There are only seven more constellations that seem to me interesting enough for every one to know and love all his life. These are:

I have named the seasons when, according to some people, these constellations are most enjoyable. But these are not the only times when you can see them. (If you had that seventy-five-cent planisphere, now, you could always tell which constellations are visible and just where to find them.) No matter what time of year you read this chapter, it is worth while to go out and look for these marvels. You can't possibly miss them all.

Have you ever seen a Sickle in the sky? It's a beauty, and whenever I have seen it it has been turned very conveniently for me, because I am left-handed. It is so easy to find that I am almost ashamed to tell. But if you need help, draw a line through the Pointers backward, away from the Pole star, about forty degrees, and it will come a little west of the Sickle. The Sickle is only part of the Lion—the head and the forequarters. Only fanciful map-makers can trace the rest of the Lion. The bright star at the end of the handle is Regulus, which means "king," from the stupid old notion that this star ruled the lives of men. To this day people speak of the "Royal Star," meaning Regulus. And at the end of this chapter I will tell you about three other stars which the Persians called "royal stars."

Another constellation which children particularly love is the Twins—Castor and Pollux. But the sailors got there first! For thousands of years the twins have been supposed to bring good luck to sailors. I don't believe a word of it. But I do know that sailors gloat over Castor and Pollux, and like them better than any other stars. The whole constellation includes all the stars east of the Bull and between the Charioteer and Procyon. But another way to outline the twins is to look northeast of Orion where you will see two rows of stars that run nearly parallel. To me the brothers seem to be standing, but all the old picture-makers show them sitting with their arms around each other, the two brightest stars being their eyes. The eyes are about five degrees apart—the same as the Pointers.

Pollux is now brighter than Castor, but for thousands of years it was just the other way. It is only within three hundred years that this change has taken place. Whether Castor has faded or Pollux brightened, or both, I do not know. Anyhow, Castor is not quite bright enough to be a first magnitude star. Three hundred years is a short time in the history of man, and only a speck in the history of the stars. Three hundred years ago they killed people in Europe just because of the church they went to. That was why the Pilgrim Fathers sailed from England in 1620, and made the first permanent settlement in America, except, of course, Jamestown, Va., in 1607.

There are plenty of stories about old Castor and Pollux, and, like all the other myths, they conflict, more or less. But all agree that these two brothers went with Jason in the ship Argo, shared his adventures and helped him get the golden fleece. And all agree that Castor and Pollux were "born fighters." And that is why the Roman soldiers looked up to these stars and prayed to them to help them win their battles.

Now for the four summer constellations every one ought to know. The first thing to look for is two famous red or reddish stars—Arcturus and Antares.

The way you find Arcturus is amusing. Look for the Big Dipper and find the star at the bottom of the dipper nearest the handle. Got it? Now draw a curve that will connect it with all the stars in the handle, and when you come to the end of the handle keep on till you come to the first very bright star—about twenty-five degrees. That is the monstrous star Arcturus, probably the biggest and swiftest star we can ever see with the naked eye in the northern hemisphere. He is several times as big as our sun, and his diameter is supposed to be several million miles. He is called a "runaway sun," because he is rushing through space at the rate of between two hundred and three hundred miles a second. That means between seventeen and thirty-four million miles a day!

He is coming toward us, too! At such a rate you might think that Arcturus would have smashed the earth to pieces long ago. But he is still very far away, and there is no danger. Some people say that if Job were to come to life, the sky would seem just the same to him as it did 3,400 years ago. The only difference he might notice would be in Arcturus. That would seem to him out of place by a distance about three times the apparent diameter of the moon.

Some people believe this because Job said, "Canst thou guide Arcturus with his sons?" and therefore they imagine that he meant this red star. But I believe he meant the Big Dipper. For in King James's time, when the Bible was translated into English, the word "Arcturus" meant the Big Dipper or rather the Great Bear. And for centuries before it meant the Great Bear. One proof of it is that "Arcturus" comes from an old Greek word meaning "bear"—the same word from which we get arctic. It is only within a few hundred years that astronomers have agreed to call the Great Bear "Ursa Major," and this red star Arcturus. So I think all the books which say Job mentioned this red star are mistaken. I believe Webster's Dictionary is correct in this matter, and I believe the Revised Version translates Job's Hebrew phrase more correctly when it says, "Canst thou guide the Bear with her train?"

Anyhow, Arcturus is a splendid star—the brightest in the constellation called the "Herdsman" or BoÖtes. It is not worth while to trace the Herdsman, but here is an interesting question. Is Arcturus really red? The books mostly say he is yellow. They say he looks red when he is low in the sky, and yellow when he is high. How does he look to you? More yellow than red?

Well, there's no doubt about Antares being red. To find him, draw a long line from Regulus through Arcturus to Antares, Arcturus being more than half way between the other two. But if Regulus and the Sickle are not visible, draw a line from Altair, at right angles to the Eagle, until you come to a bright star about sixty degrees away. You can't miss Antares, for he is the only red star in that part of the sky.

Antares belongs to a showy constellation called the Scorpion. I cannot trace all the outline of a spider-like creature, but his poisonous tail or "stinger" is made by a curved line of stars south and east of Antares. And you can make a pretty fan by joining Antares to several stars in a curve which are west of Antares and a little north. There is an old tale that this Scorpion is the one that stung Orion to death when he began to "show off" and boast that there was no animal in the world that could kill him.

Another very bright star in the southern part of the sky is Spica. To find it, start with the handle of the Dipper, and making the same backward curve which helped you to find Arcturus, keep on till you come to the white star Spica—say thirty degrees beyond Arcturus. This is the brightest star in the constellation called "the Virgin." It is not worth while trying to trace her among nearly forty faint stars in this neighbourhood. But she is supposed to be a winged goddess who holds up in her right hand an ear of wheat, and that is what Spica means.

Now for an autumn constellation—the Southern Fish. I don't care if you fail to outline a fish, but I do want you to see the bright star that is supposed to be in the fish's mouth. And I don't want you to balk at its hard name—Fomalhaut (pronounced fo´-mal-o). It is worth a lot of trouble to know it as a friend. To find it, you have to draw an exceedingly long line two-thirds of the way across the whole sky. Start with the Pointers. Draw a line through them and the Pole star and keep clear on until you come to a solitary bright star rather low down in the south. That is Fomalhaut. It looks lonely and is lonely, even when you look at it through a telescope.

And now for the last story. Once upon a time the Persians thought there must be four stars that rule the lives of men. So they picked out one in the north and one in the south and one in the east and one in the west, just as if they were looking for four bright stars to mark the points of the compass. If you want to find them yourself without my help don't read the next sentence, but shut this book and go out and see. Then write down on a piece of paper the stars you have selected and compare them with the list I am about to give. Here are the four royal stars of the Persians: Fomalhaut for the north, Regulus for the south, Aldebaran for the east, and Antares for the west.

Why doesn't this list agree with yours? Because Persia is so far south of where we live. Ah, there are very few things that are absolutely true. Let's remember that and not be too sure: for everything depends upon the point of view! I hope you will see Fomalhaut before Christmas, before he disappears in the west. He is with us only five months and is always low—near the horizon. But the other seven months in the year he gladdens the children of South America and the rest of the southern hemisphere, for they see him sweeping high and lonely far up into their sky and down again.

But the loveliest of all the constellations described in this chapter is the Northern Crown. It is not a perfect crown—only about half a circle—but enough to suggest a complete ring. Look for it east of Arcturus. I can see seven or eight stars in the half-circle, one of which is brighter than all the others. That one is called "the Pearl." The whole constellation is only fifteen degrees long, but "fine things come in small packages"; and children grow to love the Northern Crown almost as much as they love the Pleiades.