At last the ice cream carton was empty and all the cookies were gone. They both sighed regretfully and brushed away the crumbs. And the Phoenix looked hopefully at the present David had brought.
"Happy birthday, Phoenix," David said, and he handed the gift over with a little bow.
"Thank you, my boy, thank you." The Phoenix opened the package eagerly and gave a pleased cry. "_Just_ what I wanted, my dear chap!"
"I'm glad you like it," David said. "Do you know yet what it's for? Can you really use it for something?"
The Phoenix suddenly stopped smiling and looked at David with a strange expression on its face--an expression David had never seen there before. A vague dread swept through him, and he faltered, "Phoenix ... you _do_ know what it's for? What is it? Tell me."
"Well, my boy--well, the fact _is_--yes, I do know. It came to me this morning while I was constructing the--ah--nest, here. I am afraid it will be a bit hard to explain. The cinnamon--ah--the cinnamon--well, cinnamon _branches_ are what I should really have...."
"Behold, my boy." The Phoenix opened the boxes, and spread the cinnamon sticks on the nest. Then it took the cans and sprinkled the cinnamon powder over the top and sides of the heap, until the whole nest was a brick-dust red.
"There we are, my boy," said the Phoenix sadly. "The traditional cinnamon pyre of the Phoenix, celebrated in song and story."
And with the third mention of the word "pyre," David's legs went weak and something seemed to catch in his throat. He remembered now where he had heard that word before. It was in his book of explorers, and it meant--it meant--
"Phoenix," he choked, "wh-wh-who is the pyre for?"
"Now, I implore you--please--oh, dear, I _knew_ it would be difficult to explain. Look at me, my boy."
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?"