“It’s a laylock; that’s what it is.”
“And the little bird that goes to light—”
“That ain’t a bird and you know it.” Peter Quick Banta breathed hard. “That’s a butterfly.”
“I see. But the lie-lawc, it drop—so!” The gesture was inimitable. “And the butterfly, she do not come down, plop! She float—so!” The grimy hands fluttered and sank.
“They do, do they? Well, you put it down on the sidewalk.”
From that moment the outside world ceased to exist for the urchin. He fell to with concentrated fervor, while Peter Quick Banta and I diverted the traffic. Only once did he speak:
“Yellow,” he said, reaching, but not looking up.
Silently the elder artist put the desired crayon in his hand. When the last touches were done, the boy looked up at us, not boastfully, but with supreme confidence.
“There!” said he.
It was crude. It was ill-proportioned. The colors were raw. The arrangements were false.