“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.