You will see right away that Uncle Henry was a poet, even if Pan's pipe wasn't the smoking kind. It might have been, as easy as not. Uncle Henry was wondering whether this last fancy might be made into a poem for his college paper, when the children's voices floated up from the beach. They were sitting on the smooth sand and singing in unison, "Star bright, star-light-- Many's the star I see tonight. Star bright, star-light-- Tell me, is it true? I wish I may, I wish I might Get the wish I wish tonight-- Star bright, star-light, Tell me, is it true?" Uncle Henry took his feet off the porch-railing and allowed his chair to use all of its feet again. Then he leaned out by a post and looked straight up into the blue-black vault of a moonless July night sky. The stars were beautifully clear. Evidently Peter, Paul, and Betty were singing praise to the fact. They had clapped enthusiastically for themselves, and were now beginning the encore--a repetition of "Star bright, star-light." Uncle Henry's face had become thoughtful, and now he stepped down from the porch, and strolled down the boards to the dock. There he stood craning his neck backward and looking up, until the children had once more finished the verse, laughing and clapping. Evidently the applause for themselves was not enough this time, for there was no encore. Peter, his eye on Uncle Henry, flopped down on his back and began gazing upward, too. In a moment he called, "Uncle Hen?" "Yes, Pete," from the dock, where Uncle Henry was star-gazing in the opposite direction. "Why do they call 'the big dipper' the 'great bear'--and _is_ there any 'little dipper'? Betty says there isn't, 'cause she never saw it." Uncle Henry stepped off the dock upon the smooth sand, kneeled down, and without answering began collecting little smooth pebbles. Peter sat up and asked in surprise, "Don't _you_ know, Uncle Hen?" Surely this genius, who could make new kinds of kites, and willow-whistles that "worked fine," was not going to fail now. The other children turned to him, expectant too. Betty herself was willing to be proved wrong about the existence of the "little dipper," rather than admit a limit to Uncle Henry's wisdom. "Let's make a nice, smooth place on the sand," said Uncle Henry, his hands now full of those mysterious pebbles. These he put into his pocket and began, on all fours, to smooth sand industriously. "Come on, youngsters," he invited, "and I'll let you settle the questions yourselves. We'll make a game of it," he added. The trio breathed easier. Uncle Henry _did_ know, and was going to tell--in a new, interesting way. Three pairs of hands started smoothing sand, with some waste of energy, but with rapid results. "Now," said Uncle Henry, squatting down before the leveled place, and pouring out the pebbles in a little pile, "how many stones do you need to make the dipper, Pete? We'll draw it on the sand, with pebbles for stars."