The Phoenix and the Carpet by E. Nesbit (best non fiction books of all time .TXT) 📕

trodden out by Raggett’s Really Reliable School Boots on the feet of Robert.

“I’ve been here all the time,” said the Phoenix, yawning politely behind its claw. “If you wanted me you should have recited the ode of invocation; it’s seven thousand lines long, and written in very pure and beautiful Greek.”

“Couldn’t you tell it us in English?” asked Anthea.

“It’s rather long, isn’t it?” said Jane, jumping the Lamb on her knee.

“Couldn’t you make a short English version, like Tate and Brady?”

“Oh, come along, do,” said Robert, holding out his hand. “Come along, good old Phoenix.”

“Good old beautiful Phoenix,” it corrected shyly.

“Good old beautiful Phoenix, then. Come along, come along,” said Robert, impatiently, with his hand still held out.

The Phoenix fluttered at once on to his wrist.

“This amiable youth,” it said to the others, “has miraculously been able to put the whole meaning of the seven thousand lines of Greek invocation into one English hexameter⁠—a little misplaced some of the words⁠—but⁠—

“Oh, come along, come along, good old beautiful Phoenix!”

“Not perfect, I admit⁠—but not bad for a boy of his age.”

“Well, now then,” said Robert, stepping back on to the carpet with the golden Phoenix on his wrist.

“You look like the king’s falconer,” said Jane, sitting down on the carpet with the baby on her lap.

Robert tried to go on looking like it. Cyril and Anthea stood on the carpet.

“We shall have to get back before dinner,” said Cyril, “or cook will blow the gaff.”

“She hasn’t sneaked since Sunday,” said Anthea.

“She⁠—” Robert was beginning, when the door burst open and the cook, fierce and furious, came in like a whirlwind and stood on the corner of the carpet, with a broken basin in one hand and a threat in the other, which was clenched.

“Look ’ere!” she cried, “my only basin; and what the powers am I to make the beefsteak and kidney pudding in that your ma ordered for your dinners? You don’t deserve no dinners, so yer don’t.”

“I’m awfully sorry, cook,” said Anthea gently; “it was my fault, and I forgot to tell you about it. It got broken when we were telling our fortunes with melted lead, you know, and I meant to tell you.”

“Meant to tell me,” replied the cook; she was red with anger, and really I don’t wonder⁠—“meant to tell! Well, I mean to tell, too. I’ve held my tongue this week through, because the missus she said to me quiet like, ‘We mustn’t expect old heads on young shoulders,’ but now I shan’t hold it no longer. There was the soap you put in our pudding, and me and Eliza never so much as breathed it to your ma⁠—though well we might⁠—and the saucepan, and the fish-slice, and⁠—My gracious cats alive! what ’ave you got that blessed child dressed up in his outdoors for?”

“We aren’t going to take him out,” said Anthea; “at least⁠—” She stopped short, for though they weren’t going to take him out in the Kentish Town Road, they certainly intended to take him elsewhere. But not at all where cook meant when she said “out.” This confused the truthful Anthea.

“Out!” said the cook, “that I’ll take care you don’t;” and she snatched the Lamb from the lap of Jane, while Anthea and Robert caught her by the skirts and apron.

“Look here,” said Cyril, in stern desperation, “will you go away, and make your pudding in a pie-dish, or a flowerpot, or a hot-water can, or something?”

“Not me,” said the cook, briefly; “and leave this precious poppet for you to give his deathercold to.”

“I warn you,” said Cyril, solemnly. “Beware, ere yet it be too late.”

“Late yourself the little popsey-wopsey,” said the cook, with angry tenderness. “They shan’t take it out, no more they shan’t. And⁠—Where did you get that there yellow fowl?”

She pointed to the Phoenix.

Even Anthea saw that unless the cook lost her situation the loss would be theirs.

“I wish,” she said suddenly, “we were on a sunny southern shore, where there can’t be any whooping-cough.”

She said it through the frightened howls of the Lamb, and the sturdy scoldings of the cook, and instantly the giddy-go-round-and-falling-lift feeling swept over the whole party, and the cook sat down flat on the carpet, holding the screaming Lamb tight to her stout print-covered self, and calling on St. Bridget to help her. She was an Irishwoman.

The moment the tipsy-topsy-turvy feeling stopped, the cook opened her eyes, gave one sounding screech and shut them again, and Anthea took the opportunity to get the desperately howling Lamb into her own arms.

“It’s all right,” she said; “own Panther’s got you. Look at the trees, and the sand, and the shells, and the great big tortoises. Oh dear, how hot it is!”

It certainly was; for the trusty carpet had laid itself out on a southern shore that was sunny and no mistake, as Robert remarked. The greenest of green slopes led up to glorious groves where palm-trees and all the tropical flowers and fruits that you read of in Westward Ho! and Foul Play were growing in rich profusion. Between the green, green slope and the blue, blue sea lay a stretch of sand that looked like a carpet of jewelled cloth of gold, for it was not greyish as our northern sand is, but yellow and changing⁠—opal-coloured like sunshine and rainbows. And at the very moment when the wild, whirling, blinding, deafening, tumbling upside-downness of the carpet-moving stopped, the children had the happiness of seeing three large live turtles waddle down to the edge of the sea and disappear in the water. And it was hotter than you can possibly imagine, unless you think of ovens on a baking-day.

Everyone without an instant’s hesitation tore off its London-in-November outdoor clothes, and Anthea took off the Lamb’s highwayman blue coat and his three-cornered hat, and then his jersey, and then the Lamb himself suddenly slipped out of his little blue tight breeches and stood up happy and hot in his little white shirt.

“I’m sure it’s much warmer than