David did as he was told, although his eyes were filled with tears and he could not see through the blur.
"Now," said the Phoenix gently, "the fact is that I have, besides my unusually acute Intellect, an Instinct. This Instinct told me that it was my birthday today. It also told me to build this nest of cinnamon. Now it tells me that I must make this nest my pyre, because that is what the Phoenix does at the end of five hundred years. Now, please, my boy!—I admit it does not appear to be a very joyful way of celebrating, but it must be done. This is the traditional end of the Phoenix, my boy, and we cannot ignore the tradition, no matter what our feelings may be. Do you see?"
"No!" David cried. "Please, Phoenix, don't do it! It's horrible! I won't let you do it!"
"But I must, my dear chap! I cannot help it. This is what it means to be the Phoenix. Nothing can stop the tradition. Please, my boy, do not take on so! It is not in the least horrible, I assure you. My Instinct tells me so."
"You said you were going to give me an education," David sobbed. "You said we would see—you said—and we've only been on four adventures—you never told me about this—"
"I am terribly sorry, my boy. I could not tell you about it because I did not know about it until now. As for your education, it is a pity to have it cut short in this way. I had great plans.... But consider—you have had four adventures which no one else in the whole world has had! And besides, my boy, we shall see each other again. I do not know how or where, but I am positive of it." The Phoenix flicked a tear from its eye with the tip of one wing, while with the other it patted David awkwardly on the shoulder.
"Don't go, Phoenix, please don't go."
"I must, my boy. Here, permit me to present you with a small token (ouch!) of our friendship."
Dimly, through his tears, David saw the Phoenix pluck the longest, bluest feather from its tail, and he felt it being pressed into his hand.
"Good-by, David," said the Phoenix gruffly.