“I don’t guess hit’s a very good’n,” said the child, ruefully, clinging to the scrap of paper with reluctant grasp. “You reckon she’d keer fer this’n?”

“I reckon she’d care for anything you made. Give it to me, and I’ll send it to her.”

“She tol’ me the sea, hit war blue, an’ I can’t make hit right blue an’ soft like she said. That thar blue pencil, hit’s too slick. I can’t make hit stay on the papah.”

“What are these mounds here on either side of the sea?”

“Them’s mountains.”

“But why did you put mountains in the sea?”