The little boy scampered along the edge of the blank space, his pen, as always, clutched tightly in his hand. He squatted down, frowning, not in displeasure—no one ever saw him exhibit that—but in intense concentration. Carefully he drew a thick, bold line, almost as high as his head, curving slightly at the top and the bottom. He scrambled around it and drew another line beside it, similar but curving the other way, so that the curves faced away from each other. More quickly, he scribbled some smaller lines between the two; then, satisfied with his trunk, traced atop it the jagged outline of a small cloud of leaves. In the middle of this, he drew a small half-circle, added some little sticks protruding from it, then eagerly inserted the crowning glory: three small birds peering out from the little nest. He then stepped back to watch. The birds blinked, twitched, and rose fluttering out of the nest, warbling gaily. The boy beamed and jumped in delight, watched another few moments, then scurried on to draw something else.

Thus he ever was, never anxious but never still, well known as the merriest inhabitant of that Space. Whether other, equally contented souls lived in other Spaces in the Sketch, no one could say. The Sketch was a canvas so great and wide that none of its residents could say much about it beyond their own corner or area. No one could be sure what it was a picture “of” in its entirety, only what they saw drawn around them. Seldom did any travel from one Space to another, for the Spaces were bordered by wide swaths of blank Space. Most avoided these altogether, as empty waste; but now and then, some adventurous soul would venture across from one filled Space to another, tracing a line beside him to keep from getting lost. Others, reasoning that more than mere lines could be drawn in the blank Space, decorated bits of that Space with figures and drawings of their own. These never quite matched the original Sketchings, but some bore a considerable resemblance.

In the creation of these drawings, the little boy spent his days—in the proverbial sense; for, when reminded, he did also enjoy playing with other children and with animals, and sometimes stopped to help someone carry wood or collect their turnips. If no one had ever called his attention, however, he could have devoted every waking minute to his art. This art was, after his cheerfulness, the chief reason for his reputation. Not that he could otherwise have passed quite unnoticed, for the Space where he lived was not a densely peopled one; it mostly included woods and mountains, with some little houses gathered between them. But, of all the people and animals dwelling there, few had much interest in art, and fewer still could imagine devoting so much time to it as did this child. “He was drawn with a pen in his hand,” someone would occasionally remark, by way of explanation, almost invariably to hear, “Sure he was—same as everyone! But when did you last so much as pick up yours?”

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