earance yesterday. The ancients were
always VERY surprised. Did you, by chance, EXPECT my egg to hatch?'

'Not us,' Cyril said.

'And if we had,' said Anthea, who had come in in her nightie when she
heard the silvery voice of the Phoenix, 'we could never, never have
expected it to hatch anything so splendid as you.'

The bird smiled. Perhaps you've never seen a bird smile?

'You see,' said Anthea, wrapping herself in the boys' counterpane, for
the morning was chill, 'we've had things happen to us before;' and she
told the story of the Psammead, or sand-fairy.

'Ah yes,' said the Phoenix; 'Psammeads were rare, even in my time. I
remember I used to be called the Psammead of the Desert. I was always
having compliments paid me; I can't think why.'

'Can YOU give wishes, then?' asked Jane, who had now come in too.

'Oh, dear me, no,' said the Phoenix, contemptuously, 'at least--but I
hear footsteps approaching. I hasten to conceal myself.' And it did.

I think I said that this day was Saturday. It was also cook's birthday,
and mother had allowed her and Eliza to go to the Crystal Palace with a
party of friends, so Jane and Anthea of course had to help to make beds
and to wash up the breakfast cups, and little things like that. Robert
and Cyril intended to spend the morning in conversation with the
Phoenix, but the bird had its own ideas about this.

'I must have an hour or two's quiet,' it said, 'I really must. My nerves
will give way unless I can get a little rest. You must remember it's two
thousand years since I had any conversation--I'm out of practice, and I
must take care of myself. I've often been told that mine is a valuable
life.' So it nestled down inside an old hatbox of father's, which had
been brought down from the box-room some days before, when a helmet was
suddenly needed for a game of tournaments, with its golden head under
its golden wing, and went to sleep. So then Robert and Cyril moved
the table back and were going to sit on the carpet and wish themselves
somewhere else. But before they could decide on the place, Cyril said--

'I don't know. Perhaps it's rather sneakish to begin without the girls.'

'They'll be all the morning,' said Robert, impatiently. And then a thing
inside him, which tiresome books sometimes call the 'inward monitor',
said, 'Why don't you help them, then?'

Cyril's 'inward monitor' happened to say the same thing at the same
moment, so the boys went and helped to wash up