"Not a bit," it said; "it was nearly all sand where I lived, and coal grew on trees, and the periwinkles were as big as tea-trays--you find them now; they're turned into stone. We Sand-fairies used to live on the seashore, and the children used to come with their little flint-spades and flint-pails and make castles for us to live in. That's thousands of years ago, but I hear that children still build castles on the sand. It's difficult to break yourself of a habit." "But why did you stop living in the castles?" asked Robert. "It's a sad story," said the Psammead gloomily. "It was because they _would_ build moats to the castles, and the nasty wet bubbling sea used to come in, and of course as soon as a Sand-fairy got wet it caught cold, and generally died. And so there got to be fewer and fewer, and, whenever you found a fairy and had a wish, you used to wish for a Megatherium, and eat twice as much as you wanted, because it might be weeks before you got another wish." "And did _you_ get wet?" Robert inquired. The Sand-fairy shuddered. "Only once," it said; "the end of the twelfth hair of my top left whisker--I feel the place still in damp weather. It was only once, but it was quite enough for me. I went away as soon as the sun had dried my poor dear whisker. I scurried away to the back of the beach, and dug myself a house deep in warm dry sand, and there I've been ever since. And the sea changed its lodgings afterwards. And now I'm not going to tell you another thing." "Just one more, please," said the children. "Can you give wishes now?" "Of course," said it; "didn't I give you yours a few minutes ago? You said, 'I wish you'd come out,' and I did." "Oh, please, mayn't we have another?" "Yes, but be quick about it. I'm tired of you." I daresay you have often thought what you would do if you had three wishes given you, and have despised the old man and his wife in the black-pudding story, and felt certain that if you had the chance you could think of three really useful wishes without a moment's hesitation. These children had often talked this matter over, but, now the chance had suddenly come to them, they could not make up their minds. "Quick," said the Sand-fairy crossly. No one could think of anything, only Anthea did manage to remember a private wish of her own and Jane's which they had never told the boys. She knew the boys would not care about it--but still it was better than nothing. "I wish we were all as beautiful as the day," she said in a great hurry. The children looked at each other, but each could see that the others were not any better-looking than usual. The Psammead pushed out his long eyes, and seemed to be holding its breath and swelling itself out till it was twice as fat and furry as before. Suddenly it let its breath go in a long sigh. "I'm really afraid I can't manage it," it said apologetically; "I must be out of practice." The children were horribly disappointed. "Oh, _do_ try again!" they said.