Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. The Phoenix and the Carpet by E. Nesbit (that summer book .txt) 📖
- Author: E. Nesbit
Book online «The Phoenix and the Carpet by E. Nesbit (that summer book .txt) 📖». Author E. Nesbit
‘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-coloured 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 every one went there.
Robert had a talk to the Phoenix that night.
‘Oh, very well,’ said the bird, when Robert had 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 papers said next day that the fire at the theatre had done less damage than had been anticipated. As a matter of fact it had done none, for the Phoenix spent the night in putting 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 paraffiny,’ said Anthea.
‘I must get rid of that carpet at once,’ said mother.
But what the children said in sad whispers to each other, as they pondered over last night’s events, was—
‘We must get rid of that Phoenix.’
CHAPTER 12. THE END OF THE END
‘Egg, 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. Then 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,’ said mother sleepily.
Anthea knew exactly what to do for mothers with headaches who had breakfast in bed. She fetched warm water and put just enough eau de Cologne 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 so 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 goosie,’ 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 cook 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, cheese-cakes, and almonds and raisins.
Cook told her to go along, do. And she might as well not have ordered anything, for when lunch came it was just hashed mutton and semolina pudding, and cook had forgotten the sippets 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 every one knew that the days of the carpet were now numbered. Indeed, so worn 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, Anthea, and Cyril would be just 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 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-box 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 cheap return 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 theatre and made mother ill.
Nobody blamed the bird. It had acted in a perfectly natural manner. But every one 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 spies 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 Town. 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 do, because the Phoenix itself was in the cupboard, among the blackbeetles and the odd shoes and the broken chessmen.
But Anthea tried.
‘It’s very horrid. I do hate thinking things about people, and not being
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