The Phoenix and the Carpet by E. Nesbit (cool books to read TXT) 📗
- Author: E. Nesbit
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‘I knew it was a dream,’ he cried, wildly. ‘I’ve had something like it before. Did you dream it too, Aunt Selina, and you, Aunt Amelia? I dreamed that you did, you know.’
Aunt Selina looked at him and then at Aunt Amelia. Then she said boldly—
‘What do you mean? WE haven’t been dreaming anything. You must have dropped off in your chair.’
The curate heaved a sigh of relief.
‘Oh, if it’s only I,’ he said; ‘if we’d all dreamed it I could never have believed it, never!’
Afterwards Aunt Selina said to the other aunt—
‘Yes, I know it was an untruth, and I shall doubtless be punished for it in due course. But I could see the poor dear fellow’s brain giving way before my very eyes. He couldn’t have stood the strain of three dreams. It WAS odd, wasn’t it? All three of us dreaming the same thing at the same moment. We must never tell dear Seppy. But I shall send an account of it to the Psychical Society, with stars instead of names, you know.’
And she did. And you can read all about it in one of the society’s fat Blue-books.
Of course, you understand what had happened? The intelligent Phoenix had simply gone straight off to the Psammead, and had wished Robert and Jane at home. And, of course, they were at home at once. Cyril and Anthea had not half finished mending the carpet.
When the joyful emotions of reunion had calmed down a little, they all went out and spent what was left of Uncle Reginald’s sovereign in presents for mother. They bought her a pink silk handkerchief, a pair of blue and white vases, a bottle of scent, a packet of Christmas candles, and a cake of soap shaped and coloured like a tomato, and one that was so like an orange that almost any one you had given it to would have tried to peel it—if they liked oranges, of course. Also they bought a cake with icing on, and the rest of the money they spent on flowers to put in the vases.
When they had arranged all the things on a table, with the candles stuck up on a plate ready to light the moment mother’s cab was heard, they washed themselves thoroughly and put on tidier clothes.
Then Robert said, ‘Good old Psammead,’ and the others said so too.
‘But, really, it’s just as much good old Phoenix,’ said Robert. ‘Suppose it hadn’t thought of getting the wish!’
‘Ah!’ said the Phoenix, ‘it is perhaps fortunate for you that I am such a competent bird.’
‘There’s mother’s cab,’ cried Anthea, and the Phoenix hid and they lighted the candles, and next moment mother was home again.
She liked her presents very much, and found their story of Uncle Reginald and the sovereign easy and even pleasant to believe.
‘Good old carpet,’ were Cyril’s last sleepy words.
‘What there is of it,’ said the Phoenix, from the cornice-pole.
CHAPTER 11. THE BEGINNING OF THE END
‘Well, I MUST say,’ mother said, looking at the wishing carpet as it lay, all darned and mended and backed with shiny American cloth, on the floor of the nursery—‘I MUST say I’ve never in my life bought such a bad bargain as that carpet.’
A soft ‘Oh!’ of contradiction sprang to the lips of Cyril, Robert, Jane, and Anthea. Mother looked at them quickly, and said—
‘Well, of course, I see you’ve mended it very nicely, and that was sweet of you, dears.’
‘The boys helped too,’ said the dears, honourably.
‘But, still—twenty-two and ninepence! It ought to have lasted for years. It’s simply dreadful now. Well, never mind, darlings, you’ve done your best. I think we’ll have coconut matting next time. A carpet doesn’t have an easy life of it in this room, does it?’
‘It’s not our fault, mother, is it, that our boots are the really reliable kind?’ Robert asked the question more in sorrow than in anger.
‘No, dear, we can’t help our boots,’ said mother, cheerfully, ‘but we might change them when we come in, perhaps. It’s just an idea of mine. I wouldn’t dream of scolding on the very first morning after I’ve come home. Oh, my Lamb, how could you?’
This conversation was at breakfast, and the Lamb had been beautifully good until every one was looking at the carpet, and then it was for him but the work of a moment to turn a glass dish of syrupy blackberry jam upside down on his young head. It was the work of a good many minutes and several persons to get the jam off him again, and this interesting work took people’s minds off the carpet, and nothing more was said just then about its badness as a bargain and about what mother hoped for from coconut matting.
When the Lamb was clean again he had to be taken care of while mother rumpled her hair and inked her fingers and made her head ache over the difficult and twisted house-keeping accounts which cook gave her on dirty bits of paper, and which were supposed to explain how it was that cook had only fivepence-half-penny and a lot of unpaid bills left out of all the money mother had sent her for house-keeping. Mother was very clever, but even she could not quite understand the cook’s accounts.
The Lamb was very glad to have his brothers and sisters to play with him. He had not forgotten them a bit, and he made them play all the old exhausting games: ‘Whirling Worlds’, where you swing the baby round and round by his hands; and ‘Leg and Wing’, where you swing him from side to side by one ankle and one wrist. There was also climbing Vesuvius. In this game the baby walks up you, and when he is standing on your shoulders, you shout as loud as you can, which is the rumbling of the burning mountain, and then tumble him gently on to the floor, and roll him there, which is the destruction of Pompeii.
‘All the same, I wish we could decide what we’d better say next time mother says anything about the carpet,’ said Cyril, breathlessly ceasing to be a burning mountain.
‘Well, you talk and decide,’ said Anthea; ‘here, you lovely ducky Lamb. Come to Panther and play Noah’s Ark.’
The Lamb came with his pretty hair all tumbled and his face all dusty from the destruction of Pompeii, and instantly became a baby snake, hissing and wriggling and creeping in Anthea’s arms, as she said—
‘I love my little baby snake, He hisses when he is awake,
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