They sat down in their places. David passed the cookies and served the ice cream, and said that as far as he was concerned, this was the best birthday party he had ever been to. And the Phoenix said, "Quite so, my boy, but might I make so bold as to ask why?" And David answered, "Well, the reason is that usually during birthday parties you have to play stupid games, like pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey and button-button-who-has-the-button, in spite of the fact that eating good things is the real reason for having a party, as everybody knows." And the Phoenix said, "Precisely, my boy, but people have somehow lost the main idea of the thing. When you come right down to it, ice cream is the basis of any sensible party, and everything else is a waste of time." And David said, "Yes, Phoenix, but don't forget cake and cookies, and candy and nuts and things. They're not as good as ice cream, but they're not a complete waste of time, either." And the Phoenix said, "Of course not, my dear fellow, they are important too. And speaking of ice cream, have you noticed that, while chocolate is very good, and vanilla enjoys great popularity, still there is _nothing_ like strawberry?" And David said, "Yes, you're right"--rather sadly, because the Phoenix was eating most of it. At last the ice cream carton was empty and all the cookies were gone. They both sighed regretfully and brushed away the crumbs. And the Phoenix looked hopefully at the present David had brought. "Happy birthday, Phoenix," David said, and he handed the gift over with a little bow. "Thank you, my boy, thank you." The Phoenix opened the package eagerly and gave a pleased cry. "_Just_ what I wanted, my dear chap!" "I'm glad you like it," David said. "Do you know yet what it's for? Can you really use it for something?" The Phoenix suddenly stopped smiling and looked at David with a strange expression on its face--an expression David had never seen there before. A vague dread swept through him, and he faltered, "Phoenix ... you _do_ know what it's for? What is it? Tell me." "Well, my boy--well, the fact _is_--yes, I do know. It came to me this morning while I was constructing the--ah--nest, here. I am afraid it will be a bit hard to explain. The cinnamon--ah--the cinnamon--well, cinnamon _branches_ are what I should really have...." "But Phoenix, what's it _for_?" "Behold, my boy." The Phoenix opened the boxes, and spread the cinnamon sticks on the nest. Then it took the cans and sprinkled the cinnamon powder over the top and sides of the heap, until the whole nest was a brick-dust red. "There we are, my boy," said the Phoenix sadly. "The traditional cinnamon pyre of the Phoenix, celebrated in song and story." And with the third mention of the word "pyre," David's legs went weak and something seemed to catch in his throat. He remembered now where he had heard that word before. It was in his book of explorers, and it meant--it meant-- "Phoenix," he choked, "wh-wh-who is the pyre for?"