"Never mind," said the hopeful Jane, "we'll soon find him."

But this, though easily said, was hard in the doing. They looked and
they looked, and, though they found their seaside spades, nowhere could
they find the Sand-fairy.

At last they had to sit down and rest--not at all because they were
weary or disheartened, of course, but because the Lamb insisted on being
put down, and you cannot look very carefully after anything you may have
happened to lose in the sand if you have an active baby to look after at
the same time. Get someone to drop your best knife in the sand next time
you go to the seashore and then take your baby brother with you when you
go to look for it, and you will see that I am right.

The Lamb, as Martha had said, was feeling the benefit of the country
air, and he was as frisky as a sandhopper. The elder ones longed to go
on talking about the new wishes they would have when (or if) they found
the Psammead again. But the Lamb wished to enjoy himself.

He watched his opportunity and threw a handful of sand into Anthea's
face, and then suddenly burrowed his own head in the sand and waved his
fat legs in the air. Then of course the sand got into his eyes, as it
had into Anthea's, and he howled.

The thoughtful Robert had brought one solid brown bottle of ginger-beer
with him, relying on a thirst that had never yet failed him. This had to
be uncorked hurriedly--it was the only wet thing within reach, and it
was necessary to wash the sand out of the Lamb's eyes somehow. Of course
the ginger hurt horribly, and he howled more than ever. And, amid his
anguish of kicking, the bottle was upset and the beautiful ginger-beer