Part 3

“‘Hello, little one!’ said Taffy. ‘What are you doing here?’ And he bent down to stroke Little Bear. Little Bear leaned against his leg; and as his hand sank in the soft, soft fur, and again the electric tingles ran up his arm, it was as if they took the message to his brain: ‘Oh, dear Taffy, let _me_ take care of the Sailor’s Star!’

“It came so clearly to him, Taffy spoke again: ‘Would you really like it?’—and the answer came, like a long, ‘Oh-h!’ of rapture.

“‘See here,’ said Taffy to the Star People. ‘Why don’t you let this little chap have it? That would settle it.’

“‘Little Bear?’ said everybody. Then everybody looked at everybody else, and said, ‘Why not?’—because they all loved Little Bear; and they were glad to find a way to settle the dispute and stop talking.

“Taffy told them what to do; and Cassiopeia was the first one to take a lovely star from the back of her dress, where it never had been seen by the sailors and wouldn’t be missed; and they all agreed that, if she couldn’t hold the Sailor’s Star herself, she should be the one to give it. And they fastened that star on the very tip of Little Bear’s tail. Then Orion and Perseus and the Big Dragon, who came and looked on, and the rest of them gave more stars to fasten on Little Bear, and he stood pressed against Taffy’s knee while they did it; and his fur sparkled and shone and his two bright eyes twinkled, bright as any of the stars, while little electric thrills of pleasure and gratitude ran to Taffy’s heart as his hand stroked the beautiful fur that was softer than anything in the whole World!

“‘There!’ said Orion, as he fastened the last star and pushed one of the dogs back with his foot, while Little Bear growled, a soft small growl. ‘He’s fine as a birthday cake! Now I want to know how you are going to be sure that star is always in the right place?’

“‘Easy enough!’ said Taffy. ‘You know where the North Pole is, don’t you?’

“‘Of course we do,’ said Orion, and the other Star People echoed: ‘Of course!’

“‘Then, all Little Bear has to do is to keep the star directly over that Pole. And he’ll do it,’ said Taffy, laying his hand on Little Bear’s head—and the message thrilled through it: ‘Oh, I will, dear Taffy! The Sailor’s Star shall never wander!’

“When the Mate stepped on to the deck of the Jane Ellen it was almost morning, and all the captains who weren’t asleep had such stiff necks they hardly could turn their heads to look at him. And when he touched his cap and said to the Captain of the Jane Ellen: ‘It’s all arranged, sir,’ they were so worn out they were glad to go back to their own ships and go to bed without asking a single question. It wouldn’t have been any use if they had, for the Captain took Taffy straight into his own cabin and shut the door; and that was the last any one saw of them that night.

“The next morning every one was as busy as a bee; and they worked so fast that before evening every mast had been put back, and the twenty-four anchors returned to their own ships, and they were all ready to sail.

“During the afternoon the clouds had broken up, and the sun went down in a clear sky. As darkness fell, the crew of each ship assembled on the deck, with every eye fixed on the Northern sky.

“Taffy stood beside the Captain of the Jane Ellen while the rose-red faded into yellow, and palest green, and violet, and a few large stars came out, one by one. Then,—faint at first, then, brighter and brighter,—the stars that told Taffy Little Bear was at his post! And a great shout went up from all the ships, that must have reached the sky! It seemed to Taffy that the stars glowed brighter, and he could almost feel the touch of soft fur, softer than anything in the world, and a little thrill went to his heart, that said: ‘You see, Taffy dear, I’m here!’

“Then the fifty-two ships set sail in every direction, and the Jane Ellen was alone once more. And all night long, as she went on her way, whenever Taffy looked up at the Northern sky, the Sailor’s Star hung over the Pole. But Little Bear swung slowly, slowly around it, watching, watching the ships that were sailing to all quarters of the world. And on every ship the sailors said:—

“‘God bless the Little Bear!’”

As the Princess came to the end the children grew very still. When she had spoken the last word no one stirred for a moment. Then they all stirred at once. The Kitten slid off from her big chair and came straight across to sit on the Princess’s silken knee, and the Others with her, to crowd as close as they could,—to talk about it and ask all the questions they had saved for the end, not to interrupt the story. And they had a great deal to say, and had saved a great many questions.

“You did understand, didn’t you, Kitten?” said the Princess. “I knew you would.”

The Kitten nodded, and wriggled on the Princess’s knee. “Could you feel it prickle?” she asked.

“‘Little thrills,’ she means,” Phyllisy suggested.

“Um-m,” said the Kitten. “That night—you said he brought a message.”

“But you were asleep,” said the Princess.

“I heard. Would it hurt?”

“No, indeed! It was a little warm thrill that went to my heart.”

“The same as Taffy,” said Pat.

“Just the same,” said the Princess.

Then Miss Phyllisy brought her the rosy hat, and she pinned it on; for there were long shadows across the sloping lawn and the petunia bed; only the high steps down the terrace were still in the sun.

III THE COMET AND THE POLE STAR

“How did they fasten the stars on him?” asked the Kitten. She didn’t say who “he” was, but they knew, though it was quite another time.

“With a half-hitch and another half-hitch, then belay,” said the Princess, promptly. “Much better than sewing them, or pins. Don’t you think so?”

“Pins would stick him,” agreed the Kitten.

“Whereabouts did they fasten them?” asked Pat.

The Princess reached out her arm and picked a narrow pointed shell out from the hard sand. It lay broad and brown between them and the gray sea, worrying, whiteand-green at the other edge. Out over the sea whitish-gray fog was waiting all around in a circle. It went up and joined the gray sky over; and a salt smell blew out of it.

She began to draw in the sand with the pointed shell, and the Others watched it grow. She began at his head and worked back, quickly.

“Is it going to be Little Bear?” asked Pat.

“Yes,” said the Princess. “But I can’t make it really a likeness.”

“You could, Dearie, if you had a pencil and paper,” said Phyllisy. “Nobody could, in the sand with a shell.”

“It’s like him the way the map is America,” said Pat. “More—_much_.”

“Now make the stars,” said the Kitten, when she drew his last foot.

“No,” said the Princess. “You must do that.—Who’ll give a star to Little Bear?”

“What shall we give?” asked Pat. But the Kitten spied a clear, shiny pebble, and she didn’t need to be told; she pounced at it quickly, and purred when the Princess took it from her.

“‘And they fastened that star on the very tip of Little Bear’s tail,’” quoted Phyllisy. “Now we must all give stars.”

So they scurried over the sand and brought suitable pebbles to the Princess,—and some of them were shells,—and she showed them where to place them, where he truly wore them; but they placed only the principal ones, because it was a sketch, not a likeness.

“But you don’t _see_ even this—of a bear—in the sky?” said Pat, doubtfully. It wasn’t as easy for her to make believe as it was for Phyllisy. Phyllisy loved it. As for the Kitten, it was no trouble for her; real or make-believe, it was all alike.

“No, indeed,” said Phyllisy, explaining to Pat, and perfectly familiar with it. “Just the stars of him, and play the rest. When it’s night, we’ll look, and see if we can find them ourselves.”

“You can’t when it’s cloudy,” said Pat. “And it’s cloudy to-night—will be.”

“And the Star People will have a holiday,” said the Princess.

“Will they?” asked the Others, though she had just said it.

“Sure as sure. When it’s a cloudy night and the sailors couldn’t see them wherever they were, they may go where they like.”

“They might go where they like in the daytime,” said the Kitten.

“So they might. But you have to sleep some time, Kit. And if you have to stay up all night to be looked at, you’d better take a long nap in the daytime. So, when it begins to be light, the Star People just quietly fade away in their places, then when night comes they wake up, fresh as daisies.”

“Suppose some time they would go off, and it was a clear night—and they moved around?” said Pat.

“I couldn’t imagine anything so dreadful,—nor the Star People, either! Don’t you fancy, because they haven’t any captain, that they have nothing to obey.”

“What?”

“They have _Law_!—and that’s something every one of them obeys without a single word, or ever stopping to argue. When anything is the Rule of the Sky, that ends it.—Unless you’re a comet.”

“Oh, comets!” exclaimed Phyllisy.” What do they do?”

“What don’t they do?” corrected the Princess. “They’re silly. Just a head, with the wildest, fuzziliest hair,”—she drew on the sand as she talked,—“that never _saw_ a hairbrush—and tails!—switching and flying and spreading over everything and curling around!—and, as if one such tail weren’t bad enough, some of them must have two!”

The Princess stopped drawing, because the sand was filled up with comets, as far as she could reach. “That one is like the Kitten,” said Pat. “Yours would be, if it weren’t braided,” the Kitten answered.

“Only in looks, I’m sure,” said the Princess, politely. “The Star People try to be charitable, and when they hear of some fresh bad thing one of those flyaways has done, they say: ‘He doesn’t know enough to be good;’ and they don’t talk about it any more. But when any really horrid mischief is done, it’s always when a comet or two has been around.”

“What did one do?—some mischief,” Pat suggested.

“I should think you’d all rather hear about somebody good,” said the Princess. But the Others giggled—and wouldn’t.

“Make some more Star People while you consider, Dearie,” urged Phyllisy.

So the Princess moved along the sand (and they were glad it was a good, gray day, not glaring), and she drew more, the same way as Little Bear. They didn’t try to be likenesses, but you would know whom they were meant for,—Cassiopeia and the Dragon and Orion and more,—and the Others put in the stars. It used a great many pebbles and shells, though they put in only the principal ones. But they ought to be pretty ones, so they went a good way off to find them.

When they came back from farther off, they couldn’t guess what the long wavy line was meant for, that she was drawing beyond Orion—in deep loops down and back.

“This is the Starland River,” she explained. “The Ancients called it the Eridanus. That was the name of one of their own Earth rivers. Once Phaeton tried to drive the chariot of the Sun,—the Sun God was his father,—but he didn’t know how, and horses, chariot, and all plunged into the river, and he was drowned for his folly, but the chariot and horses came out shining again the next morning at sunrise. And Phaeton’s three sisters stood on the bank of the river and mourned and mourned for him, and wouldn’t go away. So Jupiter kindly changed them into poplar trees;—and right here—and here—and here”—she showed the places and the Others laid especial shells—“are the stars that mark the tall poplars on the bank. At least, that’s what I think. You may choose others if you like, but they are certainly there.”

The Princess surprisingly sprang up, and the pointed shell flew out of her hand, over the hard sand, and beyond the worrying green-white edge, into the gray sea.

“What did you do that for?” Pat remonstrated.

“Because-that-was-a-sign-that-it-wouldn’t-be-lucky-to-have-any-more- drawing-on-the-sand-because-that-was-Enough,” said the Princess.

“Will you tell it now?” asked the Kitten.

And she would; but back under the cliff, where there were rocks—smooth and hollowed by the ocean, long ago, and another one for a back,—and where those crazy comets on the sand wouldn’t be looking at them.

“You hardly would believe how happy the care of the Sailor’s Star made Little Bear,” said the Princess, when they were all comfortable,—“proud of his responsibility, and most grateful to the Star People.”

“Because they gave him stars?” asked the Kitten.

“Yes, and allowed him to have that responsible thing to do when he wanted it so much; and it made them happy to see his pleasure, and to feel that they all had a share in it—because he was their own dear Little Bear. Now, at the time this story happened, everything had been comfortable and pleasant for a long time. Little Bear hadn’t had his star so long he had forgotten the time before he had it; but he had grown used to having it on the end of his tail, and could keep it over the Pole without giving his mind to it. And nobody had seen a comet for ever so long, so they weren’t thinking about them.

“But, very early one morning, any one of the Star People who had been awake to look, might have seen, peeping up over the rim of the Sky, a small, vagabond head. He shook his fuzzy hair out of his eyes and came up a little farther, switching his long tail that had a wicked crook at the end of it, as he danced up and down like an elf! A more rascally Comet you wouldn’t care to see!”

The Others wriggled with appreciation, but they didn’t speak, to interrupt.

“The Star People were in their first sleep, and not dreaming of any harm; and what a chance for the worst, small comet in the Sky!

“What should he do? Hammer a dent in Cepheus’ crown? Tie a knot in the Dragon’s tail? He darted here and there,—rapid, uncertain little darts; nothing seemed quite worth while when he had such an opportunity.

“Cassiopeia stirred slightly in her chair, and the wicked imp dropped where he was, and wound himself all up, like a porcupine, holding himself together by the crook in his tail. You never would have guessed that he could tuck all his wild hair and streaming tail into a little round bunch, as quick as a flash! But she didn’t wake up, so he let himself go, and his hair and tail sprang out like a jack-in-the-box; and now he danced harder than ever, for rage!

“How he did hate Cassiopeia! He remembered how she had boxed his ears when he had come that way before, and he would rather do something to plague her than anything else. He looked about him, and saw Little Bear, fast asleep—never dreaming of any harm,—and he stopped short in his dance. He knew, now, what he could do; but, wicked little Comet as he was, he was almost frightened. This was much worse than anything any of them ever had done. But how it would plague Cassiopeia!—and set the whole sky by the ears. He puckered up his face and stuck out his tongue at her.”

“And she couldn’t see him,” Pat murmured.

“Then there was a whizz,—a switch of a long tail with a crook in the end of it,—a zigzag streak of light across the morning sky—and the Comet was gone!

“And the Star People were all sound asleep, and never dreamed he had been there.

“Oh, dear! It seemed almost a pity Little Bear had to wake up at all, with such trouble waiting for him. But the time had to come, and he stirred a little and opened one eye, and shut it again and rolled on to his side. There he lay for a minute; then he gave a soft sneeze that waked him up altogether. So he opened his eyes, that twinkled like stars, and looked about him. Every one else was still sleeping, and that seemed like wasting time, because it was a cloudy night, which meant a holiday. So Little Bear stood up and shook himself, and sparks seemed to fly from his fur, and then—his heart gave a great jump, and almost stopped beating!—The Sailor’s Star was gone!

“It was such a blow he could hardly see, and he sat down, quite dazed.

“In a few minutes Cassiopeia opened her eyes. Now, Little Bear felt as if he couldn’t stand it to have any one know what had happened to him. But the minute he saw Cassiopeia was awake, though it was the last thing he meant to do, and before he knew what he was about, he had run to her and put his head in her lap; and she knew in a second something was wrong.

“‘Why, Little Bear, what is it?’ she began to say—then she saw—and such an outcry! Everybody awoke, and the next minute, everybody was searching in every possible and impossible place;—all but Little Bear. He was too miserable to do anything but sit still, and wish the clouds would rise up and cover him all over.”

“Poor little soul!” said Phyllisy, and the Others crooned in sympathy, the Princess with them. Then she went on:—

“‘It’s no use. It isn’t here,’ said Cepheus, who had been down on his hands and knees, looking, just as hard as if he hadn’t been a king. (He tucked his sceptre under his arm while he was looking, except when he poked with it in a corner.) As he spoke, he stood up and straightened out the ‘crick’ in his back, and the others took it for a signal to stop the search.

“Cassiopeia had stopped some time before, without any signal, and sat in her chair, with Little Bear leaning against her knee again.

“‘No, I didn’t think it was any use,’ she said, significantly. ‘That star didn’t go without hands,—or _claws_!’—and she looked straight at Draco, who stood every night before Little Bear, to guard him, looking very terrible, though he hadn’t a tooth in his head. But no one would know that unless he spoke, and he had been hunting for the star as hard as any of them.

“‘Doeth thhe mean _me_?’ he asked, in surprise. (He lisped a little, on account of having no teeth.) Then, indignantly: ‘I thould think you’d be athamed!—I believe you took it back yourthelf!—Indian-giver!’

“Cassiopeia’s hand flew to the back of her dress where the star had been, and she began hotly: ‘The idea—’

“‘There, there,’ said Cepheus, soothingly, while Little Bear stirred uneasily, ‘don’t quarrel! It’s bad enough without that.’

“‘Maybe he didn’t take it _himself_,’ said Cassiopeia. ‘But it’s a very poor watch he kept. And this isn’t the first time something has been lost while he was asleep!’

“‘Shame on you!’ cried Cepheus. (And it was mean in her to call up the time when he lost the Golden Fleece.)

“‘Don’t mind her,’ said Perseus to Draco. ‘She doesn’t mean anything.’

“‘I don’t think Cathiopeia liketh me very well,’ said Draco, almost crying. ‘I can’t thtay awake all day. I alwayth did need a great deal of thleep.’

“‘Well, let’s not talk about it any more,’ said Cassiopeia, impatiently. ‘We’d better be doing something! It’s a good thing it’s so cloudy. I’ll tell you what you do,’ she went on, turning to Cepheus. ‘You go straight to Boreas, and tell him he mustn’t blow away one scrap of cloud until we find that star.’ Boreas had a great conch shell, like a trumpet, and when he shouted his orders through it, the clouds flew before the sound—just as he told them to go.”

“The North Wind,” said Pat. “I’ve heard about him. He lived in a cave.”

The Princess nodded. “‘I don’t think it looks very well for me to be running errands,’ said Cepheus.

“‘Looks or no looks, you go along,’ said Cassiopeia. ‘I’m going on one myself.’

“When Orion waked up that night he was pleased to see the clouds, because there was something he wanted to do. Every one knows he was a famous hunter; and there was no animal so fierce or so wild that he could not face it and conquer it. But that was not what he prided himself upon. What he liked to do, more than anything, and what he thought was his special talent, was gardening!

“He had his garden on the Milky Way, where he was forever planting things, and digging them up again to look at the roots, and transplanting them to see if they wouldn’t do better somewhere else, and pruning them and training them and spraying them; and the only rest and chance to grow those poor things had was when there was a long spell of clear weather, and Orion had to leave them alone! And with all his care, there wasn’t a place on the whole Milky Way that had so many bare spots in it as Orion’s garden!”

“Like mine,” observed Pat.

“Now, he had some young meteors just coming up; so, as soon as he was awake, he called his two dogs and set out for his garden. He was down on his knees examining the young plants, when the dogs began to bark. He looked up, and he was astonished to see Cassiopeia hurrying toward him.

“‘I knew where I should find you!’ she called, breathing hard. (She wasn’t exactly thin.)

“‘What over the Sun brings you here?’ exclaimed Orion.

“‘Somebody’s stolen the Pole Star!’

“‘No!’ cried he.

“‘Yes, they have. While we were asleep. It was there, all right, when Little Bear went to sleep, and when he waked up, it was gone.’

“Orion scowled fearfully. ‘There’s just one Star Person who would do such a thing—’ he began.

Cassiopeia interrupted him:—

“‘Now that’s all nonsense! Just because you hate the Scorpion, is no sign he would steal. You’d better come along with me, and we’ll have a meeting to see what to do.’

“As Cassiopeia and Orion were coming back together, they met Cepheus, returning from his errand.

“‘Did you see Boreas?’ called she.

“‘Yes,’ answered Cepheus, pushing up his crown. (It didn’t fit very well, and was always slipping down.) ‘He says he’ll do the best he can; but he can’t promise more than two days.’

“‘Oh, we’ll find it before then,’ said Orion, confidently.

“But before the two days were gone he began to feel very differently, and so did every one else. They talked and they talked, and suggested and consulted, and hunted, and went back and hunted again and again in all the places they had searched before; and every one almost began to look suspiciously at every one else.

“And it would have made any one’s heart ache, to see Little Bear. No one blamed him, but he couldn’t help feeling that it was his fault, and he _wanted_ his dear Star, too. So he mourned and drooped, and all the sparkle went off from his beautiful soft fur, and out of his bright eyes; and when Perseus offered to let him take the Gorgon’s head to play with, he didn’t even care for that.

“Cassiopeia took him up into her chair beside her, and sang little songs to him. The one about the fishes, that he always liked.”

“What song?” asked the Kitten, quickly.