Opportunity Class Placement Test — Reading Question Paper

When the baby had been put to bed the four children sat sadly round the fire in the nursery. 'I wish they taught magic at school,' Jane sighed. 'I believe if we could do a little magic it might make something happen.'

'I wonder how you begin?' Robert looked round the room, but he got no ideas from the faded green curtains, or the drab Venetian blinds. Even the new carpet suggested nothing, though its pattern was a very wonderful one, and seemed as though it were just going to make you think of something.

'Let's get the Ingoldsby Legends book. There's a thing about abracadabra there,' said Cyril, yawning. 'We may as well play magic.'

So they traced strange figures on the floor with chalk. And nothing happened. Then Anthea said, 'I'm sure a magic fire ought to be made of sweet smelling wood, and have magic essences in it.'

'I don't know any sweet smelling wood except cedar,' said Robert, 'but I've got some ends of cedar-wood pencil.' So they burned those. And still nothing happened.

'Let's burn some of the eucalyptus oil we have for colds,' said Anthea.

And they did. It certainly smelled very strong. Then they got some clean tea-cloths from the kitchen and waved them over the magic chalk-tracings. Robert's tea-cloth caught the golden egg they had found that day and whisked it off the mantelpiece, and it fell into the fender and rolled under the grate and lay glowing in the nest of hot ashes.

'It's not smashed, anyhow,' said Robert and he put his hand under the grating and picked up the egg. But the egg was much hotter than anyone would have believed it could possibly get in such a short time and he dropped it with a cry of 'Bother!' It fell on the top bar of the grate and bounced right into the glowing heart of the fire.

'Look at it! Look!' cried Anthea. 'I do believe something is going to happen!'

For the egg was now red-hot, and inside it something was moving. Next moment there was a soft cracking sound; the egg burst in two, and out of it came a flame-coloured bird. It rested a moment among the flames and the four children could see it growing bigger and bigger under their eyes. It rose in its nest of fire, stretched its wings, and flew out into the room. It flew round and round, and where it passed the air was warm. Then it perched on the fender. The children looked at each other. Then Cyril put out a hand towards the bird. It put its head on one side, as you may have seen a parrot do when it is just going to speak, and said, 'Be careful. I am not nearly cool yet.'

They looked at the bird, and it was certainly worth looking at. Its feathers were like gold. 'I believe I know what it is,' said Robert. 'I've seen a picture in the encyclopaedia.'

He hurried away but when he came back holding out the book and crying, 'I say, look here!' the others all said 'Hush!' for the bird was speaking.

'Which of you,' it was saying, 'put the egg into the fire?'

'He did,' said three voices, and three fingers pointed at Robert. The bird bowed; at least it was more like that than anything else.

'I am your grateful debtor,' it said with a high-bred air.

The children were all choking with wonder and curiosity – all except Robert. He said 'I know who you are.'

And he showed them a 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 2000 years. Allow me to look at my portrait,' it said. 'It's not a flattering likeness.'

'I can read you something about yourself, if you like.'

The Phoenix nodded, and Robert read 'Phoenix – in ornithology, fabulous bird of antiquity.'

'Antiquity is quite correct,' said the Phoenix.

Robert continued, 'The ancients speak of this bird as the only one of its kind. They describe it as about the size of an eagle.'

'Eagles are of different sizes,' the Phoenix said. 'It's not at all a good description. Please go on reading.'

'Its neck is covered with feathers of a gold colour,' Robert went on, 'and the rest of its body purple; only the tail white. They say that when advanced in age it builds itself a pile of sweet wood and aromatic gums, fires it with the wafting of its wings, and thus burns itself, and that from its ashes arises a worm, which in time grows up to be a Phoenix. Hence the Phoenicians gave –'

'Never mind what they gave,' said the Phoenix, ruffling its golden feathers. 'That book ought to be destroyed. It's most inaccurate. The rest of my body was never purple, and as for my tail, well, I simply ask you, is it white?'

'No, it's not,' said everybody.

'No, and it never was,' said the Phoenix. 'And that about the worm is just a vulgar insult. The Phoenix has an egg, like all respectable birds. It makes a pile – that part's right – and it lays its egg, and it burns itself; and it wakes up in its egg, and goes on living again, and so on for ever and ever. I can't tell you how weary I got of it – such a restless existence; no repose.'

'But how did your egg get here?' asked Anthea.

'Ah, that's my life secret,' said the Phoenix.