The Phoenix and the Carpet by E. Nesbit (dar e dil novel online reading .txt) 📕

He creeps with such a wriggly creep, He wriggles even in his sleep.’

‘Crocky,’ 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.’

‘Well, 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 sooth, O Cyril,’ remarked the Phoenix, coming out from the cupboard where the blackbeetles 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 the Phoenix—’

‘There is a society called that,’ said Cyril.

‘Where is it? And what is a society?’ asked the bird.

‘It’s a sort of joined-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 fain see these calling themselves Sons of the Phoenix.’

‘But what about your words of wisdom?’

‘Wisdom is always welcome,’ said the Phoenix.

‘Pretty Polly!’ remarked the Lamb, reaching his hands towards the golden speaker.

The Phoenix modestly retreated behind Robert, and Anthea hastened to distract the attention of the Lamb by murmuring—

“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 balloony.’

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 Tatcho 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 Tatcho.’

But with all its faults Anthea’s idea was something to do, and they did it.

It was Cyril who fetched the Tatcho bottle from father’s washhand-stand. 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 chemist’s for another bottle. It would be dreadful to have a bald father, and it would all be our fault.’

‘And wigs are very 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 Tatcho 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 Tatcho 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 paraffiny 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—

‘Box for kiddies at Garrick. Stalls for us, Haymarket. Meet Charing Cross, 6.30.’

‘That means,’ said mother, ‘that you’re 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 in 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-Coloured 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 tableau 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 ‘Michaelmas Eve; 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 every one 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?’ asked 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’m 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 500 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 500 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’m careful I shall be hatched