The Phoenix and the Carpet by E. Nesbit (that summer book .txt) 📖

The morning after the adventure of the Persian cats, the musk-rats, 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 every one was ready to help to get breakfast. It was shivery cold, and there was but little in the house that was really worth eating.

Robert 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 judgement 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 housemaid had time to say what she thought of them, ‘don’t you begin jawing us. We aren’t going to stand it. We know too much. You’ll please make an extra special treacle roley 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 on one side. ‘Don’t you come a-threatening me, Master Cyril, because I won’t stand it, so I tell you. You tell your ma about us being out? Much I care! She’ll be sorry for me when she hears about my dear great-aunt by 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. ‘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 Wigson?’ said Robert, ‘and DID you keep it up last night?’

The mouth of the housemaid fell open.

‘Did you doss 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 roley—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 it 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 on the carpet. I’m going to darn my stockings.’

‘Darn!’ said the Phoenix, ‘darn! From those young lips these strange expressions—’

‘Mend, 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 requited 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—only 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