“His name?—let me think. Ah! his name is Ernest. Now Ernest turns his head; now he smiles; now he whistles.”
“And what is he whistling for?”
“I think, his dog. Yes, yes! there he comes,—a noble shaggy fellow, leaping, frisking, bounding. Ernest calls, ‘Ranger, Ranger, Ranger! here, Ranger!’”
“How noble is Ranger, mother?”
“Very noble. Oh! he’s a splendid fellow!—a knowing, good-natured fellow. Now he comes bounding on. The boy laughs, and lets Ranger lick his face all over.
“‘Now down!’ he says,—‘down. Ranger, down, down, sir!’ Good dog: he lies down by Ernest, and winks his eyes, and snaps at the flies and the bumble-bees.”
“O mother! what is your little guess-boy doing to his kite? It snakes; it pitches: oh, it is falling down!—blowing away!”
“My poor little boy! Perhaps a bumble-bee startled him: it flew right in his eye, I’ve no doubt, and made him let go. How he runs! Too late, my boy: your kite is gone, and will never return,—never, never!”
“Where has it gone, mother?”
“Far, far over the woods: now it falls into the river, and the river will float it away to the sea.”