Hence
the Phoenicians gave--'
'Never mind what they gave,' said the Phoenix, ruffling its golden
feathers. 'They never gave much, anyway; they always were people
who gave nothing for nothing. That book ought to be destroyed.
It's most inaccurate. The rest of my body was never purple, and as
for my--tail--well, I simply ask you, IS it white?'
It turned round and gravely presented its golden tail to the
children.
'No. it's not,' said everybody.
'No, and it never was,' said the Phoenix. 'And that about the worm
is just a vulgar insult. The Phoenix has an egg, like all
respectable birds. It makes a pile--that part's all right--and it
lays its egg, and it burns itself; and it goes to sleep and wakes
up in its egg, and comes out and goes on living again, and so on
for ever and ever. I can't tell you how weary I got of it--such a
restless existence; no repose.'
'But how did your egg get HERE?' asked Anthea.
'Ah, that's my life-secret,' said the Phoenix. 'I couldn't tell it
to any one who wasn't really sympathetic. I've always been a
misunderstood bird. You can tell that by what they say about the
worm. I might tell YOU,' it went on, looking at Robert with eyes
that were indeed starry. 'You put me on the fire--' Robert looked
uncomfortable.
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