"Or a Turkish patrol," said Robert.
"Or a Turkish bath," said Anthea.
"Or a Turkish towel," said Jane.
"Nonsense," Cyril urged; "it said beautiful and delightful, and towels and baths aren't that, however good they may be for you. Let it go. I suppose it won't give us the slip," he added, pushing back his chair and standing up.
"Hush!" said the Phœnix; "how can you? Don't trample on its feelings just because it's only a carpet."
"But how can it do it—unless one of us is on it—to do the wishing?" asked Robert. He spoke with a rising hope that it might be necessary for one to go—and why not Robert? But the Phœnix quickly threw cold water on his new-born flame.
"Why, you just write your wish on a paper and pin it on the carpet."
So a leaf was torn from Anthea's arithmetic book, and on it Cyril wrote, in large round-hand, the following:—
"We wish you to go to your dear native home, and bring back the most beautiful and delightful productions of it you can—and not to be gone long, please. (Signed)
"Cyril, Robert, Anthea, Jane."
Then the paper was laid on the carpet.