The Phoenix and the Carpet E. Nesbit (read more books .TXT) 📖

pleasure it felt in finding itself at last in its own temple.

“And,” it went on, “You must not think me wanting in appreciation of your very hearty and cordial reception when I ask that an ode may be recited or a choric song sung. It is what I have always been accustomed to.”

The four children, dumb witnesses of this wonderful scene, glanced a little nervously across the foam of white faces above the sea of black coats. It seemed to them that the Phoenix was really asking a little too much.

“Time presses,” said the Phoenix, “and the original ode of invocation is long, as well as being Greek; and, besides, it’s no use invoking me when here I am; but is there not a song in your own tongue for a great day such as this?”

Absently the manager began to sing, and one by one the rest joined⁠—

“Absolute security!
No liability!
All kinds of property
Insured against fire.
Terms most favourable,
Expenses reasonable,
Moderate rates for annual
Insurance⁠ ⁠…”

“That one is not my favourite,” interrupted the Phoenix, “and I think you’ve forgotten part of it.”

The manager hastily began another⁠—

“O Golden Phoenix, fairest bird,
The whole great world has often heard
Of all the splendid things we do,
Great Phoenix, just to honour you.”

“That’s better,” said the bird. And everyone sang⁠—

“Class one, for private dwelling-house,
For household goods and shops allows;
Provided these are built of brick
Or stone, and tiled and slated thick.”

“Try another verse,” said the Phoenix, “further on.”

And again arose the voices of all the clerks and employees and managers and secretaries and cooks⁠—

“In Scotland our insurance yields
The price of burnt-up stacks in fields.”

“Skip that verse,” said the Phoenix.

“Thatched dwellings and their whole contents
We deal with⁠—also with their rents;
Oh, glorious Phoenix, look and see
That these are dealt with in class three.

“The glories of your temple throng
Too thick to go in any song;
And we attend, O good and wise,
To ‘days of grace’ and merchandise.

“When people’s homes are burned away
They never have a cent to pay
If they have done as all should do,
O Phoenix, and have honoured you.

“So let us raise our voice and sing
The praises of the Phoenix King.
In classes one and two and three,
Oh, trust to him, for kind is he!”

“I’m sure you’re very kind,” said the Phoenix; “and now we must be going. And thank you very much for a very pleasant time. May you all prosper as you deserve to do, for I am sure a nicer, pleasanter-spoken lot of temple attendants I have never met, and never wish to meet. I wish you all good day!”

It fluttered to the wrist of Robert and drew the four children from the room. The whole of the office staff followed down the wide stairs and filed into their accustomed places, and the two most important officials stood on the steps bowing till Robert had buttoned the golden bird in his Norfolk bosom, and it and he and the three other children were lost in the crowd.

The two most important gentlemen looked at each other earnestly and strangely for a moment, and then retreated to those sacred inner rooms, where they toil without ceasing for the good of the House.

And the moment they were all in their places⁠—managers, secretaries, clerks, and porters⁠—they all started, and each looked cautiously round to see if anyone was looking at him. For each thought that he had fallen asleep for a few minutes, and had dreamed a very odd dream about the Phoenix and the boardroom. And, of course, no one mentioned it to anyone else, because going to sleep at your office is a thing you simply must not do.

The extraordinary confusion of the boardroom, with the remains of the incense in the plates, would have shown them at once that the visit of the Phoenix had been no dream, but a radiant reality, but no one went into the boardroom again that day; and next day, before the office was opened, it was all cleaned and put nice and tidy by a lady whose business asking questions was not part of. That is why Cyril read the papers in vain on the next day and the day after that; because no sensible person thinks his dreams worth putting in the paper, and no one will ever own that he has been asleep in the daytime.

The Phoenix was very pleased, but it decided to write an ode for itself. It thought the ones it had heard at its temple had been too hastily composed. Its own ode began⁠—

“For beauty and for modest worth
The Phoenix has not its equal on earth.”

And when the children went to bed that night it was still trying to cut down the last line to the proper length without taking out any of what it wanted to say.

That is what makes poetry so difficult.

VI Doing Good

“We shan’t be able to go anywhere on the carpet for a whole week, though,” said Robert.

“And I’m glad of it,” said Jane, unexpectedly.

“Glad?” said Cyril; “glad?”

It was breakfast-time, and mother’s letter, telling them how they were all going for Christmas to their aunt’s at Lyndhurst, and how father and mother would meet them there, having been read by everyone, lay on the table, drinking hot bacon-fat with one corner and eating marmalade with the other.

“Yes, glad,” said Jane. “I don’t want any more things to happen just now. I feel like you do when you’ve been to three parties in a week⁠—like we did at granny’s once⁠—and extras in between, toys and chocs and things like that. I want everything to be just real, and no fancy things happening at all.”

“I don’t like being obliged to keep things from mother,” said Anthea. “I don’t know why, but it makes me feel selfish and mean.”

“If we could only get the mater to believe it, we might take her to the jolliest places,” said Cyril, thoughtfully. “As it is, we’ve just got to be selfish and mean⁠—if it is that⁠—but I don’t feel it is.”

“I