Because she had said she would, and they had come expressly when the tide was out, the Princess didn’t wait to be asked; she only looked to see what kind of an Ocean it was, while the others hunted for a pointed shell like the one she used before—and it was a cool blue one, with little waves running on it and cloud shadows moving across.

Then she took the shell that Miss Phyllisy brought, with the Others following; and perhaps it was the very one that flew out of her hand! Anyway, it was exactly like it; it could have been brought back by the sea, and that was a sign that it was lucky to draw more Star People on the sand.

They chose a place to begin, and the Princess drew a circle around her, as large as she could reach from the middle; and it was surprisingly round—when it wasn’t mechanical. Then she came to the line of it and reached over and drew another, larger, circle just so far outside; then she made marks—little neat ones—on the edge, to have it even, and drew lines across to divide it into spaces; and there would be twelve. And the Princess was inside, drawing, and the Others were outside, watching to see what it was going to be—like a Bewitchment, with nobody speaking. For each time Pat started to say: “Whatever is it?” Prudence said: “Don’t speak!” and she stopped. But the Kitten lay on the sand, propped on her elbows, watching and making a song for herself, inside, until the Princess was ready to talk.

As she drew the last line across, that made twelve spaces, she began, sing-song: “Walk right up, ladies and gentlemen! The greatest show in Skyland is now ready to begin. Unrivaled aggregation of animals and galaxy of talented artists. Old Sol’s Menagerie, in Sky-Language called the Zodiac. Something between a zoÖlogical garden and a circus, and better than both put together—” She stopped and laughed, teasing with her eyes.

“What does it mean?” asked Pat.

“I’m going to show you. These are twelve great cages that make a splendid ring all around the Sky—Houses, the Star People call them. They think it sounds better; but they aren’t in the least like either cages or houses; they’re more like a place; and it isn’t a flat circle like this. It’s that way in Starland. You can’t really describe it, because it’s so different; but we can draw it this way, and call it what we like.” The Princess stooped down and began to draw: “In this first cage, Sol keeps the Ram that had the Golden Fleece, that they took away from him, to take such care of! And now that he’s a Star-Ram, he has it back and takes care of it himself.”

“So Draco needn’t watch it any more,” observed Phyllisy.

“The Ram likes it much better this way,” said the Princess. “And here is his name, like a doorplate on his house.” She made a funny little mark in the corner of the space. “Wherever you see that mark, Beloveds, it’s the Sign of the Ram; and it looks like his curving horns. Next door is a great white Bull. One time he was grazing in a meadow where some children were playing. He was very gentle, and let them wind garlands of flowers around his horns. At last, one of them climbed on his back, and away he went with her and swam over the sea. Did you ever see such remarkable, lofty horns?” All the time she was drawing.—“Here’s the sign of his House, and here go his stars.” The Others had stars collected, and when they had finished the Bull, she went on: “In this House are the Gemini Brothers, twin boys who do boxing and wrestling, and ground-and-lofty tumbling. Wonderful singers they are, too, Castor and Pollux, and especial friends of all sailors. They were great sailors themselves, and once drove all the wicked pirates out of the Ægean Sea.”

“The Star ones?” asked Pat.

“No; the real ones. We want two beautiful pebbles for the stars that they wear in their helmets. And up here”—the Princess whirled across—“in this last House that brings it around the circle are two more twins—the Fishes that Cassiopeia sang about to Little Bear. They can have only small stars, because they were discontented.”

When they were done the Princess turned back to the place where she left off.

“In this cage at the North is a Crab; and in the cage exactly opposite is a Goat, but not a common goat. He is a Sea-Goat—like this, with a kind of fish tail.” She left the Crab, and drew the Goat to show. “These two were once impertinent to Old Sol; and now he has them in his Menagerie; and I’m glad of it! Aren’t you, Kitten?”

“What did they do?” asked Phyllisy.

“It’s poetry,” said the Princess. She stopped drawing and clasped her hands around her knees, sitting in the middle of the Zodiac to say the poetry; and the Others sitting outside to listen.

“That is the poetry,” said the Princess, “and this is very truly true: Old Sol makes a visit and spends a little while every year in each of the Houses of the Zodiac. But when he comes to the farthest North—which is the Crab—in the Summer, he turns back and goes South until he comes to the Goat’s House, which is the farthest South, in the Winter; then he turns and comes back, and so forever and always.”

“Won’t they let him go?” asked the Kitten.

“He doesn’t give them a chance to prevent. Now he knows it’s a Rule of the Sky he obeys it even before he comes to the place they say he mustn’t pass.”

“But they might have told him politely,” said Phyllisy. “It means something behind, doesn’t it, Dearie?—just plainly true without anything around it?”

The Princess laughed suddenly, because Miss Phyllisy was so earnest and so funny; but she nodded, “Yes.”

“And the ‘House’ just means that part of the sky where they are?”

The Princess nodded again.

“And Old Sol has put a Bewitchment around it so they can’t get out—instead of bars,” Phyllisy added, going back of her own accord to the make-believe, because she preferred it. And that was one of the ways she was wise. What was plainly true could very well wait until she was older and had more time to think about it.

“Here, in Mr. Crab’s House, Sol keeps a beehive.” The Princess went back to her drawing where she had left off the Crab to draw the Goat; and the Others found very tiny yellow shells that looked like them, for the bees.

“Now, here is a Lion who doesn’t have to be any lion in particular because he’s so splendid just being himself. He’s like ‘Terrible as an army with banners,’ not because he’s terrible, but he’s like a heraldry lion. Right next him is Mlle. Virgo, very ladylike and not a bit afraid.”

“What is she for?” asked Pat, while the Princess was drawing her.

“She does ‘poses plastiques’—which means that she looks perfectly lovely being all kinds of statuary on top of a pedestal, and when she doesn’t do that she does remarkable juggling with a pair of great scales that are carefully kept in the cage next hers, so they shan’t get out of order.”

“Could they weigh anything?” asked the Kitten.

“Yes, indeed! The Star People may go in and be weighed on them, if Mlle. Virgo goes with them. But the Scorpion really does the weighing—puts on the weights for her—because she’s so ladylike. He lives next door, on the other side, and he’s very handy with his claws.”

“The Orion one?” asked Pat.

“The Orion one,” said the Princess, beginning in the middle to draw him. “Somebody will have to find a splendiferous red something for the star he wears above his fiery heart.” She drew down his body into his curled-up tail; then she put on his lobstery claws.

“And this gentleman is Mr. Sagittarius, with a head and body like a man joined to the body of a horse; and he is a better shot with a bow and arrow than a Red Indian. Then, there’s the Goat—we’ve done, and the Fishes—we’ve done. And there’s just one more House I haven’t told you about. An old man lives in it. He’s like Orion in one thing, he’s very fond of gardening. But he hasn’t any garden, only a watering-pot. And that’s the part of him we’ll draw, because that’s where he wears his stars.”

“You’re making two spouts,” said the Kitten.

“Because it has. If you want to garden, and have no garden but a watering-pot, you can’t have too many spouts. The Ancients said the two streams that flowed from it watered all the gardens of the world.”

“It must have felt funny to be an Ancient,” said Pat.

“Why?” asked Phyllisy.

“With those queer ideas in them,” said Pat.

The Princess looked around the Zodiac ring, to see what was left out; and it was all done but signs in the Fishes, and three more she had not put in when she made them. She put them in now, in the corners of the Houses. So it was finished; and it had taken a good while—drawing and talking and starring them all; but, because she wasn’t tired, they moved along a little farther and began afresh.

It was a tremendous man, with lumpy arms and legs; and that was Hercules, the strongest person in the Sky.

“I’ve heard about him,” said Pat. “He killed lions, and strangled some snakes when he was just a little baby in his cradle—immense ones; he must have been always strong.”

“I suppose he inherited it,” said the Kitten—very grown-up.

“Just hear the child!” said Miss Phyllisy. “What does that mean, Kit?”

“I know,” the Kitten insisted. “He could do it.”

“Course he could!” said the Princess; “and because of that. He came of a very fine family—none better. He was a God of the Greeks.”

“A God!” exclaimed Pat. “Do you—mean—to say—that Hercules was a God?”

“I do,” said the Princess; and, “One of those Ancients, you know, Pat,” explained Phyllisy. But Pat paid no attention.

“Well! For pitysakes! Hercules—a God!” she said once more.

And that was all; and nobody will ever know why it surprised her so.

“That’s what he was,” said the Princess, drawing away, very industrious,—“a demi, to begin with, and they made him a whole one. He was highly cultivated and accomplished, besides being so strong. But he had a great deal of trouble, and had to work very hard; and altogether it quite broke him down. It made him always on the lookout for unfortunate signs. Now that he’s a Star Person, he isn’t particularly intellectual, but he is perfectly amiable; and that is a great deal to be thankful for, when you consider how strong he is.” And by that time he was ready for his stars.

Miss Phyllisy suddenly thought of something.

“Oh, Dearie!” she exclaimed. “There’s somebody you never drew.”

“Who is that, Miss Phyllisy?”

“The Big Bear. You never talk about him.”

The Princess made little marks in the sand, all in a row, that didn’t mean anything. When she spoke it was in a slow, thinking-it-out way: “There is something curious about that Bear, that makes him not do the things the other Star People do; and this is it:”—she spoke very impressively,—“The Great Bear doesn’t know whether he’s a bear or a dipper!”

“Oh-h!” cried the Others.

“What do you mean?” asked Phyllisy.

“He’s confused,” said the Princess. “You see, before he was a Star Person he was a performing bear, and in one of his tricks—the best one—he stood on his head so much it affected his brain. Now he is a Star Person, and he’s quite harmless, but he thinks perhaps he’s a Dipper. And, of course, when he thinks that he can’t go about or talk; and there’s nothing for him to dip, so he doesn’t lead a very amusing life.”

“Wouldn’t the Star People let him go with them?” asked the Kitten.

“Certainly they would—be glad to. But he doesn’t want to. And they let him have his way. They call him ‘Major’; and that pleases him when he thinks he’s a bear, and when they see he has a ‘dipper-fit’ they don’t talk to him at all, because he doesn’t like it.”

“I should think they’d be glad,” said Pat. “What could they talk about?”

“Nothing intelligent,” agreed the Princess, “so they let him alone, to be happy in his own way.”

“Is Little Bear his child?” asked the Kitten.

“No, Kitten. They aren’t related; they only both happen to be bears and neighbors. Major never goes away from his place—almost never,” she corrected herself. Then she stopped, and began again, talking to herself. “There was once—such a time as they had—” She shook her head, but she did’t say any more.

“Aren’t you going to tell it?” asked Pat.

“Bimeby,” said the Princess, suddenly energetic. “I’m going to draw him now.

“Now, my Hearties! How’s that for a bear? and just crying for stars. Look alive! and see what you’ll see when he has them on.”

They placed his pebbles, and seven were especially large, and all the time Pat kept saying: “I don’t see anything. What is it?”—and all the Princess would say was, “Look at him hard,—his stars,—never mind his legs.” And then Phyllisy saw something that made her laugh. “Oh, Dearie! Is that what made you think of it?—The Dipper—what he thinks?”

“S-sh,” said the Princess.

“What are you laughing at? Tell me now,” said Pat.

“Don’t you see, Pat?” explained Phyllisy. “It’s the old Dipper we always knew—part of it is. I never thought of it’s being the same.”

“Two names for it?” asked Pat, looking at the Princess.

She nodded. “I know another one.”

“Aren’t you going to tell it?”

“Bimeby,” she said again, just as she had said it before.

And that was drawing enough, and no time for a story, but much better for a scamper on the beach, along the edge of the waves that had stopped going out and were running all the time nearer.