He said-- '_I_ know who you are.' And he opened and displayed a printed paper, at the head of which was a little picture of a bird sitting in a nest of flames.
'You are the Phoenix,' said Robert; and the bird was quite pleased.
'My fame has lived then for two thousand years,' it said.

'Allow me to look at my portrait.' It looked at the page which Robert, kneeling down, spread out in the fender, and said-- 'It's not a flattering likeness...

And what are these characters ?' it asked, pointing to the printed part.
'Oh, that's all dullish; it's not much about YOU, you know,' said Cyril, with unconscious politeness; 'but you're in lots of books.' 'With portraits ?' asked the Phoenix.
'Well, no,' said Cyril; 'in fact, I don't think I ever saw any portrait of you but that one, but I can read you something about yourself, if you like.' The Phoenix nodded, and Cyril went off and fetched Volume X of the old Encyclopedia, and on page 246 he found the following:-- 'Phoenix--in ornithology, a fabulous bird of antiquity.' 'Antiquity is quite correct,' said the Phoenix, 'but fabulous--well, do I look it ?' Every one shook its head.

Cyril went on-- 'The ancients speak of this bird as single, or the only one of its kind.' 'That's right enough,' said the Phoenix.
'They describe it as about the size of an eagle.' 'Eagles are of different sizes,' said the Phoenix; 'it's not at all a good description.' All the children were kneeling on the hearthrug, to be as near the Phoenix as possible.
'You'll boil your brains,' it said.

'Look out, I'm nearly cool now;' and with a whirr of golden wings it fluttered from the fender to the table.
It was so nearly cool that there was only a very faint smell of burning when it had settled itself on the table-cloth.
'It's only a very little scorched,' said the Phoenix, apologetically; 'it will come out in the wash.