'
'Antiquity is quite correct,' said the Phoenix, 'but
fabulous--well, do I look it?'
Every one shook its head. Cyril went on--
'The ancients speak of this bird as single, or the only one of its
kind.'
'That's right enough,' said the Phoenix.
'They describe it as about the size of an eagle.'
'Eagles are of different sizes,' said the Phoenix; 'it's not at all
a good description.'
All the children were kneeling on the hearthrug, to be as near the
Phoenix as possible.
'You'll boil your brains,' it said. 'Look out, I'm nearly cool
now;' and with a whirr of golden wings it fluttered from the fender
to the table. It was so nearly cool that there was only a very
faint smell of burning when it had settled itself on the
table-cloth.
'It's only a very little scorched,' said the Phoenix,
apologetically; 'it will come out in the wash. Please go on
reading.'
The children gathered round the table.
'The size of an eagle,' Cyril went on, 'its head finely crested
with a beautiful plumage, its neck covered with feathers of a gold
colour, and the rest of its body purple; only the tail white, and
the eyes sparkling like stars. They say that it lives about five
hundred years in the wilderness, and when advanced in age it builds
itself a pile of sweet wood and aromatic gums, fires it with the
wafting of its wings, and thus burns itself; and that from its
ashes arises a worm, which in time grows up to be a Phoenix.
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