THE BIRD PHOENIX.

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In the garden of Paradise, under the tree of knowledge, stood a hedge
of roses. In the first rose a bird was hatched; its flight was like
that of light, its colours beautiful, its song magnificent.

But when Eve plucked the fruit of knowledge, when she and Adam were
driven from the garden of Paradise, a spark from the avenging angel's
flaming sword fell into the bird's nest and kindled it. The bird died
in the flames, but from the red egg there flew a new one--the only
one--the ever only bird Phoenix. The legend states that it takes up
its abode in Arabia; that every hundred years it burns itself up in
its nest, and that a new Phoenix, the only one in the world, flies out
from the red egg.

The bird hovers around us, rapid as the light, beautiful in colour,
glorious in song. When the mother sits by the child's cradle, it is by
the pillow, and with its wings flutters a glory around the child's
head. It flies through the chamber of contentment, and there is the
sun's radiance within:--the poor chest of drawers is odoriferous with
violets.

But the bird Phoenix is not alone Arabia's bird: it flutters in the
rays of the Northern Lights on Lapland's icy plains; it hops amongst
the yellow flowers in Greenland's short summer. Under Fahlun's copper
rocks, in England's coal mines, it flies like a powdered moth over the
hymn-book in the pious workman's hands. It sails on the lotus-leaf
down the sacred waters of the Ganges, and the eyes of the Hindoo girl