'It wasn't us, indeed it wasn't,' said Anthea, earnestly; 'it was
the bird.'
The man said well, then, they must keep their bird very quiet.
'Disturbing every one like this,' he said.
'It won't do it again,' said Robert, glancing imploringly at the
golden bird; 'I'm sure it won't.'
'You have my leave to depart,' said the Phoenix gently.
'Well, he is a beauty, and no mistake,' said the attendant, 'only
I'd cover him up during the acts. It upsets the performance.'
And he went.
'Don't speak again, there's a dear,' said Anthea; 'you wouldn't
like to interfere with your own temple, would you?'
So now the Phoenix was quiet, but it kept whispering to the
children. It wanted to know why there was no altar, no fire, no
incense, and became so excited and fretful and tiresome that four
at least of the party of five wished deeply that it had been left
at home.
What happened next was entirely the fault of the Phoenix. It was
not in the least the fault of the theatre people, and no one could
ever understand afterwards how it did happen. No one, that is,
except the guilty bird itself and the four children. The Phoenix
was balancing itself on the gilt back of the chair, swaying
backwards and forwards and up and down, as you may see your own
domestic parrot do.
Pages:
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247