The Curious Book of Birds by Abbie Farwell Brown (interesting books to read .TXT) 📕

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 Phœnix 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 lustreless. The joy of life was gone. Slowly the Sun sank towards the horizon, a red eye fixed upon the Phœnix 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 Phœnix. A thrill ran through his body. He drew himself together, and his eye gleamed with new lustre as he fixed it steadily upon the dazzling disk just touching the horizon. Dark stood the palm against the desert, but the Phœnix 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 Phœnix 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 Phœnix 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 grass 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 Phœnix 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 Phœnix sat. It was the final signal to the Bird of the Sun. Immediately the great bird began to fan the sweet-smelling mass 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 Phœnix, until when the Sun shone full down through the palm tree top, the whole mass burst into flame, in the midst of which the Phœnix 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 Phœnix dead? What was this creature risen in youth and beauty from the ashes? A bird like the Eagle in shape, but nobler, 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 Phœnix lived in the world. Once more the ancient glory was renewed. Once more youth, joy, and hope sprang from the Phœnix'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 Phœnix descended to the nest which had been at once a sepulchre and a cradle. Tenderly careful of the parent ashes which it held, with lusty 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 Phœnix, 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 Phœnix 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 Phœnix was not forgotten; he was never to be forgotten so long as the world should last.

The new Phœnix 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 Phœnix of romance and mystery,—the dear, undying memory of a time long past.

The Riverside Press
Electrotyped and printed by H.O. Houghton & Co.
Cambridge, Mass., U.S.A.