“Now!”
They locked the front door and they locked the back door, and they fastened all the windows. They moved the table and chairs off the carpet, and Anthea swept it.
“We must show it a little attention,” she said kindly. “We’ll give it tea-leaves next time. Carpets like tea-leaves.”
Then everyone put on its outdoor things, because as Cyril said, they didn’t know where they might be going, and it makes people stare if you go out of doors in November in pinafores and without hats.
Then Robert gently awoke the Phoenix, who yawned and stretched itself, and allowed Robert to lift it on to the middle of the carpet, where it instantly went to sleep again with its crested head tucked under its golden wing as before. Then everyone sat down on the carpet.
“Where shall we go?” was of course the question, and it was warmly discussed. Anthea wanted to go to Japan. Robert and Cyril voted for America, and Jane wished to go to the seaside.
“Because there are donkeys there,” said she.
“Not in November, silly,” said Cyril; and the discussion got warmer and warmer, and still nothing was settled.
“I vote we let the Phoenix decide,” said Robert, at last. So they stroked it till it woke. “We want to go somewhere abroad,” they said, “and we can’t make up our minds where.”
“Let the carpet make up its mind, if it has one,” said the Phoenix. “Just say you wish to go abroad.”
So they did; and the next moment the world seemed to spin upside down, and when it was right way up again and they were ungiddy enough to look about them, they were out of doors.
Out of doors—this is a feeble way to express where they were. They were out of—out of the earth, or off it. In fact, they were floating steadily, safely, splendidly, in the crisp clear air, with the pale bright blue of the sky above them, and far down below the pale bright sun-diamonded waves of the sea. The carpet had stiffened itself somehow, so that it was square and firm like a raft, and it steered itself so beautifully and kept on its way so flat and fearless that no one was at all afraid of tumbling off. In front of them lay land.
“The coast of France,” said the Phoenix, waking up and pointing with its wing. “Where do you wish to go? I should always keep one wish, of course—for emergencies—otherwise you may get into an emergency from which you can’t emerge at all.”
But the children were far too deeply interested to listen.
“I tell you what,” said Cyril: “let’s let the thing go on and on, and when we see a place we really want to stop at—why, we’ll just stop. Isn’t this ripping?”
“It’s like trains,” said Anthea, as they swept over the low-lying coastline and held a steady course above orderly fields and straight roads bordered with poplar trees—“like express trains, only in trains you never can see anything because of grownups wanting the windows shut; and then they breathe on them, and it’s like ground glass, and nobody can see anything, and then they go to sleep.”
“It’s like tobogganing,” said Robert, “so fast and smooth, only there’s no doormat to stop short on—it goes on and on.”
“You darling Phoenix,” said Jane, “it’s all your doing. Oh, look at that ducky little church and the women with flappy cappy things on their heads.”
“Don’t mention it,” said the Phoenix, with sleepy politeness.
“Oh!” said Cyril, summing up all the rapture that was in every heart. “Look at it all—look at it—and think of the Kentish Town Road!”
Everyone looked and everyone thought. And the glorious, gliding, smooth, steady rush went on, and they looked down on strange and beautiful things, and held their breath and let it go in deep sighs, and said “Oh!” and “Ah!” till it was long past dinnertime.
It was Jane who suddenly said, “I wish we’d brought that jam tart and cold mutton with us. It would have been jolly to have a picnic in the air.”
The jam tart and cold mutton were, however, far away, sitting quietly in the larder of the house in Camden Town which the children were supposed to be keeping. A mouse was at that moment tasting the outside of the raspberry jam part of the tart (she had nibbled a sort of gulf, or bay, through the pastry edge) to see whether it was the sort of dinner she could ask her little mouse-husband to sit down to. She had had a very good dinner herself. It is an ill wind that blows nobody any good.
“We’ll stop as soon as we see a nice place,” said Anthea. “I’ve got threepence, and you boys have the fourpence each that your trams didn’t cost the other day, so we can buy things to eat. I expect the Phoenix can speak French.”
The carpet was sailing along over rocks and rivers and trees and towns and farms and fields. It reminded everybody of a certain time when all of them had had wings, and had flown up to the top of a church tower, and had had a feast there of chicken and tongue and new bread and soda-water. And this again reminded them how hungry they were. And just as they were all being reminded of this very strongly indeed, they saw ahead of them some ruined walls on a hill, and strong and upright, and really, to look at, as good as new—a great square tower.
“The top of that’s just the exactly same size as the carpet,” said Jane. “I think it would be good to go to the top of that, because then none of the Abby-what’s-its-names—I mean natives—would be able to take the carpet away even if they wanted to. And some of us could go out and get things to eat—buy them honestly, I mean, not take them out
