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 quiet. "Disturbing everyone 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 back of the chair, swaying backwards and forwards and up and down, as you may see your own domestic parrot do. I mean the grey one with the red tail. All eyes were on the stage, where the lobster was delighting the audience with that gem of a song, "If you can't walk straight, walk sideways!" when the Phoenix murmured warmly:-- "No altar, no fire, no incense!" and then, before any of the children could even begin to think of stopping it, it spread its bright wings and swept round the theatre, brushing its gleaming feathers against delicate hangings and gilded wood-work. It seemed to have made but one circular wing-sweep, such as you may see a gull make over grey water on a stormy day. Next moment it was perched again on the chair-back--and all round the theatre, where it had passed, little sparks shone like tinsel seeds, then little smoke wreaths curled up like growing plants--little flames opened like flower-buds. People whispered--then people shrieked.