The Curious Book of Birds

by Abbie Farwell Brown

THE PHŒNIX

N the top of a palm tree, in an oasis of the Arabian desert, sat the Phœnix, 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 Phœnix 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 Phœnix 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 Phœnix 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 Phœnix 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 Phœnix, 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.