Part 7

“I believe it, too; that’s what they did,” said Pat.

“If they didn’t, they wouldn’t be there always, when she called,” agreed Phyllisy.

“It seems so to me,” said the Princess. Then she took up the story again: “At last Xyntli stopped her wild motion and looked down on her mountain.

“The snakes had done their work well this time. There were no hollows left, and no green thing but one slender spur of forest, like a finger pointing up the slope, and that was hardly worth noticing.

“The smoke was thin now, and blue. Xyntli stood, swaying softly on the mountain-top. Then she sank slowly, drawing her veil after her. Now she was nearly gone; now, only a gleam of her red hair flickered against the sky; now—she was quite gone—

“When—suddenly she shot up, straight, towering above the cone, and flung a long fold of her veil wide over the land; and from it fell a shower of fine powder, soft as snow, that filled all the cracks and crevices and covered the horrid bodies of the snakes, and choked every green thing left in its track.

“Then—as suddenly—Xyntli vanished! and in her hollow mountain, slept once more.”

The Princess’s voice died away in a hush that lasted a long moment, as if some one really were sleeping.

Then Pat drew a deep breath: “Well! I should say! For pitysakes! I hope she’s done mischief enough for once!”

“She didn’t mean it for mischief. She had to make the mountain clean, didn’t she, Dearie? She couldn’t help it if they were in the way,” said Miss Phyllisy, with the wise little mind the Princess loved in her, clear and fair and earnest.

“But she wouldn’t be sorry,” Pat insisted.

“No; she went straight off to sleep,” Phyllisy admitted. “And that poor little baby!—We’re ready to go on, Dearie, whenever you’re rested.”

And after a few minutes the Princess was ready also.

“There isn’t much that goes on on Mother Earth that the Star People don’t know about,” she began, whisking them away to Starland without any warning. “On clear nights, when they are standing still to be looked at, they watch—and watch. And Old Sol keeps watch by day. So there is not much that escapes them: certainly not Xyntli and her naps, and particularly her wakings!

“She was a tantalizing person in this way: though they might look at her naps—that were nothing to see but a place!—as much and as long as they liked, no sooner was she fairly awake than the clouds would gather thick, and the Star People had to seize every chance to look through chinks. Any one who had a good sight had to tell it over to the others, again and again. But they did have glimpses, and Sol too; and after it was all over they could see what had been done. So they had a pretty clear idea of her and her actions.”

Pat nodded her head, as if she had, too; but she didn’t speak.

“When Xyntli vanished in her mountain the sky was full of heavy clouds; so when night came the Star People stationed themselves wherever there seemed the chance for a tiny gap, through which they might look.

“Now, Old Sol dearly loved the Bee Baby; and he had told the Zodiac People all about the quaint little child who was so happy by himself, in the sunshine, watching the bees. So the Star People understood just what Andromeda meant when she exclaimed, from her chink in the cloud:—

“‘The Bee Baby is left all alone by himself in that strip of forest on the ridge!’

“‘Are you thure? I didn’t thee him,’ said Draco, at another chink.

“‘You’re always imagining things,’ said Orion.

“‘I didn’t imagine this,’ insisted Andromeda. ‘The light from Lady Moon’s lantern shone through for a moment, and I saw him plainly—standing in front of a dark hole in the rock. Then he ran back, as if he were frightened.’

“‘Well, I’d like to know what his people are made of!’ said Cassiopeia. ‘They don’t deserve to have a child, if they can’t take better care of him than that!’

“‘Maybe they aren’t so bad,’ said Hercules. ‘I don’t believe Xyntli asked ’em which way they’d rather be chased out. When they saw those snakes coming they hadn’t any time to go back for stray babies! I don’t mind snakes, myself, big or little, but I want ’em cold! They are, too—mostly.’

“‘Too what?’ asked Perseus.

“‘Cold,’ answered Hercules; ‘toads, too.’

“‘I thought you said you’d rather have them cold?’

“‘I would. And they are—mostly.’

“‘Then why did you say they were _too_ cold?’

“‘I didn’t. I want ’em that way. And they are, too.’

“‘But you’—

“‘There’s a conundrum about that,’ interrupted Orion. (He couldn’t stand it, to have them go on arguing.) ‘I’ve forgotten what it is; but the answer is: Because a hot snake is better than a cold hop.’

“‘Why! that isn’t it—at _all_!’ said Andromeda.

“‘I should think you were all cold snakes and toads yourselves!’ broke in Cassiopeia, indignantly. ‘Arguing like that, with that poor child all alone in the middle of desolation! What do you propose to do about it?’

“‘There isn’t anything we can do,’ said Cepheus. ‘It isn’t our place.’

“‘Xyntli is the one who ought to do something. She made all the trouble,’ said Andromeda.

“‘Don’t you be so silly,’ said Cassiopeia. ‘This is a serious matter.’

“‘I thouldn’t like her to bring up _my_ child,’ said Draco. ‘The ’th too exthitable.’

“‘We can decide about yours when you have one!’ said Cassiopeia. ‘Now, who is going after that baby? Because I think they’d better be starting.’

“‘What over the sun are you talking about?’ asked Orion. ‘Going where?’

“‘We are going to adopt that Bee Baby. If some one doesn’t start at once, I shall go myself!’

“‘_Adopt the Bee Baby!_’ cried every one in chorus. They were too much astounded to say anything original; they could only repeat her words—though they knew it was rude.

“‘That was what I said,’ said Cassiopeia.

“‘But you can’t,’ said Orion. ‘No one ever thought of doing such a thing. It isn’t the Rule of the Sky.’

“‘Do you know any Rule that _says_ we can’t?’ asked Cassiopeia.

“‘No,’ answered Orion; and that disposed of him.

“‘How could you take care of him?’ asked Perseus. ‘He’d keep getting lost; and he mightn’t like it.’

“‘It’s a pity if I can’t take care of one small child, and make him happy!’ said Cassiopeia. ‘I’ll learn.’

“‘Wouldn’t he just love to watch Sol’s bees!’ said Andromeda. ‘It would be a good thing to have some one to watch them; there’s always such a fuss when they swarm.’

“‘Yeth, indeed!’ said Draco. ‘Don’t you remember latht time?—when they got away when no one wath notithing, and every one thought they were a comet?’

“‘Yes,’ said Cassiopeia. ‘It might have made a great deal of trouble. I think we really need him. I’m going now. Is any one coming with me?’

“‘_No!_’ exclaimed Cepheus. ‘I forbid it! I am your husband, Cassiopeia; and I will be obeyed!’

“Every one looked at him—startled to hear him speak like that. He stood holding up his sceptre in a magnificent attitude, and looked absolutely majestic. Cassiopeia was too much astonished to speak for a moment, but Andromeda slipped her fingers into his and laid her cheek against his shoulder; and when he bent his head to listen to her pretty coaxing in his ear, his crown tilted a trifle, and he looked like his usual, cloudy-night self. So no one was surprised to hear him say:—

“‘Yes, I suppose so. But your mother needn’t go.’

“‘I’ll go,’ said some one who hadn’t spoken before.

“It was Lady Moon.”

(“Oh-h,” said the Others, softly, and very glad; and the Princess smiled back at them.)

“The moment she spoke, the Star People felt every perplexity smoothed away, and it all became simple and plain. There wasn’t the slightest reason in the Heavens, why they should not take that lonely little baby for their own, to care for and to love.

“The clouds in piled-up masses lay low on Xyntli’s mountain; and it was an easy matter for the Star People to follow Lady Moon down from level to level. When they reached the limit of the cloud-stairway, they could see once more; how right it was that they should wait—their blazing glory hidden—while Lady Moon, her lantern darkened, should slip unseen down the bare shoulder of the mountain, to the strip of forest, left like a dark finger pointing up the slope.

“Ah, but think of a helpless, frightened little child—only two years and a scrap over—alone in a dark cave in that awful desolation!

“How must he have felt—that little Bee Baby—when, suddenly, a soft light shone into the cave, and he looked into the face of the loveliest of ladies, who was holding her lantern so that it disclosed to her—huddled into the farthest corner of the cave—a small brown heap. Only the eyes, like a little frightened animal’s, looking out of it, showed that it was alive.

“And the baby?

“When he looked into that pitying face, and saw the tender arms held out to him, his own went out in answer; and then he was held close—nestled like a young bird or a tired baby—as he was—in the shelter of that loving breast.

“Then, what baby king had ever such a royal progress as that brown little child?

“His wondering eyes looked from Lady Moon’s shoulder, as she carried him up the stately stairway of mass upon mass of cloud, whose lowest step was the mighty mountain, and whose highest led to the measureless Heavens! And grouped along its heights were the radiant Star People, whose splendors might have frightened him if their faces had not been so kind with loving welcome. All those of whom we have talked, and many more, assembled to welcome one little helpless child.

“It was worth it, to see his eyes shine and the happy dimple come in his cheek. He clasped one arm, tight, around Lady Moon’s neck, and stretched out the other to these new friends, without a trace of fear. Why should he be afraid? Hadn’t he loved the shining sun, and all beautiful things, his whole two years of life?

“So he listened to the song Lady Moon sang low to him; and as they passed along, the Star People caught the refrain, and took it up:—

“The sorrow is over; Thy Star life’s begun. Hear the golden bees humming For joy at thy coming, Oh, little Bee Baby, Dear child of the Sun!

“Listen!” said the Princess.

There was a sound, very small and clear and silvery:—One—two—three—four—and _One more!_

And that was a Bewitchment! Everybody must vanish at once!

VII LADY MOON’S LANTERN

On the terrace there was a Pergola—that was two rows of white columns with criss-cross bars overhead and vines growing over it. There were built-in seats between the columns, but there were always chairs besides.

There was no one in it. Down below, in the garden, there were Shapes flitting about in the dusk. They came up out of it, to the Pergola, all together; and they were the Princess and the Others.

A large spider was spinning down, with a clear yellow sky behind it, at the far end of the Pergola. They were obliged to watch it. It dropped and sprung, elastic, on the end of its thread—then dropped—and sprung; and then it clawed up again, working its legs. They could see them distinctly against the sky, though it was quite a distance away. Out at their end, the sky was cool, with a white moon in it; so there were two kinds of shadows: large, blurred ones from the last daylight; and in them, moon-shadows of the vines on the long white seats and on the floor and down one side of the Princess’s dress—sitting in a chair. The moon-shadows were very faint, but they were a clear pattern, and the daylight shadows had no edges; soon there would be only moon. It was very interesting.

And the slide of Lady Moon’s lantern was about three quarters open.

“Wasn’t it lovely she took him?” said Phyllisy. “I’d rather she than anybody else.”

“But it stopped short,” said Pat.

“That was a proper end of a story, with everybody happy,” said the Princess. “You wouldn’t want any more than that, would you?”

“The people weren’t, with the houses and everything spoiled.”

“But they built new ones, very quickly. It doesn’t take long to build a house like a bird-cage. They drove the loaded ox-carts only a little way down the slope of the mountain; and before you could think, there was a new village just like the old, and everything was just as it was before. The brown babies and the spotted pigs ran and tumbled about, and the women went right on grinding corn to make more and more flat cakes; but they didn’t do much housework or sewing, and everybody slept a good deal in the midday heat; then when the cool evening came they gathered together to visit comfortably, while the children played about in the moonlight.”

“Like us?” asked the Kitten.

“Like us,” said the Princess. “Only you aren’t playing about; you are listening to more story.”

“Oh, is it more?” asked Pat.

“A tiny bit,” said the Princess. And the Others wriggled down into their places to listen quite differently from the way they listened when it was conversation. She began to speak in a still voice:—

“So it was one night when the full, round moon shone, silver-bright above the treetops. One of the women sat a little apart, and watched it soaring among the stars. And as she looked, it seemed to her it was not quite round; a tiny slice was gone from one edge.

“‘See the moon!’ she called to the others, pointing upward.

“They gathered near; and as they watched it, the dark shadow crept forward, across the face of the moon.

“‘What is it?’ asked the children.

“‘I know not,’ said the old grandmother. ‘It comes so at times; but never have I seen it like this. Before, it has covered the whole moon, or gone over one edge—like a great shadow. But this is round, like a dark ball, and small. See, the moon shows around it.’

“It was as she said: a thin thread of light, like a silver ring, almost surrounded the dark something that came between their eyes and the moon.

“‘It is just like the Bee Baby!’ said one of the children. ‘Don’t you remember how round his little head was?’

“‘I wonder what became of him,’ said another.

“‘Perhaps he’s there—in the sky,’ said a third.

“But the grandmother said: ‘You are foolish children. He is dead. Xyntli’s snakes could tell—’

“Wise children know when to stop arguing with older people about things that only children understand. So they said no more to the grandmother, but drew away, and talked and whispered to each other—while the small round shadow passed on, across the bright lantern of the moon, and left it clear once more.”

“But it was truly the Bee Baby,” said Pat. “And now they could know what became of him.”

“What did he do to the moon?” asked the Kitten, because she didn’t exactly understand.

“What do you think about this?” asked the Princess. “If a little child—so tall”—she showed, with her hand—“follows a beautiful lady with a lantern hung on her arm, don’t you think, once in a great while, his round little head _might_ come in the way, and interfere with its light?”

“It did. That was it,” said the Kitten comfortably.

Then, with Lady Moon throwing leaf patterns and white light down upon them, and the whole world very still, the Princess told them a song:—

“Who loves to follow wherever you roam, Lady Moon?” “Bee Baby.” “Is he happy in Starland?—so far from his home?” “He may be.

“Over Milky-Way meadows Fly the bees, living gold; There he strays, blessed Lamb, Safe, with love for his fold.”

“Who comes to nestle so close in your arm, Lady Moon?” “Bee Baby.” “Is he falling asleep, to a Starland lullaby’s charm?” “Hush—he may be!”

VIII ANDROMEDA’S BIRTHDAY

“Nine more days, And then comes a birthday,”

the Kitten sang, over and over, making different tunes each time. She sang it softly, to herself, but it was loud enough to be heard.

“Dear-my-soul!” said the Princess. “Whatever will happen when you’re a seven-year-longlegs, ’stead of six? Skeeters, you know.”

The Kitten stopped singing and rubbed her leg where there were lumpy spots above her socks.

“She’ll have stockings when they get too long,” said Pat.

“And the next thing we know, she’ll begin to be a Cat! Why don’t you have birthdays like the Star People’s?”

“What kind?” asked the Kitten.

“Steady and reliable,” said the Princess. “Everybody is exactly the right age to begin, and then they never grow any older.”

“But they are different ages,” Pat objected.

“The right age for _them_,” the Princess explained. “Haven’t you noticed that they were?”

The Others thought about it for a minute, and decided that they couldn’t very well be different.

“But if they are always going along the same, perhaps they wouldn’t notice their birthdays,” said Phyllisy.

“Indeed, they would,” said the Princess, earnestly. “They’re particularly good about remembering dates and anniversaries and times of the year. And they’d never think of letting a birthday go by without noticing it.”

“Would they have a party?” asked the Kitten.

“They do usually. Do you think it would help you along a little through one of those nine days, to hear about one of them?”

And the Kitten seemed to think it would.

“Whose birthday is it going to be?” asked Pat.

“Andromeda’s, the same year that the Sailor’s Star was stolen; and Orion gave the party. You remember the young meteors that he had planted were just coming up in his garden when Cassiopeia came to tell him what a misfortune had happened? All those same young plants had kept on growing and growing, unusually well, and Orion was as proud of them as a comet with two tails. They promised to be ripe just in time for Andromeda’s birthday, and he said he would like to give the party.”

“To eat them?” asked Pat.

“Never!” said the Princess. “I thought you knew about meteors: when they are exactly ripe you give them a bit of a pinch. Pop! goes a beautiful starlet with a trail of gold-dust behind it.”

“Fireworks,” said the Kitten.

“That’s the way a balsam seed pops,” said Phyllisy.

“Yes, it reminds me of it,” agreed the Princess. “When they are ripe one has to be very careful not to hit them, or they go off too soon. Orion wouldn’t even pick off a leaf or pull up a weed, he was being so careful to save every one for the birthday celebration; and how he did have to watch the dogs, to keep them out!

“The night before, it was partly cloudy, and Orion almost drove Cassiopeia wild, dodging about behind the drifting clouds, making his last arrangements. Little Bear, too. It seemed as if he were possessed, he who was always so quiet and steady—‘The best Little Bear that ever happened!’ Andromeda used to say, when she gave him a bear-hug, and then rubbed his soft fur the wrong way, from his tail clear down his nose, to feel the tingles and see the sparks fly. But no sooner had they begun to talk about her birthday than he began to be excited; and this last night it seemed as if he could not keep still. Whenever a cloud lay so that he could, he would go clear to the edge of it to watch Orion. Once, Cassiopeia could scarcely believe her eyes: there was Orion, talking to Lady Moon behind the clouds; then she saw Little Bear crowding in between them, looking up at them eagerly. Orion was too much engrossed to notice him, but Cassiopeia called at the top of her voice (and it was a very high top), ‘Come here _this minute_, Little Bear! I should think you were crazy!’

“He heard her, and came prancing back, zigzag, as fast as he could dodge from cloud to cloud. When he was back in his place, barely in the nick of time, his eyes almost twinkled out of his head, and his fur shone so that Cassiopeia could hardly see his stars. She couldn’t help laughing, though she was annoyed. It was bad enough for Orion to dodge around like that; but his legs were so long he could get back to his place always before the clouds floated off.

“The next night no one could have asked for better star-weather, just plain clouds, not a jumpy kind to keep them wondering every half-hour what it was going to do.

“A little before midnight the Star People began to come to the party. Orion was the first to arrive, then Hercules and Draco.”

“Not Little Bear?” asked the Kitten.

“He was there without arriving—Andromeda and Cepheus and Cassiopeia and Perseus and Little Bear. Very soon there was such a noise and chattering down the Sky that one might have thought a whole flock of magpies was coming: but Orion and Draco and Cassiopeia knew better, and magpies don’t squeal and giggle quite like that.

“‘Jutht hear thothe Pleiadeth girlth,’ said Draco. ‘I don’t thee how any one can be tho thilly.’

“‘That’s because you never were a girl,’ said Cepheus. At that, Andromeda began to giggle too; and the more she tried to stop, the harder she giggled.

“‘Now, what’th the matter with _her_?’ asked Draco.

“And then Andromeda squealed, and laughed so she choked, and Perseus had to thump her on the back, while she gasped: ‘To think of Draco’s being a g-gu-girl!—_Oh!_’

“‘She’s one, all right,’ remarked Orion, ‘and here are the others.’

“Maybe they were silly, but the seven Misses Pleiades certainly were pretty to look at as they came in sight. Their gowns were of thin golden gauze, with a multitude of tiny stars woven into the underdress; their interlacing beams made a pattern, like gold embroidery, and they shimmered faintly through the mist-like tissue that veiled them.

“They wore no other stars but one above the forehead. The stars of six of the sisters were very brilliant, but the seventh was puzzling. When one gave a quick glance and looked away one could see the star quite plainly; but when one looked directly at her it was gone! It was like the place where a star had been. This sister’s name was Merope, and her eyes were so sweet and gentle that the people who loved her never missed the star from her soft brown hair.

“The tallest of the sisters, whose name was Maia, came ahead (as much as any one could be ahead where they all walked in a bunch!), and she called to Orion: ‘Oh, weren’t you mean! Why didn’t you wait for us?’

“‘Didn’t you hear us calling you?’ cried Taygeta.

“‘We thought we’d be late,’ said Electra (no one thought of waiting for an answer), ‘Taygeta kept us waiting so.’

“‘I never!’ said Taygeta. ‘It was Alcyone!’ Then they all looked at each other and giggled again, and Andromeda giggled with them, where she and Merope stood with their arms around each other’s waists. It was a giggling match, and Cepheus and Cassiopeia and Orion and Hercules and Perseus and Draco and Castor and Pollux—”

“The Zodiacs?” asked Phyllisy.

“Yes, the Gemini Brothers.”

“Did Sol let them?” asked Pat.

“Of course, for a party. They came just after the Pleiades girls. They all looked at the gigglers, and they smiled because they were young and pretty, and _they_ seemed to know what they were laughing at, but the others couldn’t guess what it was, to save them!”

“Weren’t they silly?” said Pat. “But we do it, too.”

“And quite big girls—much bigger than we,” added Phyllisy.

“Even worse, Miss Phyllisy. I’ve noticed it,” said the Princess.

“Finally Cepheus said: ‘You might as well go home, Orion. These girls don’t want a party to-night.’

“‘Oh, yes, we do!’ they cried. ‘Only Taygeta—’ Then they were off again.

“‘Come, come!’ said Cassiopeia. ‘Just pretend you have a little sense!’

“‘Draco has!’ cried Andromeda. ‘_He_ never was a girl!’

“Then everybody laughed together—Draco, and all; and when they were quieted down they were ready to begin the party.