"O fair Moon-Maiden, O beautiful Princess, will you marry me? For I love you very dearly."

The Princess Putri Balan stopped chewing her betel-nut for a moment and looked down to see what daring creature might thus be addressing her. Soon she spied Mr. Owl with his goggle-eyes looking up at her adoringly. He was such a ridiculous old creature, and his spectacles glinted so queerly in the moonlight, that Putri Balan began to laugh and answered him not at all. She laughed so hard that she almost swallowed her betel-nut, which might have been a serious matter.

Mr. Owl continued to stare, for he saw nothing funny in the situation. Again he repeated in his hoarse voice, "O fair Moon-Maiden, O beautiful Princess, will you marry me? For I love you very dearly."

Again the Princess laughed, for she thought it a tremendous joke; and again she nearly choked. Mr. Owl waited, but she made him no other answer. However, he was a persistent lover. All night long he went on asking the same question, over and over again, until the Princess Putri Balan was quite worn out trying not to choke with laughter while she chewed the betel-nut. At last she said impatiently,—

"O Mr. Goggle-Eyes! Do give me a moment's peace! You make me laugh so that I cannot chew my betel-nut. Yes, I will say yes, if you will only leave me to finish my betel-nut undisturbed. I will marry you. But you must go away until I have quite done."

Then Mr. Owl was filled with joy. "Thanks, thanks, O most gracious lady!" he said. "I will go away and leave you to finish your betel-nut undisturbed. But I shall come again to-morrow night, and by that time you will have done with it, and then you will be mine!"

Mr. Owl flew back to his home in the hollow tree, for it was almost morning, and already he was growing so blind that he could hardly find the way. But the Princess Putri Balan went on chewing the betel-nut, and to herself she said,—



"How am I to rid myself of this bore? I cannot chew this little betel-nut forever; there must be an end to it before long. Mr. Owl will certainly come again to-morrow night, and then, according to my promise, I must become his wife. I cannot marry old Goggle-Eyes. Oh dear! What shall I do?"

As she chewed her betel-nut the Princess Putri Balan hit upon a plan. She would manage to cheat old Mr. Owl after all. She would never finish the betel-nut! She took the little bit that remained,—and it was a dangerously little bit, for the Princess had been chewing all night long, except when she was laughing,—and reaching out from the moon she tossed it down, down, down upon the earth. At the same time she said a magic moon-charm: and when the bit of betel-nut reached the earth, it became a little bird,—the same which the Malay people call the Honey Bird, with brilliant, beautiful plumage. And the Princess Putri Balan cried out to it from her golden house,—

"Fly away, pretty little bright bird! Fly as far and as fast as ever you can, and keep out of Mr. Owl's way. For it is you who must save me from becoming his unhappy wife."

So the Honey Bird flew away, a brilliant streak, through the Malay woods, and hid himself in a little nest.

When night came out stole Mr. Owl, with his spectacles in place, and up he flew to his Princess, whom he now hoped to call his very own.

"Good evening, my beautiful Princess!" he cried. "Have you finished your betel-nut at last, and are you ready to keep your promise?"

But the Princess Putri Balan looked down at him, pretending to be sad, though there was a twinkle in her beautiful eye; and she said,—

"Alas! Mr. Owl, a dreadful thing has happened. I lost my betel-nut, before it was quite finished. It fell down, down, down, until I think it reached the earth. And I cannot marry you, according to my promise, until it is finished."

"Then it must be found!" cried Mr. Owl. "I will find it. My eyes are sharp at night and nothing escapes them. Shine kindly on me, Princess, and I will find the betel-nut for you, and you shall yet be mine."

"Go then, Mr. Owl," said the Princess, smiling to herself. "Go and look for the betel-nut which I must finish before I marry you. Search carefully and you may find it soon."

Poor Mr. Owl searched carefully, but he could not find the bit of betel-nut. Of course he could not find it, when it had changed and flown away as a beautiful, many-colored bird! All that night he sought, till the sun sent him blinking to his tree. And all the next night he sought, and the next, and the next. And he kept on seeking for days and months and years, while the Princess Putri Balan smiled down upon him and was happy at heart because of her clever scheme.

Old Mr. Owl never found out the trick, nor suspected the innocent little Honey Bird, whom indeed he scarcely ever saw, because it was a sunset-sleeping bird, while he was a wistful, lonely, sad night-prowler. Up and down, up and down the world he goes, still looking for the betel-nut of the Princess Putri Balan, which he will never find. And as he flies in the moonlight he glances ever longingly at the beautiful lady in the moon, and sobs "Hoo-hoo! Hoo-hoo!" in grief and despair. For after all these centuries he begins to fear that she will never be his wife.



THE TUFTED CAP

One dark night Master Owl left his hollow tree and went prowling about the world as usual upon his hopeless hunt for the Princess's betel-nut. As soon as he was out of hearing a long, lean, hungry Rat crept to the house and stole the dainties which the lonely old bachelor had stored away for the morrow's dinner. The thief dragged them away to his own hole and had a splendid feast with his wife and little ones. But the Owl returned sooner than the Rat had expected, and by the crumbs which he had dropped upon the way tracked him to the hole.

"Come out, thief!" cried the Owl, "or I will surely kill you. Come out and return to me my morrow's dinner." The Rat trembled with fear at these threatening words.

"Alas!" he squeaked, "I cannot do that, for already the dinner is eaten. My wife and hungry little ones have eaten it. Pity us, for we were starving!"

"Bah!" screamed the Owl, "I care little for that. It is for my dinner alone that I care. Since you have eaten it you shall certainly die," and he began to scratch fiercely at the mouth of the hole. The Rat trembled more than ever. But suddenly he had an idea which made his whiskers twitch.

"Hold!" he cried. "Dear, good Master Owl, permit me to live and I will give you something which is worth many dinners, something that men-creatures value very highly, and which with great labor and pain I brought away from one of their dens."

"Umph!" grumbled the Owl. "Let us see what it is."

The Rat crawled timidly out of his hole with the peace-offering; and what do you think it was? Why, a gimlet! Just a plain, ordinary, well-sharpened gimlet for boring holes.

"Hoo!" cried the Owl. "I don't think much of that. What is it good for?" Now the Rat had not the faintest idea as to what the gimlet really was, but he had another idea instead.

"That? Why—that—oh, that! That is a very valuable thing. It is able to give you the keenest delight. I will show you how it works. But you must do just as I say, or it will be of no use."

"Hoo!" cried the Owl. "Continue with the directions."

"Well, first you must stick the thing point upwards in the ground at the foot of this tree."

"Very good," said the Owl, doing as was suggested, and waiting expectantly for the next move.

"Now you must mount to the top of the tree and slide down the trunk," said the Rat solemnly. Old Master Owl was certainly very far from wise that night, for he obeyed the Rat's word without a suspicion. He flew to the top of the tree, and then, sitting back and giving a warning cry of "Hoo-hoo!" coasted down the trunk with the speed of lightning. But midway down he struck a knot in the tree and rolled heels over head. And when he reached the ground of course he landed fast upon the sharp point of the gimlet, just as the Rat had planned.

With bloody head, and hooting with pain, the Owl started off in pursuit of the Rat, resolved this time to kill him without fail. The Rat was nimble, and his fear added to his speed, but at last the Owl caught him. Ruffled and ferocious, the great bird was about to tear him in pieces, when the Rat once more begged his life.

"It was only a joke," he cried. "Only a silly joke. Spare me this once, dear Master Owl, and I will give you something that you really need. Look at your bleeding head. You cannot go about the world with that exposed. Spare my life, and I will give you a lovely cap of tufted feathers to hide the bite of the wicked sharp-thing-made-by-man. Pray, let me go, dear Master Owl."

The Owl considered for a moment, and then decided to accept the bargain. For he thought of Putri Balan, the Princess of the Moon, and knew that he should lose his last chance to win her if she happened to see him with this ridiculous wound in his head.

So the Rat gave him a nice cap of tufted feathers, which he wears to this day; and the Owl let the thief go free. But after that there was a coolness between them, as you may well imagine.



THE GOOD HUNTER

Once upon a time there was an Indian who was a famous hunter. But he did not hunt for fun; he took no pleasure in killing the little wild creatures, birds and beasts and fishes, and did so only when it was necessary for him to have food or skins for his clothing. He was a very kind and generous man, and loved all the wood-creatures dearly, often feeding them from his own larder, and protecting them from their enemies. So the animals and birds loved him as their best friend, and he was known as the Good Hunter.

The Good Hunter was very brave, and often went to war with the fierce savages who were the enemies of his tribe. One sad day he set forth with a war party, and they had a terrible battle, in which the Good Hunter was slain, and his enemies took away his scalp, leaving him lying dead in the forest.

The Good Hunter had not remained long cold and lifeless in the shadowy stillness, when the Fox came trotting through the woods. "Alack and alas!" cried the Fox, spying the body stretched on the leaves. "Here is our dear friend, the Good Hunter, slain! Alack and alas! what shall we do now that our dear friend and protector is gone?"

The Fox ran out into the forest crying the death lament, which was the signal to all the beasts that something most sorrowful had happened. Soon they came flocking to the spot, all the animals of the forest. By hundreds they came, and surrounding the body of their friend raised the most doleful howls. For, though they rubbed him with their warm noses, and licked him with their warm tongues, and nestled against him with their warm fur, they could not bring him back to warm life.

They called upon Brother Bear to speak and tell them what to do; for he was the nearest relative to man. The Bear sat up on his haunches and spoke to the sad assembly with tears in his eyes, begging each animal to look carefully through his medicine-box and see whether there might not be some balm which would restore the Good Hunter to life. Then each animal looked carefully through his medicine-box of herbs and healing roots, bark and magic leaves, and they tried every remedy that they knew. But nothing brought the color to their friend's pale cheeks, nor light into his eyes. He who had helped them so often was helpless now, and they could not aid him. Again the kind beasts sank back on their haunches and raised a mighty howl, a requiem for the dead.

Wild and piercing and long-drawn, the sound swept through the forest, such a sound of sorrow as had never been heard before. The Oriole, who was flying overhead, heard and was surprised. Soon his brightness came flashing down through the leafy boughs like a ray of sunlight into the gloom and darkness of the forest.

"What has happened, O four-footed friends," he asked, "that you mourn so mightily?" Then they showed him the body of the Good Hunter lying in the midst of their sad company, and the Oriole joined his voice of sorrow to theirs.

"O friend of the birds," he cried, "is there no bird who can aid you now, you who have fed us so many times from the door of your generous wigwam? I will call all the feathered tribes, and we will do our best."

So the Oriole went forth and summoned the birds to the forest council. There was a great flapping of wings, a great twittering and chirping, questioning and exclamation when the birds assembled to hear the sad news. Every one was there, from the tiny Humming Bird to the great Eagle of the Iroquois, who left his lonely eyrie to pay his respects to the Good Hunter's memory. The poor little birds tried everything in their power to bring back to life their dear friend. With beak and claw and tender wing they strove, but all their efforts were in vain. Their Good Hunter was dead, and his scalp was gone.

Then the great Eagle, whose head was white with years of wisdom and experience, spoke to the despairing assemblage of creatures. From his lofty perch above the world the Eagle had looked down upon centuries of change and decay. He knew every force of nature and all the strange things of life. The hoary-headed sage said that the Good Hunter could not be restored until his scalp was found. Then all the animals clamored that they might be allowed to go and seek for the missing scalp. But to the Fox was given this honor, because he had first found the body of the Good Hunter in the forest. The Fox set out upon his search, in his foxy way. He visited every hen-roost and every bird's-nest, but no scalp did he find. "Of course not!" screamed the birds when he returned from his fruitless quest, "Of course no bird has taken the Good Hunter's scalp. You should have known better than that, Master Fox."

So the next time a bird was sent upon the search. The Pigeon Hawk went forth, confident that she should be successful. But she was in such a hurry and flew so fast that she saw nothing, and she too returned without that for which she sought. Then the White Heron begged that he might be allowed to try. "For," said he, "you all know how slowly I fly, and how careful I am to see everything."

"Yes, especially if it be something good to eat," chirped the saucy Jay, "do not trust him, birds, he is too greedy."

Yet the Heron was allowed to go. He flapped away, slowly and sedately, and the Council sat down to await his return. But the Heron had not gone far when he came to a field of luscious wild beans; and he stopped to take a mouthful or two. He ate, and he ate, and he ate, the greedy fellow! until he could eat no more. And then he was sleepy, so that he slept and slept and slept. And when he awoke he was so hungry that he fell to eating again, while the Council waited and wondered and waited. At last they grew impatient and began to suspect that the Jay had been right, which was indeed the case. They decided to wait no longer for the Heron, who did not return. Then the Crow stepped forward and said, "Let me go, I pray you, for I think I know where the scalp may be found; not in the nest of a bird, not in the den of any animal, not in the watery haunt of a fish. For all the creatures of earth, air, and water are friends of the Good Hunter. It is men who are most cruel to men: therefore in the tents of men must we look for the missing scalp. Let me go to seek it there, for men are used to see me flying near and will not suspect why I come."

The Crow flew forth upon his errand, and before long came to the wigwam where lived the warrior who had slain the Good Hunter. And sure enough, there, outside the tent, was the scalp of the Good Hunter, stretched on a pole to dry. The Crow flew near, and the warrior saw him, but thought nothing of it, for he was used to seeing crows about the camp. Presently when no one was looking the skillful thief managed to steal the scalp, and away he flew with it to the Council in the forest. Great was the rejoicing of the birds and beasts when they saw that the Crow had been successful, and they said more kind things to him than he had heard for many moons. At once they put the scalp upon the Good Hunter's head, but it had grown so dry in the smoke of the warrior's wigwam that it would not fit. Here was a new trouble. What was to be done to make the scalp soft and flexible once more? The animals did their best, but their efforts were of no avail.

Once more the great Eagle came forward and bade them listen.

"My children," he said, "my wings are never furled. Night and day for hundreds of years the dews of heaven have been collecting upon my back as I sit on my throne above the clouds. Perhaps this dew may have a healing power such as no earthly fountain holds. We will see."

Gravely the Eagle plucked a long feather, and dipping it in the dew which moistened his plumage, applied it to the stiffened scalp. Immediately it became soft, and could be fitted to the head of the Good Hunter closely as when it had first grown there. The birds and animals hurried away and brought leaves and flowers, bark and berries and roots, which they made into a mighty healing balsam to bathe the poor head which had been so cruelly treated. And presently great was their joy to see a soft color come into the pale cheeks of the Good Hunter, and light into his eyes. He breathed, he stirred, he sat up and looked around him in surprise.

"Where am I? What has happened?" he asked.

"You slept and your friends have wakened you," said the great Eagle tenderly. "Stand up, Good Hunter, that they may see you walk once more."

The Good Hunter stood up and walked, rather unsteadily at first, back to his own wigwam, followed by a great company of happy forest creatures, who made the sky ring with their noises of rejoicing. And long, long after that, the Good Hunter lived to love and protect them.



THE COURTSHIP OF MR. STORK AND MISS HERON

This is a very good story to read at night just before going to sleep. And if you ask why, I must only tell you that you will find out before you reach the end of the tale.

* * * * *

There was once a Heron, a pretty, long-legged, slender lady Heron, who lived in the mushy-squshy, wady-shady swamp. The lady Heron lived in her swamp all alone, earning her living by catching little fish; and she was very happy, never dreaming that she was lonesome, for no one had told her what lonesome was. She loved to go wading in the cool waters; she loved to catch the little fish who swam by unsuspectingly while she stood still upon one leg pretending to think about something a thousand miles away. And she loved to look at her slender, long-legged blue reflection in the water; for the lady Heron was just a little bit vain.

Now one day Mr. Stork came flying over the mushy-squshy, wady-shady swamp where the Heron lived, and he too saw the reflection in the water. And he said to himself, "My! How pretty she is! I wonder I never noticed her before. And how lonesome she must be there all by herself in such a nasty, moist, mushy-squshy old swamp! I will invite her to come and share my nice, warm, dry nest on the chimney-top. For to tell the truth, I am growing lonely up there all by myself. Why should we not make a match of it, we two long-legged creatures?"

Mr. Stork went home to his house, which he set prettily in order: for he never dreamed but that the lady Heron would accept his offer at the very first croak. He preened his feathers and made himself as lovely as he could, and forthwith off he flew with his long legs dangling, straight to the wady-shady swamp where Miss Heron was standing on one leg waiting for her supper to get itself caught.

"Ahem!" croaked Mr. Stork, waving his wing politely. "Good evening, Miss Heron. Fine weather we are having, eh? But how horribly moist it is down here! I should think that your nice straight legs would grow crooked with rheumatism. Now I have a comfortable, dry house on the roof."

"Pouf!" grunted Miss Heron disdainfully.

But Mr. Stork pretended not to hear, and went on with his remarks,—"a nice dry house which I should be glad to have you share with me. Come, Miss Heron! Here I am a lonely old bachelor, and here are you a lonely old maid"—

"Lonely old maid, indeed!" screamed the Heron interrupting him. "I don't know what it is to be lonely. Go along with you!" and she splashed water on him with her wings, she was so indignant.

Poor Mr. Stork felt very crestfallen at this reception of his well-meaning invitation. He turned about and stalked away towards his nest upon the roof, without so much as saying good-by to the lady.

But no sooner was he out of sight than Miss Heron began to think. He had said that she was lonely; was she lonely? Well, perhaps he ought to know better than she, for he was a very wise bird. Perhaps she was lonely, now that she came to think of it. However, there was no reason why she should go to live in that stupid, dry, old nest on the house-top. Why could he not come to dwell in her lovely, mushy-squshy, wady-shady swamp? That would be very pleasant, for he was a good sort of fellow with nice long legs; and there were fish enough in the water for two. Besides, he could then do the fishing for the family; and, moreover, there would then be two to admire her reflection in the water. Yes; her mind was made up. She would invite him. She glanced down at her reflection and settled some of the feathers which her fit of temper had ruffled out of order. Then off she started in pursuit of Mr. Stork.

Mr. Stork had not gone very far, for a sad, rejected lover is a dawdling creature. And so she came up with him long before he was in sight of his nest.

"Good evening, Mr. Stork," said the lady nervously. "I—I have been thinking over what you said to me just now, and I have concluded that perhaps I was a bit hasty. To tell you the truth, sir, I am a trifle lonely, now that you suggest the thought to me. And it would be very agreeable to have pleasant company. I am ready, sir, to agree to your proposal. But of course I cannot think of changing my abode. My swamp is the most beautiful home that a maiden ever knew, and I could not give it up for any one. As for your ugly old nest on the chimney-top, bah! I cannot endure the idea with patience."

Mr. Stork was gradually stiffening into an angry attitude, but she did not notice. "Now you can come and live in my swamp," Miss Heron went on warmly, "and you will be very welcome to catch fish for me, and to look in my mirror. It will be very nice indeed!"

"Nice!" croaked the Stork, "I should say as much! What can you be thinking of, Miss? I to give up my comfortable home on the house-top, close by the warm chimney, and go to live in that disgusting mushy-squshy bog of yours! Ha-ha! That is really too ridiculous! I bid you good morning." And with an elaborate bow he turned his back and flew away.

Miss Heron flounced back to her swamp, mortified because she had left it to propose terms to so ungallant a fellow. But hardly had she begun her tardy supper when once more Mr. Stork's shadow darkened the mirror before her, and once more she heard his apologetic croak.

"Ahem, ahem!" he began. "I hope I find you well, Miss Heron? I have been—ha hum!—considering your last most condescending words, and I find that I have been hasty. You are so good as to express a belief that I should make a pleasant companion. So I should! so I should! And as for you," he bowed gallantly, "one can readily imagine the charm of your society. Come, then, Miss Heron, why should we not make a happy couple, if we can only arrange this one little foolish matter? Be my wife: come live with me in my lovely nest."

But at this word Miss Heron uttered a little scream and cried, "Be off with you, you villain! Leave my premises instantly!" and she waved her wings so fiercely that once more Mr. Stork took to his and flapped away to his home.

Now when he had gone Miss Heron found that she had been bad-tempered, and she thought how pleasantly they might have arranged the matter if only she had been more moderate. So she spread her beautiful blue wings and flew to the housetop where Mr. Stork lived, and, perching on the chimney, she said,—

"Oh, Mr. Stork, I was bad-tempered and impolite, and I beg your pardon. Let us be friends once more. Leave this hot old stupid house-top and come live in my cool, moist, wady-shady swamp, and I will be your very loving little wife."

But the Stork arose in his nest, flapping his wings crossly, and cried, "Be off, you baggage! Don't come here to insult my beautiful house. Be off, I say, to your mushy-squshy, rheumaticky bog. I want no more of you!"

So the Heron flew back disconsolately to the watery swamp, where she began to feel very lonely indeed. And the Stork, too, began to feel very lonely indeed; and he was sorry that he had been rude to a lady. Presently, once more he came flapping to the mushy-squshy marsh, where he found Miss Heron just ready to go to sleep.

"Oh, dear Miss Heron!" he cried. "I made a great mistake, and said things for which I am truly sorry. Do come to be my loving wife, as you promised, and we will live happily ever after on the chimney-top, far above the other birds. And I will never be cross again."

But the Heron answered, "Away with you! I want to go to sleep. I am tired of your croaking voice. Leave me alone!" So the Stork flew away in a huff.

But the Heron could not sleep, she was so lonely. So she rose, and, flying through the still night air, came again to the Stork's high-built nest.

"Come, Storkie dear," she said in her sweetest tone, "come home to your dear wife's house in the wady-shady, mushy-squshy marsh, and I will be good."

But the Stork pretended to be asleep, and only snored in reply. So the Heron flew home in a huff. But the Stork could not truly sleep, he was so lonely. So he rose, and, flying through the still night air, came again to the Heron's home in the marsh.

"Come, my dear," he said. "Come home to your dear husband's house, and I will be good."

But the Heron made no answer, pretending to be asleep. So the Stork flew home in a huff. But the Heron could not truly sleep, she was so lonely. So she rose at break of day, and, flying through the cool morning air, came again to the Stork's nest.

"Come, Storkie dear," she said, "come home to your dear wife's house, and I will be good."

But the Stork did not answer, he was so angry. So the Heron flew home in a huff.

* * * * *

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 Peacock'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 pass. 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 hoary, said their word, and passed 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 lustreless. 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 lustre 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 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 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 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 Phoenix, until when the Sun shone full down through the palm tree top, the whole mass 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 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 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 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 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.



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

THE END