"Well, you talk and decide," said Anthea; "here, you lovey ducky Lamb. Come to Panther and play Noah's Ark." The Lamb came with his pretty hair all tumbled and his face all dusty from the destruction of Pompeii, and instantly became a baby snake, hissing and wriggling and creeping in Anthea's arms, as she said:-- I love my little baby snake, He hisses when he is awake, He creeps with such a wriggly creep, He wriggles even in his sleep. "Well, you see," Cyril was saying, "it's just the old bother. Mother can't believe the real true truth about the carpet, and----" "You speak sooth, O Cyril!" remarked the Phoenix, coming out from the cupboard where the black-beetles lived, and the torn books, and the broken slates, and odd pieces of toys that had lost the rest of themselves. "Now hear the wisdom of the Phoenix, the son of the Phoenix." "There's a society called that," said Cyril. "Where is it? And what is a society?" asked the bird. "It's a sort of joined-together lot of people--a sort of brotherhood--a kind of--well, something very like your temple, you know, only quite different." "I take your meaning," said the Phoenix. "I would fain see these calling themselves Sons of the Phoenix." "But what about your words of wisdom?" "Wisdom is always welcome," said the Phoenix. [Illustration: "'PRETTY POLLY!' REMARKED THE LAMB."] "Pretty Polly!" remarked the Lamb, reaching his hands towards the golden speaker. The Phoenix modestly retreated behind Robert, and Anthea hastened to distract the attention of the Lamb by murmuring:-- I love my little baby rabbit; But oh, he has a dreadful habit Of paddling out among the rocks And soaking both his bunny-socks. "I don't think you'd care about the Sons of the Phoenix, really," said Robert. "I have heard that they don't do anything fiery. They only drink a great deal. Much more than other people, because they drink lemonade and fizzy things, and the more you drink of those the more good you get." "In your mind, perhaps," said Jane; "but it wouldn't be good in your body. You'd get too balloony." The Phoenix yawned. "Look here," said Anthea, "I really have an idea. This isn't like a common carpet. It's very magic indeed. Don't you think, if we put Tatcho on it and then gave it a rest, the magic part of it might grow, like hair is supposed to do?" "It might," said Robert, "but I should think paraffin would do as well--at any rate as far as the smell goes, and that seems to be the great thing about Tatcho." But with all its faults Anthea's idea was something to do, and they did it. It was Cyril who fetched the Tatcho bottle from father's washhand-stand. But the bottle had not much in it.