The Curious Book of Birds Part 16

And if you are not asleep when you get as far as this, you may go on with the story by yourself, perfectly well. You may go on just as long as you can keep awake. For the tale has no end, no end at all. It is still going on to this very day. The Stork still lives lonely on his house-top, and the Heron still lives lonely in her marsh, growing lonelier and lonelier, both of them. But because they have no tact, they are never able to agree to the same thing at the same time. And they keep flying back and forth, saying the same things over, and over, and over, and over....

THE PHOENIX

On the top of a palm tree, in an oasis of the Arabian desert, sat the Phoenix, glowering moodily upon the world below. He was alone, quite alone, in his old age, as he had been alone in his youth, and in his middle years; for the Phoenix has neither mate nor children, and there is never but one of his kind upon the earth.

Once he had been proud of his solitariness and of his unusual beauty, which caused such wonder when he went abroad. But now he was old and weak and weary, and he was lonely, oh! so lonely! He had lived too long, he thought.

For years and years and years, afar and apart, he had watched the coming and going of things in the world. He had seen the other birds created, and had watched them undergo strange changes in form and color until they became as they are to-day. He had seen the hundred bright eyes of Argus, the watchman, set in the Peac.o.c.k's tail. He had seen the flaming heart of the volcano tamed and quieted until it became the flaming little Humming-Bird. He had seen the Crow turn black and the Goldfinch become a gaudy bird, and he knew how and why all these things had come to pa.s.s. For centuries, how many he knew not, he had watched the birds hatch out of their little eggs, flutter their feeble little wings, fly away to build nests for their little mates, and finally die and disappear as birds do, leaving no trace behind.

But the Phoenix did not die. He was of different clay from these ordinary feathered creatures. He was the glorious bird of the Sun, the only one, the gold-and-crimson one, who when he went abroad filled all creatures with awe of his beauty and wisdom and mystery, so that they dared not come near, but followed him afar off, hushing their song and adoring silently. The Phoenix fed not on flowers or fruit or disgusting insect-fry, but on precious frankincense and myrrh and odoriferous gums. And the Sun himself loved to caress his plumage of gold and crimson.

As for men, they also had adored him in time past, and had built temples in his honor. They also were puny mortals, scarcely longer of life than the birds themselves. The Phoenix had seen many generations of men grow up, do good or evil deeds, and die, sometimes leaving grand monuments upon the earth, sometimes disappearing from knowledge like the very birds, leaving scarcely a trace behind.

In his time great kings had lived and reigned and turned to dust.

Prophets had grown h.o.a.ry, said their word, and pa.s.sed away, leaving no echo. Poets had sung and had died singing. But the Phoenix, looking down from the palms of his desert, saw it all and did not die.

All this had been his pride and honor. How he had enjoyed his strength, his beauty, his wisdom, and the knowledge that he was honored and adored by thousands who had never even seen his glory! But now, now all was changed. He was grown old and tired. He felt his loneliness and he longed to die.

His wings were feeble. Of late he had not dared to venture far from the desert. He dreaded the curious gaze of the other birds, who would find his beauty dimmed, and would scorn, perchance, the faded glory which they had once held in awe. For years he had not ventured within sight of men, and he knew that most of them had forgotten his existence, nay, even denied that he had ever lived. He feared that there might not be a single heart in all the world that thrilled to his name.

Thinking thus mournfully, the Phoenix sat upon the top of the tallest palm. His plumage of crimson and gold glowed in the last rays of the setting sun. His head was drooping, and his eye l.u.s.treless. The joy of life was gone. Slowly the Sun sank towards the horizon, a red eye fixed upon the Phoenix steadily. Suddenly across the gray waste of sand dotted a beam of light, intensely bright. A single ray from that watchful Eye seemed to flame as it reached the palm tree and pierced to the very heart of the Phoenix. A thrill ran through his body. He drew himself together, and his eye gleamed with new l.u.s.tre as he fixed it steadily upon the dazzling disk just touching the horizon. Dark stood the palm against the desert, but the Phoenix was bathed in sudden light. It was the signal, the signal for which he had been waiting, though he knew it not. The five hundred years were ended. The mystery of his life was about to be solved.

As the sun sank below the horizon, eagerly the Phoenix set about the task which was before him. At last he might build the nest which till now he had never known. On the top of the highest palm he would build it, that it might receive from the blessed East the first beam of the morning sun. Marvelously strengthened for the task, back and forth to the ends of the earth his wings of crimson and gold bore the Phoenix that night. For this was to be no nest of sticks and straw. Of precious things must it be made, and well he knew where such were to be found. Of silky leaves and gra.s.s interwoven with splinters of sandal-wood were the walls. Then on the bottom of the nest he laid, bit by bit, a pile of sweet-smelling gums, cinnamon and spice, spikenard, myrrh, camphor, ambergris, and frankincense, with no meaner choice.

All night he labored, beak and talon, until the nest was ready. And as the first tints of dawn began to streak the east, the Phoenix rose once, high into the air, gazing with wistful eyes over the world which he had loved; then, slowly sinking to the palm, he poised his gorgeous body upon the fragrant nest. With wings spread wide, and eyes fixed eagerly upon the spot where the Sun was sure to rise, he waited, waited.

At last the golden Eye appeared. As on the night before, one radiant beam seemed to single out the lonely palm. One shaft of flame pierced to the nest whereon the Phoenix sat. It was the final signal to the Bird of the Sun. Immediately the great bird began to fan the sweet-smelling ma.s.s with his wings. The burning ray grew brighter,--a pungent, wonderful aroma of mingled fragrances filled the air. Gradually the Sun rose, great and glorious, and as it advanced into the heaven a thin cloud of smoke floated from the palm tree, and wound away across the desert towards the east. Faster and faster fanned the great wings of the Phoenix, until when the Sun shone full down through the palm tree top, the whole ma.s.s burst into flame, in the midst of which the Phoenix blended crimson and gold. High in the air rose the fire, diffusing abroad all the sweet odors of Araby the blest. For a little while it glowed, then gradually sank, lower and lower, until but a pile of ashes remained at the bottom of the nest.

But lo! Was the Phoenix dead? What was this creature risen in youth and beauty from the ashes? A bird like the Eagle in shape, but n.o.bler, larger, stronger, more gracious even than the King of Birds, a brilliant vision of crimson and gold, rose like a flame from the nest, hung for a moment above the palm, looking eagerly at the Sun, which baptized him in its splendor. A new Phoenix lived in the world. Once more the ancient glory was renewed. Once more youth, joy, and hope sprang from the Phoenix's ashes and rejoiced in the centuries of sunshine before him.

Death was indeed worth dying to make this life worth living!

Slowly the young Phoenix descended to the nest which had been at once a sepulchre and a cradle. Tenderly careful of the parent ashes which it held, with l.u.s.ty beak and talon he tore the nest bodily from the branches, and set out upon his pious journey. He knew not where he went, nor why, but the Sun drew him to the East.

As he sped, through the sky, a flash of gold and crimson, the lesser birds gathered to wonder and admire. Flocks of them followed at a distance, a train of worshipers, chorusing the glory of the new-born wonder. He bore his head high with its burden, and his heart was filled with pious joy. It was good to be a Phoenix, good, good!

At last he reached the place which unknowingly he sought. The Sun alone had been his guide. To the city of Heliopolis in Egypt he came; to the great Temple of the Sun, brightly adorned with crimson and gold, the Phoenix colors.

There upon the altar he laid the precious ashes. And lo! There were folk waiting to receive them,--many little children, and some elders of childlike heart, who took the ashes and laid them reverently in the shrine. The Phoenix was not forgotten; he was never to be forgotten so long as the world should last.

The new Phoenix flew back to the Arabian desert to live his five hundred years as each of his race had done, sacred, afar, and apart, but not forgotten, though in his old age he might come to deem so. For in the bright Temple of the Sun there are always folk of childlike sympathy who delight to honor the eternal Phoenix of romance and mystery,--the dear, undying memory of a time long past.