carpet. Please go slowly, dear carpet, anthea began. We'd like to see where we're going. And then she added the difficult wish that had been decided on. Next moment the carpet, stiff and wrath-like, was sailing over the roofs of Kentish Town. I wish—no, I don't mean that. I mean, it's a pity we aren't higher up, said anthea, as the edge of the carpet graced a chimney-pot. That's right, be careful, said the phoenix in warning tones. If you wish when you're on a wishing carpet, you do wish, and there's an end of it. So, for a short time, no one spoke, and the carpet sailed on in calm magnificence over St. Pancras and King's Cross Stations and over the crowded streets of Clerkenwell. We're going out green, which way, said Cyril, as they crossed the streak of rough-tumbled water that was the times. We might go and have a look at the palace. On and on the carpet swept, still keeping much nearer to the chimney-pots than the children found at all comfortable. And then, just over New Cross, a terrible thing happened. Jane and Robert were in the middle of the carpet. Part of them was on the carpet, and part of them, the heaviest part, was on the Great Central Darn. It's all very missies at Jane. Partly like out of doors, and partly like in the nursery at home. I feel as if I was going to have measles. Everything looked awfully wrong then, remember? I feel just exactly the same, Robert said. It's the hole, said the Phoenix. It's not measles, whatever that possession may be. And at that, both Robert and Jane, suddenly, and at once, made a bound to try and get on to the safer part of the carpet, and the darn gave way, and their boots went up, and the heavy heads and bodies of them went down through the hole, and they landed in a position, something between sitting and sprawling, on the flat leds, on the top of a high, gray, gloomy, respectable house, whose address was 705 Amersham Road, New Cross. The carpet seemed to awaken to new energy as soon as it had got rid of their weight, and it rose high in the air. The others lay down flat, and peeped over the edge of the rising carpet. Are you hurt? cried Cyril, and Robert shouted, No! The carpet had sped away, and Jane and Robert were hidden from the sight of the others by a stack of smoky chimneys. Oh, how awful, said Anthea. It might have been worse, said the Phoenix. What would have been the sentiments of the survivors if that darn had given way when we were crossing the river? Yes, there's that, said Cyril, recovering himself. They'll be all right. They'll howl till someone gets them down, or drop tiles into the front garden to attract attention of passersby. Bob's got my one and five pence, I'm lucky you forgot to mend that home in my pocket, Panther, or it wouldn't have had it. They can tram at home. But Anthea would not be comforted. It's all my fault, she said. I knew the proper way to darn, and I didn't do it. It's all my fault. Let's go home and patch the carpet with your Eatons. Something really strong, and send it to fetch them. All right, said Cyril, but your Sunday Jack is stronger than my Eatons. We must just chuck Mother's present, that's all. I wish— Stop! cried the Phoenix. The carpet is dropping to Earth. And indeed it was. It sank swiftly, yet steadily, and landed on the pavement of the Deptford Road. It tipped a little as it landed, so that Cyril and Anthea naturally walked off it, and in an instant it had rolled itself up and hidden behind a gate post. It did this so quickly that not a single person in the Deptford Road noticed it. The Phoenix rustled its way into the breast of Cyril's coat, and almost at the same moment a well-known voice remarked, Well, I never. What on earth are you doing here? They were face to face with their pet uncle, their Uncle Reginald. We did think of going to Greenwich Palace and talking about Nelson, said Cyril, telling as much of the truth as he thought his uncle could believe. And where are the others, asked Uncle Reginald. I don't exactly know, Cyril replied, this time, point truthfully. Well, said Uncle Reginald, I must fly. I have a case in the county court. That's the worst of being a beastly solicitor. One can't take the chances of life when one gets them. If only I could come with you to the painted hall and give you lunch at the ship afterwards. But alas, it may not be. The Uncle felt in his pocket. I mustn't enjoy myself, he said. But that's no reason why you shouldn't. Here, divide this by four, and the product ought to give you some desired result. Take care of yourselves. Adieu. And waving a cheery farewell with his neat umbrella, the good and high-headed Uncle passed away, leaving Cyril and Anthea to exchange eloquent glances over the shining golden sovereign that lay in Cyril's hand. Well, said Anthea. Well, said Cyril. Well, said the Phoenix. Good old carpet, said Cyril joyously. It was clever of it, so adequate, and yet so simple, said the Phoenix, with calm approval. Oh, come on home and let's mend the carpet. I am a bee, said, forgotten the others, just for a minute, said the conscience, stricken Anthea. They unrolled the carpet quickly and slyly. They did not want to attract public attention. In the moment their feet were on the carpet, Anthea wished to be at home, and instantly they were. The kindness of their excellent uncle had made it unnecessary for them to go to such extremes as Cyril's Eaton's or Anthea's Sunday jacket for the patching of the carpet. Anthea set to work at once to draw the edges of the broken darn together, and Cyril hastily went out and bought a large piece of the marble-patterned American oil cloth, which careful housewives used to cover dressers and kitchen tables. It was the strongest thing he could think of. Then they set to work to line the carpet out with the oil cloth. The nursery felt very odd and empty without the others, and Cyril did not feel so sure as he had done about their being able to tram at home. So he tried to help Anthea, which was very good of him, but not much use to her. The phoenix watched them for a time, but it was plainly growing more and more restless. It fluffed up its splendid feathers and stood first on one gilded claw and then on the other, and at last it said, I can bear it no longer, this suspense, my Robert, who set my egg to hatch, and the bosom of whose Norfolk raiment I have nestled so often and so pleasantly, I think, if you'll excuse me. Yes, do, cried Anthea, I wish we thought of asking you before. Cyril opened the window. The phoenix flapped its sun-bright wings and vanished. So that's all right, said Cyril, taking up his needle and instantly pricking his hand in a new place. Of course I know that what you have really wanted to know about all this time is not what Anthea and Cyril did, but what happened to Jane and Robert after they fell through the carpet onto the leds of the house, which was called Number 705, Amherstram Road. But I had to tell you the other first. That is one of the most annoying things about stories. You cannot tell all the different parts of them at the same time. Robert's first remark, when he found himself seated on the damp, cold, sooty leds, was, here's a go. Jane's first act was tears. Dry up, Pusito, be a little duffer, said her brother kindly, it'll be all right. And then he looked about just as Cyril had known he would for something to throw down, so as to attract the attention of the wayfarers far below in the street. He could not find anything. Curiously enough there were no stones on the leds, not even a loose tile. The roof was of slate, and every single slate knew its place and kept it. But, as so often happens in looking for one thing, he found another. There was a trap door leading down into the house. And that trap door was not fastened. Stop sniffling in Khmer Jane, he cried encouragingly. Lend a hand to heave this up. If we can get into the house we might sneak down without meeting anyone with luck. Come on. They heaved up the door till it stood straight up, and as they bent to look into the hole below, the door fell back with a hollow clang on the leds behind, and with its noise was mingled a blood-curdling scream from underneath. Discovered, hissed Robert. Oh, my cats alive! They were indeed discovered. They found themselves looking down into an attic, which was also a lumber room. It had boxes and broken chairs, old vendors and picture frames, and rag bags hanging from nails. In the middle of the floor was a box open, half full of clothes. Other clothes lay on the floor in neat piles. In the middle of the piles of clothes sat a lady, very fat indeed, with her feet sticking out straight in front of her. And it was she who had screamed, and who, in fact, was still screaming. Don't cry, Jane. Please don't. We won't hurt you. Where are the rest of your gang? asked the lady, stopping short in the middle of the scream. The others have gone on on the wishing carpet, said Jane truthfully. The wishing carpet, said the lady. Yes, said Jane, before Robert could say, you shut up. You must have read about it. The Phoenix is with them. Then the lady got up, and picking her way carefully between the piles of clothes she got to the door and through it. She shut it behind her, and the two children could hear her calling, Septimus, Septimus, in a loud yet frightened way. Now, said Robert quickly, I'll drop first. He hung by his hands, and dropped through the trap door. Now you hang by your hands. I'll catch you. Oh, there's no time for jaw. Drop, I say. Jane dropped. Robert tried to catch her, and even before they had finished the breathless roll among the piles of clothes, which was what his catching ended in, he whispered, we'll hide behind those fenders and things. They'll think we've gone along the roofs. Then when all is calm, we'll creep down the stairs and take our chance. A corner of an iron bedstead stuck into Robert's side, and Jane had only standing room for one foot, but they bore it, and when the lady came back, not with Septimus, but with another lady, they held their breath and their hearts beat thickly. Gone, said the first lady, poor little things, quite mad, my dear, and at large, who must lock this room and send for the police. Let me look out, said the second lady, who was, if possible, older and thinner and primer than the first. The two ladies dragged a box under the trap door and put another box on the top of it, and then they both climbed up very carefully and put their two trim, tidy heads out of the trap door to look for the mad children. Now, whispered Robert, getting the bedstead leg out of his side. They managed to creep out from their hiding place and out through the door before the two ladies had done looking out of the trap door onto the empty leads. Robert and Jane tiptoed down the stairs, one flight, two flights. Then they looked over the banisters. Horror! a servant was coming up with a loaded scuttle. The children, with one consent, crept swiftly through the first open door. The room was a study, calm and gentlemanly, with rows of books, a writing table, and a pair of embroidered slippers warming themselves in the fender. The children hid behind the window curtains. As they passed the table, they saw on it a missionary box with its bottom label torn off, open and empty. So awful, whispered Jane, we shall never get away alive. Hush, said Robert, not a moment too soon, for there were steps on the stairs, and the next instant the two ladies came into the room. They did not see the children, but they saw the empty missionary box. I knew it, said one, Selena, it was a gang. I was certain of it from the first. The children were not mad. They were sent to distract our attention while their confederates robbed the house. I'm afraid you are right, said Selena, downstairs, no doubt, collecting the silver milk jug and sugar basin and the punch ladle that was Uncle Joe's and Aunt Jerusha's teaspoons, I shall go down. Oh, don't be so rash and heroic, said Selena. Amelia, we must call the police from the window, lock the door. I will, I will. The words ended in a yell, as Selena, rushing to the window, came face to face with the hidden children. Oh, don't, said Jane, how can you be so unkind? We aren't burglars and we haven't any gang and we didn't open our missionary box. We opened our own once, but we didn't have to use the money so our consciousness made us put it back. And don't, oh, I wish you wouldn't. Miss Selena had seized Jane and Miss Amelia captured Robert. The children found themselves held fast by strong, slim hands, pink at the wrists and white at the knuckles. We've got you at any rate, said Miss Amelia. Selena, your captive is smaller than mine. You opened the window at once and call murder as loud as you can. Selena obeyed, but she had opened the window instead of calling murder. She called Septimus, because at that very moment she saw her nephew coming in at the gate. In another minute, he had let himself in with his latch key and had mounted the stairs. As he came into the room, Jane and Robert each uttered a shriek of joy so loud and so sudden that the ladies leaped with surprise and nearly let them go. It's our own clergyman, cried Jane. Don't you remember us? asked Robert. You married our burglar for us. Don't you remember? I knew it was a gang, said Amelia. Septimus, these abandoned children are members of a desperate burgling gang who are robbing the house. They have already forced the missionary box and perloined its contents. The reverend Septimus passed his hand warily over his brow. I feel a little faint, he said, running upstairs so quickly. We never touched the beastly box, said Robert. Then your confederates did, said Miss Selena. No, no, said the curate. Hey, silly. I opened the box myself. This morning I found I had not enough small change for the mother's independent unity measles and group insurance payments. I suppose this is not a dream, is it? Dream? No, indeed. Search the house. I insist upon it. The curate, still pale and trembling, searched the house, which, of course, was blamelessly free of burglers. When he came back, he sank wearily into his chair. Aren't you going to let us go? asked Robert with furious indignation. For there is something in being held by a strong lady that sets the blood of a boy boiling in his veins with anger and despair. We've never done anything to you. It's all the carpet. It dropped us on the leds. We couldn't help it. You know how it carried you over to the island and you had to marry the burglar to the cook. Oh, my head, said the curate. Never mind your head just now, said Robert. Try to be honest and honorable and do your duty in that state of life. This is a judgment on me for something, I suppose, said the reverend Septimus queerly, but I really cannot remember the moment. Remember what? Send for the police, said Miss Selina. Send for a doctor, said the curate. Do you think they are mad, then? said Miss Amelia. I think I am, said the curate. Jane had been crying ever since her capture. Now she said, you aren't now, but perhaps you will be if and it would serve you jolly well right, too. Aunt Selina, said the curate, and Aunt Amelia, believe me, this is only an insane dream. You'll realize it soon. It has happened to me before. But do not let us be unjust, even in a dream. Do not hold the children. They have done no harm. As I said before, it was I who opened the box. The strong, bony hands unwillingly loosened their grasp. Robert shook himself and stood in silky resentment. But Jane ran to the curate and embraced him so suddenly that he had not time to defend himself. You're a deer, she said. It is like a dream just at first, but you get used to it. Now do let us go. You're a good kind, honorable clergyman. I don't know, said the Reverend Septimus. It's a difficult problem. It is such a very unusual dream. Perhaps it's only a sort of other life quite real enough for you to be mad in. And if you're mad, there might be a dream asylum where you'd be kindly treated and in time restored, cured to your sorrowing relatives. It is very hard to see your duty plainly, even in ordinary life. And these dream circumstances are so complicated. If it's a dream, said Robert, you'd look directly and then you'd be sorry if you'd sent us into a dream asylum because you might never get into the same dream again and let us out, and so we might stay there forever. And then what about our sorrowing relatives who aren't in the dreams at all? But all the curate could now say was, oh, my head. And Jane and Robert felt quite ill with helplessness and hopelessness. A really conscientious curate is a very difficult thing to manage. And then, just as the hopelessness and the helplessness were getting to be lost more than they could bear, the two children suddenly felt the extraordinary shrinking feeling that you always have when you are just going to vanish. And the next moment they had vanished and the Reverend Septimus was left alone with his aunts. I knew it was a dream, he cried wildly. I've had something like it before. Did you dream it too, Aunt Selena? And you, Aunt Amelia, I dreamed that you did, you know. Aunt Selena looked at him and then at Aunt Amelia. Then she said boldly, what do you mean? We haven't been dreaming anything. You must have dropped off in your chair. The curate heaved a sigh of relief. Oh, if it's only I, he said, if we'd all dreamed it, I could never have believed it, never. Afterwards, Aunt Selena said to the other aunt, yes, I know it was an untruth, and I shall doubtless be punished for it in due course. But I could see the poor dear fellow's brain giving way before my very eyes. He couldn't have stood the strain of three dreams. It was odd, wasn't it? All three of us dreaming the same thing at the same moment. We must never tell dear Sepe, but I shall send an account of it to the psychical society with stars instead of names, you know. And she did. And you can read all about it in one of the society's fat blue books. Of course, you understand what had happened. The intelligent Phoenix had simply gone straight off to the Samyad and had wished Robert and Jane at home, and of course, they were at home at once. Cyril and Anthea had not half finished mending the carpet. But the two families of reunion had calmed down a little, they all went out and spent what was left of Uncle Reginald's sovereign and presents from other. They bought her a pink silk hankerchief, a pair of blue and white vases, a bottle of scent, a packet of Christmas candles, and a cake of soap, shaped and colored like a tomato, and one that was so like an orange that almost anyone you had given it to would have tried to peel it, if they liked oranges, of course. Also, they bought a cake with icing on, When they had arranged all the things on the table, with the candles stuck up on a plate ready to light the moment Mother's Cab was heard, they washed themselves thoroughly and put on tidier clothes. Then Robert said, Good old Samyad, and the others said so too. But really, it's just as much good old Phoenix as Robert, suppose it hadn't thought of getting the wish. Ah, said the Phoenix, it is perhaps fortunate for you that I am such a competent bird. There's Mother's Cab, cried Anthea, and the Phoenix hid, and they lighted the candles, and the next moment Mother was home again. She liked her presence very much and found their story of Uncle Reginald and the Sovereign easy and even pleasant to believe. Good old Carpet were Cyril's last sleepy words. What there is of it, said the Phoenix, from the cornice pole. Well, I must say, Mother said, looking at the wishing carpet as it lay all darned and mended, and backed with shiny American cloth on the floor of the nursery, I must say I've never in my life bought such a bad bargain as that carpet. A soft O of contradiction sprang to the lips of Cyril, Robert, Jane, and Anthea. Mother looked at them quickly and said, Well, of course, I see you've mended it very nicely, and that was sweet of you, dears. The boys helped too, said the dears, honorably. But still, twenty-two and nine pence, it ought to have lasted for years. It's simply dreadful now. Well, never mind, darlings, you've done your best. I think we'll have coconut matting next time. A carpet doesn't have an easy life of it in this room, does it? It's not our fault, Mother, is it, that our boots are the really reliable kind? Robert asked the question more in sorrow than in anger. No, dear, we can't help our boots, said Mother cheerfully. But we might change them when we come in, perhaps. It's just an idea of mine. I wouldn't dream of scolding on the very first morning after I've come home. Oh, my lamb, how could you? This conversation was at breakfast, and the lamb had been beautifully good, until everyone was looking at the carpet, and then it was for him but the work of a moment to turn a glass dish of syrupy blackberry jam upside down on his young head. It was the work of a good many minutes and several persons to get the jam off him again, and this interesting work took people's minds off the carpet, and nothing more was said just then about its badness as a bargain, and about what Mother hoped for, from coconut matting. When the lamb was clean again, he had to be taken care of while Mother rumpled her hair and inked her fingers and made her head ache over the difficult and twisted housekeeping accounts which Cook gave her on dirty bits of paper, and which were supposed to explain how it was that Cook had only five pence half penny, and a lot of unpaid bills left out of all the money Mother had sent her for housekeeping. Mother was very clever, but even she could not quite understand the Cook's accounts. The lamb was very glad to have his brothers and sisters to play with him. He had not forgotten them a bit, and he made them play all the old exhausting games, whirling worlds, where you swing the baby round and round by his hands, and leg and wing where you swing him from side to side by one ankle and one wrist. There was also climbing Vesuvius. In this game the baby walks up you, and when he is standing on your shoulders you shout as loud as you can, which is the rumbling of the burning mountain, and then tumble him gently on to the floor, and roll him there, which is the destruction of Pompeii. All the same I wish we could decide what we'd better say next time Mother says anything about the carpet, said Cyril, breathlessly ceasing to be a burning mountain. Well you talk and decide, said Anthea, here you lovely ducky lamb, come to panther and play Noah's Ark. The lamb came with his pretty hair all tumbled and his face all dusty from the destruction of Pompeii, and instantly became a baby snake hissing and wriggling and creeping in Anthea's arms as she said, I love my little baby snake, he hisses when he is awake, he creeps with such a wriggly creep, he wriggles even in his sleep. Piraki, said the lamb, and showed all his little teeth, so Anthea went on. I love my little crocodile, I love his truthful, toothful smile, it is so wonderful and wide, I like to see it from outside. While you see Cyril was saying it's just the old bother, Mother can't believe the real true truth about the carpet, and you speak sootho Cyril, remarked the Phoenix, coming out from the cupboard where the black beetles lived, and the torn books and the broken slates, and odd pieces of toys that had lost the rest of themselves. Now hear the wisdom of Phoenix, the son of Phoenix. There is a society called that, said Cyril. Here is it, and what is a society, asked the bird. It's a sort of joint-together lot of people, a sort of brotherhood, a kind of, well, something very like your temple, you know, only quite different. I take your meaning, said the Phoenix. I would feign see these, calling themselves sons of the Phoenix. But what about your words of wisdom? The Lamb is always welcome, said the Phoenix. Pretty Polly, remarked the Lamb, reaching his hands toward the golden speaker. The Phoenix modestly retreated behind Robert, and Anthea hastened to distract the attention of the Lamb by murmuring, Oh, I love my little baby rabbit, but oh, he has a dreadful habit of paddling out among the rocks and soaking both his bunny socks. I don't think you'd care about the sons of the Phoenix, really, said Robert. I have heard that they don't do anything fiery. They only drink a great deal. Much more than other people, because they drink lemonade and fizzy things, and the more you drink of those, the more good you get. In your mind, perhaps, said Jane, but it wouldn't be good in your body, you'd get too baloney. The Phoenix yawned. Look here, said Anthea, I really have an idea. This isn't like a common carpet. It's very magic indeed. Don't you think if we put Tacho on it, and then gave it a rest, the magic part of it might grow like hair is supposed to do? It might, said Robert, but I should think paraffin would do as well, at any rate, as far as the smell goes, and that seems to be the great thing about Tacho. But with all its faults, Anthea's idea was something to do, and they did it. It was Cyril, who fetched the Tacho bottle from Father's wash handstand. But the bottle had not much in it. We mustn't take it all, Jane said, in case Father's hair began to come off suddenly. If he hadn't anything to put on it, it might all drop off before Eliza had time to get round to the chemists for another bottle. It would be dreadful to have a bald father, and it would be all our fault. And wigs are expensive, I believe, said Anthea. Look here, leave enough in the bottle to wet Father's head all over, with, in case any emergency emerges, and let's make up with paraffin. I expect it's the smell that does the good, really, and the smell's exactly the same. So a small teaspoonful of the Tacho was put on the edges of the worst darn in the carpet, and rubbed carefully into the roots of the hairs of it, and all the parts that there was not enough Tacho for had paraffin rubbed into them with a piece of flannel. Then the flannel was burned. It made a gay flame which delighted the phoenix and the lamb. How often, said Mother, opening the door, how often am I to tell you that you are not to play with paraffin? What have you been doing? We have burnt a paraffinny rag, Anthea answered. It was no use telling Mother what they had done to the carpet. She did not know it was a magic carpet, and no one wants to be laughed at, for trying to mend an ordinary carpet with lamp oil. Well, don't do it again, said Mother, and now away with melancholy. Father has sent a telegram, look! She held it out, and the children holding it by its yielding corners read. Frocks for kiddies at Garrick, stalls for us, hay market, meat, chairing cross, six-thirty. That means, said Mother, that you are going to see the water babies all by your happy selves, and Father and I will take you and fetch you. Give me the lamb, dear, and you and Jane put clean lace on your red evening frocks, and I shouldn't wonder if you found they wanted ironing. This paraffin smell is ghastly! Run and get out your frocks. The frocks did want ironing, wanted it rather badly, as it happened. For being of tomato-colored liberty silk, they had been found very useful for tableaux vivants when a red dress was required for cardinal Richelieu. They were very nice tableaux, these, and I wish I could tell you about them, but one cannot tell everything in a story. You would have been specially interested in hearing about the tableaux of the princes in the tower, when one of the pillows burst, and the youthful princes were so covered with feathers that the picture might very well have been called Michel Miss Yves or Plucking the Geese. Ironing the dresses and sewing the lace in occupied some time, and no one was dull because there was the theatre to look forward to, and also the possible growth of hairs on the carpet, for which everyone kept looking anxiously. By four o'clock Jane was almost sure that several hairs were beginning to grow. The phoenix perched on the fender, and its conversation, as usual, was entertaining and instructive, like school prizes are said to be. But it seemed a little absent-minded, and even a little sad. Don't you feel well, phoenix dear, said Anthea, stooping to take an iron off the fire? I am not sick, replied the golden bird, with a gloomy shake of the head, but I am getting old. Why, you've hardly been hatched any time at all. Time, remarked the phoenix, is measured by heartbeats. I am sure the palpitations I've had since I've known you are enough to blanch the feathers of any bird. But I thought you lived five hundred years, said Robert, and you've hardly begun this set of years. Think of all the time that's before you. Time, said the phoenix, is, as you are probably aware, merely a convenient fiction. There is no such thing as time. I have lived in these two months at a pace which generously counterbalances five hundred years of life in the desert. I am old. I am weary. I feel as if I ought to lay my egg, and lay me down to my fiery sleep. But unless I am careful I shall be hatched again instantly, and that is a misfortune which I really do not think I could endure. But do not let me intrude these desperate personal reflections on your youthful happiness. What is the show at the theatre tonight? Besslers, gladiators, a combat of camel leopards and unicorns? I don't think so, said Cyril. It's called the Water Babies, and if it's like the book there isn't any gladiating in it. There are chimney sweeps and professors, and a lobster and an otter, and a salmon and children living in the water. It sounds chilly. The phoenix shivered and went to sit on the tongs. I don't suppose there will be real water, said Jane. And theatres are very warm and pretty, with a lot of gold and lamps. Wouldn't you like to come with us? I was just going to say that, said Robert, in an injured tone. Only I know how rude it is to interrupt. Do come, Phoenix, old chap, it will cheer you up. It'll make you laugh like any old thing. Mr. Bouchier always makes ripping plays. You ought to have seen shock-headed Peter last year. Your words are strange, said the phoenix, but I will come with you. The revels of this Bouchier, of whom you speak, may help me to forget the weight of my ears. So that evening the phoenix snubbed inside the waistcoat of Robert's Eatons, a very tight fit, it seemed, to both Robert and to the phoenix, and was taken to the play. Robert had to pretend to be cold at the glittering, many-mirrored restaurant where they ate dinner, with father-in-evening-dress, with a very shiny white shirt front and mother-looking lovely in her gray evening-dress that changes into pink and green when she moves. Robert pretended that he was too cold to take off his great coat, and so sat sweltering through what would otherwise have been a most thrilling meal. He felt that he was a blot on the smart beauty of the family, and he hoped the phoenix knew what he was suffering for its sake. Of course we were all pleased to suffer for the sake of others, but we like them to know it unless we are the very best and noblest kind of people, and Robert was just ordinary. Father was full of jokes and fun, and everyone laughed all time, even with their mouths full, which is not manners. Robert thought father would not have been quite so funny about his keeping his overcoat on if father had known all the truth, and there Robert was probably right. When dinner was finished to the last grape and the last paddle in the finger-glasses, for it was really, truly grown-up dinner, the children were taken to the theatre, guided to a box close to the stage, and left. Father's parting words were, Now don't you stir out of this box whatever you do, I shall be back before the end of the play. Be good and you will be happy. Is this zoned hard enough for the abandonment of great coats, Bob's? No? Well, then, I should say you were sickening for something, mumps or measles or thrush or teething. Goodbye! He went, and Robert was at last able to remove his coat, mop his perspiring brow, and release the crushed and disheveled Phoenix. Robert had to arrange his damp hair at the looking-glass at the back of the box, and the Phoenix had to preen its disordered feathers for some time before either of them was fit to be seen. They were very, very early. When the lights went up fully, the Phoenix balancing itself on the gilded back of a chair swayed in ecstasy. How fair a scene is this, it murmured, how far fairer than my temple, or have I guessed a right? Have you brought me hither to lift up my heart with emotions of joy as surprise? Tell me, my Robert, is it not that this, this is my true temple, and the other was but a humble shrine frequented by outcasts? I don't know about outcasts, said Robert, but you can call this your temple if you like. Hush! The music is beginning. I am not going to tell you about the play. As I said before, one can't tell everything, and no doubt you saw the water-babies yourselves. If you did not, it was a shame, or rather a pity. What I must tell you is that though Cyril and Jane and Robert and Anthea enjoyed it as much as any children possibly could, the pleasure of the Phoenix was far, far greater than theirs. This indeed is my temple, it said, again and again. What radiant rites, and all to do honour to me. The songs in the play it took to be hymns in its honour. The choruses were quirk songs in its praise. The electric lights, it said, were magic torches lighted for its sake, and it was so charmed with the footlights that the children could hardly persuade it to sit still. But when the limelight was shown it could contain its approval no longer. It flapped its golden wings, and cried in a voice that could be heard all over the theatre. Well done, my servants! Ye have my favour and my countenance. Little Tom on the stage stopped short in what he was saying. A deep breath was drawn by hundreds of lungs, every eye in the house, turned to the box where the luckless children cringed, and most people hissed, or said shish, or turn them out. Then the play went on, and an attendant presently came to the box, and spoke wrathfully. It wasn't us indeed, it wasn't said Anthea earnestly. It was the bird. The man said, well then they must keep their bird very quiet. Disturbing everyone like this, he said. It won't do it again, said Robert, glancing imploringly at the golden bird. I'm sure it won't. You have my leave to depart, said the phoenix gently. Well he is a beauty, and no mistake, said the attendant, only I'd cover him up during the acts. It upsets the performance, and he went. Don't speak again there's a dearest, said Anthea. You wouldn't like to interfere with your own temple, would you? So now the phoenix was quiet, but it kept whispering to the children. It wanted to know why there was no altar, no fire, no incense, and became so excited and fretful and tiresome that four, at least of the party of five, wished deeply that it had been left at home. What happened next was entirely the fault of the phoenix. It was not in the least the fault of the theatre people, and no one could ever understand afterwards how it did happen. No one, that is, except the guilty bird itself and the four children. The phoenix was balancing itself on the guilt back of the chair, swaying backwards and forwards and up and down, as you may see your own domestic parrot do. I mean the grey one with the red tail. All eyes were on the stage, where the lobster was delighting the audience with that gem of a song. If you can't walk straight, walk sideways. When the phoenix murmured warmly, no altar, no fire, no incense, and then before any of the children could even begin to think of stopping it, it spread its bright wings and swept round the theatre, brushing its gleaming feathers against delicate hangings and gilded woodwork. It seemed to have made but one circular wingsweep, such as you may see a gullmake, over grey water on a stormy day. Next moment it was perched again on the chair back, and all round the theatre where it had passed, little sparks shone like tinsel seeds. Then little smoke wreaths curled up like growing plants, little flames open like flower buds. People whispered. Then people shrieked. Fire, fire! The curtain went down, the lights went up. Fire cried everyone, and made for the doors. A magnificent idea said the phoenix complacently. An enormous altar, fire supplied free of charge. Doesn't the incense smell delicious? The only smell was the stifling smell of smoke, of burning silk, or scorching varnish. The little flames had opened now into great flame flowers. The people in the theatre were shouting and pressing toward the doors. Oh, how could you, cried Jane! Let's get out! Father said, stay here, Sananthea, very pale, and trying to speak in her ordinary voice. He didn't mean stay and roasted, said Robert. No boys on burning decks for me, thank you. Not much, said Cyril, and he opened the door of the box. But a fierced waft of smoke and hot air made him shut it again. It was not possible to get out that way. They looked over the front of the box. Could they climb down? It would be possible, certainly, but would they be much better off? Look at the people, Moanedanthea, we couldn't get through. And indeed the crowd round the doors looked as thick as flies in the jam-making season. I wish we'd never seen the phoenix, cried Jane. Even at that awful moment Robert looked round to see if the bird had overheard a speech which, however natural, was hardly polite or grateful. The phoenix was gone. Look here, said Cyril, I've read about fires and papers. I'm sure it's all right. Let's wait here, as Father said. We can't do anything else, said Anthea bitterly. Look here, said Robert, I'm not frightened, no I'm not. The phoenix has never been as skunks yet, and I'm certain it'll see us through somehow. I believe in the phoenix. The phoenix thanks you, O Robert, said a golden voice at his feet, and there was the phoenix itself, on the wishing carpet. Quick, it said, stand on those portions of the carpet which are truly antique and authentic and— A sudden jet of flame stopped its words, alas! The phoenix had unconsciously warmed to its subject, and in the unintentional heat of the moment had set fire to the paraffin with which that morning the children had anointed the carpet. It burned merrily. The children tried in vain to stamp it out. They had to stand back and let it burn itself out. When the paraffin had burned away, it was found that it had taken with it all the darns of Scotch-Heather mixture fingering. Only the fabric of the old carpet was left, and that was full of holes. Come, said the phoenix, I'm cool now. The four children got on to what was left of the carpet. Very careful they were, not to leave a leg or a hand hanging over one of the holes. It was very hot. The theatre was a pit of fire. Everyone else had gotten out. Jane had to sit on Anthea's lap. Home, said Cyril, and instantly the cool draft from under the nursery door played upon their legs as they sat. They were all on the carpet still, and the carpet was lying in its proper place on the nursery floor as calm and unmoved as though it had never been to the theatre or taken part in a fire in its life. Four long breaths of deep relief were instantly breathed. The draft, which they had never liked before, was for the moment quite pleasant, and they were safe, and everyone else was safe. The theatre had been quite empty when they left. Everyone was sure of that. They presently found themselves all talking at once, somehow none of their adventures had given them so much to talk about. None other had seemed so real. Did you notice, they said, and do you remember? When suddenly Anthea's face turned pale under the dirt, which it had collected on it during the fire. Oh! she cried. Mother and father, oh how awful! They'll think we're burned to cinders. Oh! let's go this minute and tell them we aren't. We should only miss them, said the sensible zero. Well, you go then, said Anthea, or I will. Only do wash your face first. Mother will be sure to think you are burnt to a cinder if she sees you as black as that, and she'll faint or be ill or something. Oh! I wish we'd never got to know that, Phoenix. Hush! said Robert. It's no use being rude to the bird. I suppose it can't help its nature. Perhaps we'd better wash too. Now I come to think of it my hands are rather— No one had noticed the Phoenix since it had bitten them to step on the carpet, and no one noticed that no one had noticed. All were partially clean, and Cyril was just plunging into his great coat to go and look for his parents. He, and not unjustly, called it looking for a needle in a bundle of hay, and the sound of Father's latch-key in the front door sent everyone bounding up the stairs. Are you all safe? cried Mother's voice. Are you all safe? And the next moment she was kneeling on the linoleum of the hall, trying to kiss four damp children at once, and laughing and crying by turns, while Father stood looking on and saying he was blessed or something. But how did you guess we'd come home, said Cyril later, when everyone was calm enough for talking? Well it was rather a rumb thing. We heard the garak was on fire, and of course we went straight there, said Father briskly. We couldn't find you, of course, and we couldn't get in, but the firemen told us everyone was safely out. And then I heard a voice in my ear say, Cyril, Anthea, Robert, and Jane. And something touched me on the shoulder. It was a great yellow pigeon, and it got in the way of my seeing who had spoken. It fluttered off. And then someone said in the other ear, They're safe at home. And when I turned again to see who it was speaking, hanged if there wasn't that confounded pigeon on my other shoulder. Dazed by the fire, I suppose, your father said it was the voice of. I said it was the bird that spoke, said Mother, and so it was, or at least I thought so then. It wasn't a pigeon. It was an orange-colored cockatoo. I don't care who it was that spoke. It was true, and you're safe. Mother began to cry again, and Father said bed was a good place after the pleasures of the stage. So everyone went there. Robert had a talk with the Phoenix that night. Oh, very well, said the bird, when Robert said what he felt. Didn't you know that I had power over fire? Do not distress yourself. I, like my high priests in Lombard Street, can undo the work of flames, kindly open the casement. It flew out. That was why the paper said next day that the fire at the theatre had done less damage than had been anticipated. As a mere fact it had done none, for the Phoenix spent the night inputting things straight. How the management accounted for this, and how many of the theatre officials still believe that they were mad on that night will never be known. Next day Mother saw the burnt holes in the carpet. It caught where it was paraffinny, said Anthea. I must get rid of that carpet at once, said Mother. But what the children said and sad whispers to each other as they pondered over last night's events was, we must get rid of that Phoenix. CHAPTER XII. THE END OF THE END. Toast, tea, milk, tea cup, and saucer, egg spoon, knife, butter. That's all I think. remarked Anthea, as she put the last touches to Mother's breakfast tray and went, very carefully up the stairs, feeling for every step with her toes and holding on to the tray with all her fingers. She crept into Mother's room and set the tray on a chair, and she pulled one of the blinds up very softly. Is your head better, Mammy dear? She asked, in the soft little voice that she kept expressly for Mother's headaches. I've brought your brekkie, and I've put the little cloth with clover-leaves on it, the one I made you. That's very nice, her Mother said sleepily. Anthea knew exactly what to do for Mother's with headaches who had breakfast in bed. She fetched warm water and put just enough odiclone in it, and bathed Mother's face and hands with the sweet, scented water. Then Mother was able to think about breakfast. But what's the matter with my girl? She asked, when her eyes got used to the light. Oh, I'm sorry you're ill, Anthea said. It's that horrible fire, and you being so frightened, Father said so. And we all feel as if it was our faults. I can't explain, but it wasn't your fault a bit, you darling goosey, Mother said. How could it be? That's just what I can't tell you, said Anthea. I haven't got a futile brain like you and Father to think of ways of explaining everything. Mother laughed. My futile brain, or did you mean fertile? Anyway, it feels very stiff and sore this morning, but I shall be quite all right by and by. And don't be a silly little pet girl. The fire wasn't your faults. No. I don't want the egg, dear. I'll go to sleep again, I think. Don't you worry. And tell Coke not to bother me about meals. You can order what you like for lunch. Anthea closed the door very mousily, and instantly went downstairs and ordered what she liked for lunch. She ordered a pair of turkeys, a large plum pudding, cheesecakes, and almonds and raisins. Coke told her to go along due. And she might as well not have ordered anything. For when lunch came, it was just hashed mutton and semolina pudding, and Coke had forgotten the sippots for the mutton hash, and the semolina pudding was burnt. When Anthea rejoined the others, she found them all plunged in the gloom where she was herself. For everyone knew that the days of the carpet were now numbered. Indeed, so warn was it that you could almost have numbered its threads. So that now, after nearly a month of magic happenings, the time was at hand when life would have to go on in the dull, ordinary way, and Jane, Robert, and Thea, and the Cyril would just be in the same position as the other children who live in Camden Town, the children whom these four had so often pitied, and perhaps a little despised. We shall be just like them, Cyril said. Except, said Robert, that we shall have got more things to remember and be sorry we haven't got. Mother's going to send away the carpet as soon as she's well enough to see about that coconut matting. Fancy us with coconut matting, us. And we've walked under live coconut trees on the island where you can't have whooping cough. Pretty island, said the lamb, paint-boxed sands and sea, all shiny sparkly. His brothers and sisters had often wondered whether he remembered that island. Now they knew that he did. Yes, said Cyril, no more cheaper turn trips by carpet for us. That's a dead cert. They were all talking about the carpet, but what they were all thinking about was the phoenix. The golden bird had been so kind, so friendly, so polite, so instructive, and now it had set fire to a theater and made mother ill. Nobody blamed a bird. It had acted in a perfectly natural manner. But everyone saw that it must not be asked to prolong its visit. Indeed, in plain English it must be asked to go. The four children felt like base smiles and treacherous friends, and each in its mind was saying who ought not to be the one to tell the phoenix that there could no longer be a place for it in that happy home in Camden down. Each child was quite sure that one of them ought to speak out in a fair and manly way, but nobody wanted to be the one. They could not talk the whole thing over as they would have liked to, because the phoenix itself was in the cupboard, among the black beetles and the odd shoes and the broken chessman. But Anthea tried. It's very horrid. I do hate thinking things about people and not being able to say the things you're thinking because of the way they would feel when they thought what things you were thinking and wondered what they'd done to make you think things like that, and why you were thinking them. Anthea was so anxious that the phoenix should not understand what she said that she made a speech completely baffling to all. It was not till she pointed to the cupboard in which all believed the phoenix to be that Cyril understood. Yes, he said, while Jane and Robert were trying to tell each other how deeply they didn't understand what Anthea were saying. But after recent eventfulnesses a new leaf has to be turned over, and after all, mother is more important than the feelings of any of the lower forms of creation, however unnatural. How beautifully you do do it, said Anthea, absently beginning to build a card house for the lamb. Mixing up what you're saying, I mean, we ought to practice doing it so as to be ready for mysterious occasions. We're talking about that. She said to Jane and Robert frowning and nodding towards the cupboard where the phoenix was. Then Robert and Jane understood, and each opened its mouth to speak. Wait a minute, said Anthea quickly. The game is to twist up what you want to say so that no one can understand what you're saying except the people you want to understand it, and sometimes not them. The ancient philosophers, said a golden voice, well understood the art of which you speak. Of course it was the phoenix who had not been in the cupboard at all, but had been cocking a golden eye at them from the cornice during the whole conversation. Pretty Dickie, remarked the lamb. Canary Dickie, poor misguided infant, said the phoenix. There was a painful pause. The four could not but think it was likely that the phoenix had understood their very veiled illusions, accompanied as they had been by gestures indicating the cupboard, for the phoenix was not wanting an intelligence. We were just saying, Cyril began, and I hope he was not going to say anything but the truth. Whatever it was he did not say it, for the phoenix interrupted him and all breathed more freely as it spoke. I gather it said that you have some tidings of a fatal nature to communicate to our degraded black brothers who run to and fro for ever yonder. Dick pointed a claw at the cupboard where the black beetles lived. Canary talk, said the lamb joyously, go and show Mammy. He wriggled off Anthea's lap. Mammy's asleep, said Jane Hastley. Come and be wild beasts in a cage under the table. But the lamb caught his feet in hands, and even his head, so often and so deeply in the holes of the carpet that the cage or the table had to be moved on to the linoleum, and the carpet lay bare to sight with all its horrid holes. Ah, said the bird, it isn't long for this world. No, said Robert, everything comes to an end. It's awful. Sometimes the end is peace, remarked the phoenix. I imagine that unless it comes soon the end of your carpet will be pieces. Yes, said Cyril, respectfully kicking what was left of the carpet. The movement of its bright colors caught the eye of the lamb, who went down on all fours instantly and began to pull at the red and blue threads. Agatee, dagatee, gagatee, murmured the lamb. Dagatee, ag, ag, ag. And before anyone could have winked, even if they had wanted to, and it would not have been of the slightest use. The middle of the floor showed bare, an island of boards surrounded by a sea of linoleum. The magic carpet was gone, and so was the lamb. There was a horrible silence. The lamb, the baby, all alone, had been wafted away on that untrustworthy carpet, so full of holes and magic, and no one could know where he was, and no one could follow him because there was now no carpet to follow on. Jane versed into tears, but Anthea, though pale and frantic, was dry-eyed. It must be a dream, she said. That's what the clergyman said, remarked Robert, forlornly, but it wasn't, and it isn't. But the lamb never wished, said Cyril, he was only talking Bosch. The carpet understands all speech, said the phoenix. Even Bosch. I know not this Bosch land, but be assured that its tongue is not unknown to the carpet. Do you mean, then, said Anthea, in white tear, that when he was saying, agaldedag, or whatever it was, that he meant something by it? All speech has meanings, said the phoenix. There, I think you're wrong, said Cyril. Even people who talk English sometimes say things that don't mean anything in particular. Oh, never mind that now, moaned Anthea. Do you think agaldedag meant something to him and the carpet? Beyond doubt it held the same meaning to the carpet as to the luckless infant, said the phoenix calmly. And what did it mean? Oh, what? Unfortunately, the bird rejoined. I never studied Bosch. Jane sobbed noisily, but the others were calm with what is sometimes called the calmness of despair. The lamb was gone. The lamb, their own precious baby brother, who had never in his happy little life been for a moment out of sight of eyes that loved him, he was gone. He had gone alone into the great world with no other companion and protector than a carpet with holes in it. The children had never really understood before what an enormously big place the world is, and the lamb might be anywhere in it. And it's no use going to look for him, Cyril, in flat and regid tones, only said what the others were thinking. Do you wish him to return, the phoenix asked? It seemed to speak with some surprise. Of course we do, cried everybody. Isn't he more trouble than he's worth, asked the bird doubtfully? No, no, oh, we do want him back, we do. Then, said the wearer of gold plumage, if you'll excuse me, I'll just pop out and see what I can do. Cyril flung up at the window and the phoenix popped out. Oh, if only mother goes on sleeping. Oh, suppose she wakes up and wants the lamb. Oh, suppose the servants come. Stop crying, Jane. It's no earthly good, no. I'm not crying myself. At least I wasn't till you said so, and I shouldn't anyway, if there was any mortal thing we could do. Oh, oh, oh. Cyril and Robert were boys and boys never cry, of course. Still, the position was a terrible one. And I do not wonder that they made faces in their efforts to behave in a really manly way. And at this awful moment, mother's bell ring. A breathless stillness held the children. Then Anthea dried her eyes. She looked round her and caught up the poker. She held it out to Cyril. Hit my hand hard, she said. I must show mother some reason for my eyes being like they are. Harder, she cried, as Cyril gently tapped her with the iron handle. And Cyril, agitated and trembling, derved himself to hit harder and hit very much harder than he intended. Anthea screamed. Oh, panther. I didn't mean to hurt really, cried Cyril, clattering the poker back into the fender. It's all right, said Anthea breathlessly, clasping the hurt hand with the one that wasn't hurt. It's getting red. It was. A round red and blue bump was rising on the back of it. Now, Robert, she said, trying to breathe more evenly. You go out. Oh, I don't know where. Onto the dustbin, anywhere. And I shall tell mother you and the lamb are out. Anthea was now ready to deceive her mother for as long as ever she could. Deceit is very wrong. We know. But it seemed to Anthea that it was her plain duty to keep her mother from being frightened about the lamb as long as possible. And the phoenix might help. It has always helped, Robert said. It got us out of the tower. And even when it made the fire in the theater, it got us out all right. I'm certain it will manage somehow. Mother's bell rang again. Oh, Eliza's never answered it, cried Anthea. She never does. Oh, I must go. And she went. Her heart beat bumpingly as she climbed the stairs. Mother would be certain to notice her eyes. Well, her hand would account for that. But the lamb. No, I must not think of the lamb, she said to herself, and bit her tongue till her eyes watered again so as to give herself something else to think of. Her arms and legs and back. And even her tear-reddened face felt stiff with her resolution not to let her mother be worried if she could help it. She opened the door softly. Yes, mother. Dearest, said mother, the lamb. Anthea tried to be brave. She tried to say that the lamb and Robert were out. Perhaps she tried too hard. Anyway, when she opened her mouth, no words came out. So she stood with it open. It seemed easier to keep from crying with one's mouth in that unusual position. The lamb, mother went on. He was very good at first, but he's pulled the toilet cover off the dressing table with all the brushes and pots and things. And now he's so quiet, I'm sure he's in some dreadful mischief and I can't see him from here. And if I'd got out of bed to see, I'm sure I should have fainted. Do you mean he's here, said Anthea? Of course he's here, said mother, a little impatiently. Where did you think he was? Anthea went round the foot of the big mahogany bed. There was a pause. He's not here now, she said. That he had been there was plain. From the toilet cover on the floor, the scattered pots and bottles, the wandering brushes and combs, all involved in the tangle of ribbons and laces, which an open door had yielded to the baby's inquisitive fingers. He must have crept out then, said mother. Do keep him with you, there's a darling. If I don't get some sleep, I shall be a wreck when father comes home. Anthea closed the door softly. Then she tore downstairs and burst into the nursery, crying. He must have wished he was with mother. He's been there all the time, agatee dag. The unusual word was frozen on her lip as people say in books. For there, on the floor, lay the carpet. And on the carpet, surrounded by his brothers and by Jane, sat the lamb. He had covered his face in clothes with Vaseline and violet powder, but he was easily recognizable in spite of this disguise. You are right, said the phoenix, who was also present. It is evident that, as you say, agatee dag is bosh for I want to be where my mother is. And so the faithful carpet understood it. But how, said Anthea, catching up the lamb and hugging him, how did he get back here? Oh, said the phoenix. I flew to the semiad and wished that your infant brother were restored to your midst, and immediately it was so. Oh, I am glad, I am glad, cried Anthea, still hugging the baby. Oh, you darling, shut up, Jane. I don't care how much he comes off on me. Cyril, you and Robert roll that carpet up and put it in the beetle cupboard. He might say agatee dag again, and it might mean something quite different next time. Now, my lamb, Panther will clean you a little. Come on. I hope the beetles won't go wishing, said Cyril, as they rolled up the carpet. Two days later, mother was well enough to go out, and that evening the coconut manning came home. The children talked and talked and thought and thought, but they had not found any polite way of telling the phoenix that they did not want it to stay any longer. The days had been days spent by the children in embarrassment, and by the phoenix in sleep. And now the manning was laid down, the phoenix awoke and fluttered down onto it. It shook its crested head. I do not like this carpet, it said. It is harsh and unyielding, and it hurts my golden feet. We've jolly well got to get used to its hurting our golden feet, said Cyril. This then, said the bird, supersedes the wishing carpet. Yes, said Robert. If you mean that it's instead of it. Yes, said Robert. If you mean that it's instead of it. And the magic web inquired the phoenix with sudden eagerness. It's the rag and bottle man's day tomorrow. Said Anthea in a low voice. He will take it away. The phoenix fluttered up to its favorite perch on the chair back. Hear me, it cried. O youthful children of men, and restrain your tears of misery and despair, for what must be must be. And I will not remember you thousands of years hence, as base ingrates and crawling worms compact of low selfishness. I should hope not indeed, said Cyril. Weep not, the bird went on. I really do beg that you won't weep. I will not seek to break the news to you gently. Let the blow fall at once. The time has come when I must leave you. All four children breathe forth along sigh of relief. We needn't have bothered so about how to break the news to it, whispered Cyril. Sigh not so, said the bird gently. All meetings and in partings I must leave you. I have sought to prepare you for this. Do not give way. Must you really go so soon, murmured Anthea? It was what she had often heard her mother say to calling ladies in the afternoon. I must really thank you so much, dear, replied the bird, just as though it had been one of the ladies. I am weary, it went on. I desire to rest. After all the happenings of this last moon, I do desire really to rest. And I ask of you one last boon. Any little thing we can do, said Robert. Now that it had really come to parting with the Phoenix, whose favorite he had always been, Robert did feel almost as miserable as the Phoenix thought they all did. I ask what the relic designed for the rag and bottle man. Give me what is left of the carpet and let me go. Dare we, said Anthea? Would mother mind? I have dared greatly for your sakes, remarked the bird. Well then we will, said Robert. The Phoenix fluffed out its feathers joyously. Nor shall you regret it, children of golden hearts, it said. Quick, spread the carpet and leave me alone. But first pile high the fire. Then, while I am immersed in the sacred preliminary rites, do ye prepare sweet-smelling woods and spices for the last act of parting? The children spread out what was left of the carpet. And after all, though this was just what they said they would have wished to have happened, all hearts were sad. Then they put half a scuttle of coal on the fire and went out, closing the door on the Phoenix, left at last, alone with the carpet. One of us must keep watch, said Robert, excitedly, as soon as they were all out of the room. And the others can go and buy sweet-woods and spices, get the very best that money can buy and plenty of them. Don't let stand to a three-pence or so. I wanted to have a jolly good send-off. It's the only thing that'll make us feel less horrid inside. It was felt that Robert, as the pet of the Phoenix, ought to have the last melancholy pleasure of choosing the materials for its funeral pyre. I'll keep watch if you like, said Cyril. I don't mind, and besides, it's raining hard and my boots let in the wet. You might call and see if my other ones are really reliable again yet. So they left Cyril, standing like a Roman sentinel outside the door which the Phoenix was getting ready for the great change. And they all went out to buy the precious things for the last sad rites. Robert is right, said Enthea. This is no time for being careful about our money. Let's go to the stationers first and buy a whole packet of lead pencils. They're cheaper if you buy them by the packet. This was a thing that they had always wanted to do, but it needed the great excitement of a funeral pyre and a parting from a beloved Phoenix to screw them up to the extravagance. The people at the stationers said that the pencils were real cedar wood, so I hope they were, for stationers should always speak the truth. At any rate, they cost one and four pence. Also they spent seven pence, three farthings, on a little sandalwood box inlaid with ivory. Because, said Enthea, I know sandalwood smells sweet and when it's burned it smells very sweet indeed. Ivory doesn't smell at all, said Robert, but I expect when you burn it, it smells most awful vile like bones. At the grocers, they bought all the spices they could remember the names of. Shell-like mace, clothes-like blunt nails, peppercorns, the long and round kind, ginger, the dry sort, of course, and the beautiful bloom-covered shells of fragrant cinnamon. Allspice, too, and caraway seeds. Caraway seeds that smelt most deadly when the time came for burning them. Camphor and oil of lavender were brought at the chemists and also a little scents sachet labeled violets de paume. They took the things home and found serals still on guard. When they had knocked, the golden voice of the phoenix had said, come in, they went in. There lay the carpet or what was left of it and on it lay an egg exactly like the one out of which the phoenix had been hatched. The phoenix was walking round and round the egg, clucking with joy and pride. I've laid it, you see, it said, and as fine an egg as ever I laid in all my born days. Everyone said yes, it was indeed a beauty. The things which the children had bought were now taken out of their papers and arranged on the table. And when the phoenix had been persuaded to leave its egg for a moment and look at the materials for its last fire, it was quite overcome. Never, never have I had a finer pire than this will be. You shall not regret it, it said, wiping away a golden tear. Right quickly, go and tell the Samoyed to fulfill the last wish of the phoenix and return instantly. But Robert wished to be polite and he wrote, please go and ask the Samoyed to be so kind as to fulfill the phoenix's last wish and come straight back if you please. The paper was pinned to the carpet, which vanished and returned in the flash of an eye. Then another paper was written, ordering the carpet to take the egg somewhere where it wouldn't be hatched for another 2,000 years. The phoenix tore itself away from its cherished egg which it watched with yearning tenderness till the paper being pinned on, the carpet hastily rolled itself up around the egg and both vanished forever from the nursery of the house in Camden Town. Oh, dear, oh, dear, oh, dear, said everybody. Bear up, said the bird. Do you think I don't suffer being parted from my precious new-laid egg like this? Come, conquer your emotions and build my fire. Oh, cried Robert suddenly and holy breaking down, I can't bear you to go. The phoenix perched on his shoulder and rubbed its beak softly against his ear. The sorrows of youth soon appear but as drips, it said. Farewell, Robert of my heart, I have loved you well. The fire had burnt to a red glow. One by one the spices and sweet woods were laid on it. Some smelt nice and some the caraway seeds and the violets to palm, sachet, up among them. Smelt worse than you would think possible. Farewell, farewell, farewell, farewell, said the phoenix in a faraway voice. Oh, goodbye, said everyone and now all were in tears. The bright bird fluttered seven times around the room and settled in the hot heart of the fire. The sweet gums and spices and woods flared and flickered around it, but its golden feathers did not burn. It seemed to grow red hot to the very inside heart of it and then before the eight eyes of its friends it fell together, a heap of white ashes and the flames of the cedar pencils and the sandalwood box met it and joined above it. Whatever have you done with the carpet? asked Mother next day. We gave it to someone who wanted it very much. The name began with a P, said Jane. The others instantly hushed her. Oh well, it wasn't worth two pence, said Mother. The person who began with P said we shouldn't lose by it. Jane went on before she could be stopped. I daresay, said Mother, laughing, but that night a great box came addressed to the children all by their names. Eliza never could remember the name of the carrier who brought it. It wasn't Carter Patterson or the parcel's delivery. It was instantly opened. It was a big wooden box and it had to be opened with a hammer and the kitchen poker. The long nails came squeaking out and boards scrunched as they were wrenched off. Inside the box was soft paper with beautiful Chinese patterns on it, blue and green and red and violet. And under the paper, well, almost everything lovely that you can think of. Everything of reasonable size, I mean, for of course there were no motors or flying machines or thoroughbred chargers. But there really was almost everything else, everything that the children had always wanted, toys and games and books and chocolate and candy cherries and paint boxes and photographic cameras and all the presents they had always wanted to give to father and mother and the lamb, only they never had the money for them. At the very bottom of the box was a tiny golden feather. No one saw it but Robert and he picked it up and hid it in the breast of his jacket which had been so often the nesting place of the golden bird. When he went to bed, the feather was gone. It was the last he ever saw of the Phoenix. Pinned to the lovely fur coat that mother had always wanted was a paper and it said, in return for the carpet with gratitude, P. You may guess how mother and father talked it over. They decided at last the person who had had the carpet and whom curiously enough the children were quite unable to describe must be an insane millionaire who amused himself by playing it being a rag and bone man but the children knew better. They knew that this was the fulfillment by the powerful Samyad of the last wish of the Phoenix and that this glorious and delightful boxful of treasures was really the very, very, very end of the Phoenix and the carpet. End of chapter 12, recording by Lanna Jordan. End of the Phoenix and the Carpet by E. Nesbitt.