I said before, one can't
tell everything, and no doubt you saw 'The Water Babies' yourselves. If
you did not it was a shame, or, rather, a pity.

What I must tell you is that, though Cyril and Jane and Robert and
Anthea enjoyed it as much as any children possibly could, the pleasure
of the Phoenix was far, far greater than theirs.

'This is indeed my temple,' it said again and again. 'What radiant
rites! And all to do honour to me!'

The songs in the play it took to be hymns in its honour. The choruses
were choric songs in its praise. The electric lights, it said, were
magic torches lighted for its sake, and it was so charmed with the
footlights that the children could hardly persuade it to sit still. But
when the limelight was shown it could contain its approval no longer. It
flapped its golden wings, and cried in a voice that could be heard all
over the theatre:

'Well done, my servants! Ye have my favour and my countenance!'

Little Tom on the stage stopped short in what he was saying. A deep
breath was drawn by hundreds of lungs, every eye in the house turned to
the box where the luckless children cringed, and most people hissed, or
said 'Shish!' or 'Turn them out!'

Then the play went on, and an attendant presently came to the box and
spoke wrathfully.

'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 ba