"Not now, perhaps some day."
"Do you do anything else besides hunting for little lost stars?"
"Oh, yes," she said, coming a trifle nearer his bed, "sometimes we
find little stars on earth that have never been in the sky, and they
shine so very brightly that we take them up there, too."
"What kind of stars?"
"Would you like to see them?"
"You bet I would," Marmaduke started to say, then stopped. That
sounded rather rude. Still she didn't reprove him; she didn't seem to
mind it a bit. There was something very homelike about her, for all
she was so radiant and bright.
"I understand perfectly," she assured him, "but we must be off before
daylight." Then she turned to the bureau.
"Take the Little Blue Lamp with you, then you'll seem like a star,
too."
Now long ago Marmaduke had made another trip to the skies, to see The
Old Man in the Moon, but that journey was never like this. This was so
much more beautiful.
He didn't feel as if he were walking or riding, just rising in the air
with one hand clasped in the fingers of the Star Lady, the other
around the little lamp.
Marmaduke wondered if all the people would look up and see his little
light.
"Perhaps they can see just the light and not me," he said to himself,
"and that would be just right."
They rose up over the trees, then over the brook, and he saw himself
shining in the brook. It looked as if his twin were lying there in the
water, and he laughed out loud--that is he thought he did. But he
found he wasn't making any sound. Instead of words, sparkles seemed to
come from his mouth, like the twinkles of a star.
He asked the Star Lady about that. It was very funny, but now that
they were getting up in the clouds he couldn't hear his own voice and
she couldn't hear it, either, but they understood each other just the
same.
"When a star twinkles, it is laughing," she explained, and it all
seemed very clear to him.
Now they passed through great clouds. When they rose above them he
looked down. They seemed like white islands in a clear blue sea. And
the sky was the sea. It wasn't like water, but just as cool, and the
earth, and the towns, and the trees lay like places buried at the
bottom of the ocean.
He tried to step on a cloud, and he couldn't feel anything at all
under him, yet it didn't give way--he could sit down on it. He did lie
down for a little while, it felt so soft and nice, but the Star Lady
made him get up.
"We must hurry, for way over there I see the Sun. He's stirring in his
sleep, and when he gets up and washes his face--"
"Does he wash his face?" interrupted Marmaduke, "just like real
people?"
"Yes, he rubs cloud lather all over it, and then he dips his face in
the bowl of the ocean."
"How does he dry it?"
"Oh, the morning wind does that," she replied, smiling at such a
parade of questions, "but let's go before he starts to wash up, for I
must show you all the star fields. It's only a few steps up."
"But I don't see any steps," exclaimed the little boy.
She smiled.
"Don't you?" she said, "you've been climbing them all the time."
"But it's such a long way to come, and my legs don't feel a bit
tired," he persisted, a little doubtfully.
[Illustration: "'We must hurry, for way over there I see the Sun. He's
stirring in his sleep.'"]
"Oh, no one ever gets tired in the skies," she explained, "we never
get tired and we never grow old."
"Do you live forever 'n ever?"
"Yes, forever," she answered gently, "but there are the fields."
Before them and all around them they stretched--as far as his eyes
could see, and as far as they could have seen if he had had the
biggest telescope in the world.
They were not green like those of Earth, but blue--blue as if each
blade of grass were a blade of violet. And each field was thickly
planted with bright little gleams like fireflies, winking, winking
through the night.
And here and there was a great big star, like the Star Lady herself,
walking about--no, it wasn't that--they were _floating_ about the
meadows. How Marmaduke wished he knew the word she had said they used
in the skies for "walking."
"Are they stars or angels?" he asked her.
"Yes and no," she replied. Her answer was very strange, but she
wouldn't explain it.
Suddenly Marmaduke thought of a question he had often asked people
down on Earth. He could put it to the Star Lady and see if she would
give the same answer as Mother. It was an old, old question that
little children have asked ever since the world began.
"Who made the stars?" it was.
"God," she answered gently, "at least He made the big ones--but not
the little ones."
"And who made them?"
"Oh, the people on earth. Perhaps you made a few yourself," she added.
"_Me_? How ever could I make stars?" And he stared at her in
wonder.
"Oh, yes you can. Do you see those little ones there? They are the
kind deeds people do on Earth. We go looking for them, and we can find
them easily, for they shine out even in the darkest woods and the
darkest streets. Then we put them up here. Look hard and perhaps you
can find some you recognize."
Marmaduke did look hard. There was one near him. It was very little,
but, somehow, as he looked he seemed to know it.
He went very near it. It twinkled like a real star, yet it was round
as a bubble. And in it, just as in a soap bubble, he saw a picture.
The Star Lady was looking at him with an amused smile.
"What do you see?" she asked.
Yes, sure enough, there was a picture in it, a little faint, but he
could make it out a horse and a bright red cart and on the seat a boy
with crutches.
"Why it's Little Geeup and Johnny Cricket!" he exclaimed.
"Yes, it's the picture of the time you took him for a ride," she
answered. "I saw you do it, and I went down to Earth, and took that
kind, bright little star deed, and planted it here in this very same
field."
"Oh, oh!" It was all he could say, it was so wonderful.
Then he saw another field not far away that was full of particularly
bright stars.
"I think I know those," he told the Star Lady, "they seem like
friends."
"Do they? No wonder!"
Then she looked at him, her head on one side, and a smile in her eyes.
"I won't tell you what they are. I'm going to let _you_ tell
_me_."
"Oh, I know, I know," he cried, "they're Mother's kind deeds--all
she's done for me and Jehosophat and Hepzebiah--and, oh, how many
there are!" he added.
"Yes indeed, my dear. You never guessed there were so many, did you?"