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

the seaside in the summer,” said Anthea. “Mother always lets us go barefoot then.”

So the Lamb’s shoes and socks and gaiters came off, and he stood digging his happy naked pink toes into the golden smooth sand.

“I’m a little white duck-dickie,” said he⁠—“a little white duck-dickie what swims,” and splashed quacking into a sandy pool.

“Let him,” said Anthea; “it can’t hurt him. Oh, how hot it is!”

The cook suddenly opened her eyes and screamed, shut them, screamed again, opened her eyes once more and said⁠—

“Why, drat my cats alive, what’s all this? It’s a dream, I expect. Well, it’s the best I ever dreamed. I’ll look it up in the dream-book tomorrow. Seaside and trees and a carpet to sit on. I never did!”

“Look here,” said Cyril, “it isn’t a dream; it’s real.”

“Ho yes!” said the cook; “they always says that in dreams.”

“It’s real, I tell you,” Robert said, stamping his foot. “I’m not going to tell you how it’s done, because that’s our secret.” He winked heavily at each of the others in turn. “But you wouldn’t go away and make that pudding, so we had to bring you, and I hope you like it.”

“I do that, and no mistake,” said the cook unexpectedly; “and it being a dream it don’t matter what I say; and I will say, if it’s my last word, that of all the aggravating little varmints⁠—”

“Calm yourself, my good woman,” said the Phoenix.

“Good woman, indeed,” said the cook; “good woman yourself” Then she saw who it was that had spoken. “Well, if I ever,” said she; “this is something like a dream! Yellow fowls a-talking and all! I’ve heard of such, but never did I think to see the day.”

“Well, then,” said Cyril, impatiently, “sit here and see the day now. It’s a jolly fine day. Here, you others⁠—a council!”

They walked along the shore till they were out of earshot of the cook, who still sat gazing about her with a happy, dreamy, vacant smile.

“Look here,” said Cyril, “we must roll the carpet up and hide it, so that we can get at it at any moment. The Lamb can be getting rid of his whooping-cough all the morning, and we can look about; and if the savages on this island are cannibals, we’ll hook it, and take her back. And if not, we’ll leave her here.”

“Is that being kind to servants and animals, like the clergyman said?” asked Jane.

“Nor she isn’t kind,” retorted Cyril.

“Well⁠—anyway,” said Anthea, “the safest thing is to leave the carpet there with her sitting on it. Perhaps it’ll be a lesson to her, and anyway, if she thinks it’s a dream it won’t matter what she says when she gets home.”

So the extra coats and hats and mufflers were piled on the carpet. Cyril shouldered the well and happy Lamb, the Phoenix perched on Robert’s wrist, and “the party of explorers prepared to enter the interior.”

The grassy slope was smooth, but under the trees there were tangled creepers with bright, strange-shaped flowers, and it was not easy to walk.

“We ought to have an explorer’s axe,” said Robert. “I shall ask father to give me one for Christmas.”

There were curtains of creepers with scented blossoms hanging from the trees, and brilliant birds darted about quite close to their faces.

“Now, tell me honestly,” said the Phoenix, “are there any birds here handsomer than I am? Don’t be afraid of hurting my feelings⁠—I’m a modest bird, I hope.”

“Not one of them,” said Robert, with conviction, “is a patch upon you!”

“I was never a vain bird,” said the Phoenix, “but I own that you confirm my own impression. I will take a flight.” It circled in the air for a moment, and, returning to Robert’s wrist, went on, “There is a path to the left.”

And there was. So now the children went on through the wood more quickly and comfortably, the girls picking flowers and the Lamb inviting the “pretty dickies” to observe that he himself was a “little white real-water-wet duck!”

And all this time he hadn’t whooping-coughed once.

The path turned and twisted, and, always threading their way amid a tangle of flowers, the children suddenly passed a corner and found themselves in a forest clearing, where there were a lot of pointed huts⁠—the huts, as they knew at once, of savages.

The boldest heart beat more quickly. Suppose they were cannibals. It was a long way back to the carpet.

“Hadn’t we better go back?” said Jane. “Go now,” she said, and her voice trembled a little. “Suppose they eat us.”

“Nonsense, Pussy,” said Cyril, firmly. “Look, there’s a goat tied up. That shows they don’t eat people.”

“Let’s go on and say we’re missionaries,” Robert suggested.

“I shouldn’t advise that,” said the Phoenix, very earnestly.

“Why not?”

“Well, for one thing, it isn’t true,” replied the golden bird.

It was while they stood hesitating on the edge of the clearing that a tall man suddenly came out of one of the huts. He had hardly any clothes, and his body all over was a dark and beautiful coppery colour⁠—just like the chrysanthemums father had brought home on Saturday. In his hand he held a spear. The whites of his eyes and the white of his teeth were the only light things about him, except that where the sun shone on his shiny brown body it looked white, too. If you will look carefully at the next shiny savage you meet with next to nothing on, you will see at once⁠—if the sun happens to be shining at the time⁠—that I am right about this.

The savage looked at the children. Concealment was impossible. He uttered a shout that was more like “Oo goggery bag-wag” than anything else the children had ever heard, and at once brown coppery people leapt out of every hut, and swarmed like ants about the clearing. There was no time for discussion, and no one wanted to discuss anything, anyhow. Whether these coppery people were cannibals or not now seemed to matter very little.

Without an instant’s