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. 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.