On the top of a palm tree, in an oasis of the Arabian desert, sat the
Phoenix, 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 Phoenix 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 Phoenix 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 Phoenix 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 Phoenix 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 Phoenix, 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.
Thinking thus mournfully, the Phoenix sat upon the top of the tallest
palm. His plumage of crimson and gold glowed in the last rays of the
setting sun. His head was drooping, and his eye lustreless. The joy of
life was gone. Slowly the Sun sank towards the horizon, a red eye fixed
upon the Phoenix steadily. Suddenly across the gray waste of sand
dotted a beam of light, intensely bright. A single ray from that
watchful Eye seemed to flame as it reached the palm tree and pierced to
the very heart of the Phoenix. A thrill ran through his body. He drew
himself together, and his eye gleamed with new lustre as he fixed it
steadily upon the dazzling disk just touching the horizon. Dark stood
the palm against the desert, but the Phoenix was bathed in sudden
light. It was the signal, the signal for which he had been waiting,
though he knew it not. The five hundred years were ended. The mystery of
his life was about to be solved.
As the sun sank below the horizon, eagerly the Phoenix set about the
task which was before him. At last he might build the nest which till
now he had never known. On the top of the highest palm he would build
it, that it might receive from the blessed East the first beam of the
morning sun. Marvelously strengthened for the task, back and forth to
the ends of the earth his wings of crimson and gold bore the Phoenix
that night. For this was to be no nest of sticks and straw. Of precious
things must it be made, and well he knew where such were to be found. Of
silky leaves and grass interwoven with splinters of sandal-wood were the
walls. Then on the bottom of the nest he laid, bit by bit, a pile of
sweet-smelling gums, cinnamon and spice, spikenard, myrrh, camphor,
ambergris, and frankincense, with no meaner choice.
All night he labored, beak and talon, until the nest was ready. And as
the first tints of dawn began to streak the east, the Phoenix rose
once, high into the air, gazing with wistful eyes over the world which
he had loved; then, slowly sinking to the palm, he poised his gorgeous
body upon the fragrant nest. With wings spread wide, and eyes fixed
eagerly upon the spot where the Sun was sure to rise, he waited, waited.
At last the golden Eye appeared. As on the night before, one radiant
beam seemed to single out the lonely palm. One shaft of flame pierced to
the nest whereon the Phoenix sat. It was the final signal to the Bird
of the Sun. Immediately the great bird began to fan the sweet-smelling
mass with his wings. The burning ray grew brighter,--a pungent,
wonderful aroma of mingled fragrances filled the air. Gradually the Sun
rose, great and glorious, and as it advanced into the heaven a thin
cloud of smoke floated from the palm tree, and wound away across the
desert towards the east. Faster and faster fanned the great wings of the
Phoenix, until when the Sun shone full down through the palm tree top,
the whole mass burst into flame, in the midst of which the Phoenix
blended crimson and gold. High in the air rose the fire, diffusing
abroad all the sweet odors of Araby the blest. For a little while it
glowed, then gradually sank, lower and lower, until but a pile of ashes
remained at the bottom of the nest.
But lo! Was the Phoenix dead? What was this creature risen in youth
and beauty from the ashes? A bird like the Eagle in shape, but nobler,
larger, stronger, more gracious even than the King of Birds, a brilliant
vision of crimson and gold, rose like a flame from the nest, hung for a
moment above the palm, looking eagerly at the Sun, which baptized him in
its splendor. A new Phoenix lived in the world. Once more the ancient
glory was renewed. Once more youth, joy, and hope sprang from the
Phoenix's ashes and rejoiced in the centuries of sunshine before him.
Death was indeed worth dying to make this life worth living!
Slowly the young Phoenix descended to the nest which had been at once
a sepulchre and a cradle. Tenderly careful of the parent ashes which it
held, with lusty beak and talon he tore the nest bodily from the
branches, and set out upon his pious journey. He knew not where he went,
nor why, but the Sun drew him to the East.
As he sped, through the sky, a flash of gold and crimson, the lesser
birds gathered to wonder and admire. Flocks of them followed at a
distance, a train of worshipers, chorusing the glory of the new-born
wonder. He bore his head high with its burden, and his heart was filled
with pious joy. It was good to be a Phoenix, good, good!
At last he reached the place which unknowingly he sought. The Sun alone
had been his guide. To the city of Heliopolis in Egypt he came; to the
great Temple of the Sun, brightly adorned with crimson and gold, the
Phoenix colors.
There upon the altar he laid the precious ashes. And lo! There were folk
waiting to receive them,--many little children, and some elders of
childlike heart, who took the ashes and laid them reverently in the
shrine. The Phoenix was not forgotten; he was never to be forgotten so
long as the world should last.
The new Phoenix flew back to the Arabian desert to live his five
hundred years as each of his race had done, sacred, afar, and apart, but
not forgotten, though in his old age he might come to deem so. For in
the bright Temple of the Sun there are always folk of childlike sympathy
who delight to honor the eternal Phoenix of romance and mystery,--the
dear, undying memory of a time long past.
The Riverside Press
_Electrotyped and printed by H.O. Houghton & Co._
_Cambridge, Mass., U.S.A._