'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 this noble fabric, on which you
trample so recklessly' (every one removed its boots from the carpet
and stood on the linoleum), 'this carpet never flinched.
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