“Ah, yes, poor little boy! he has lain down again among the buttercups; but I think he is not listening to the brook, nor smelling the apple-blossoms. I think he is crying. His head is turned away, and his face hidden in the grass.
“Now Ranger comes again, but not, as before, leaping and bounding; not frisking, and wagging his tail. Oh, no! he looks quite solemn this time. Dogs know a great deal. Ranger understands that something bad has happened. He puts his head close down, and tries to lick the boy’s face. Now he gets his nose close up to Ernest’s ear, as if he were whispering something. What is he whispering, I wonder. Poor Ernest! he seems very sad; and no wonder. Any boy would to lose a kite like that.
“But he jumps up; he smiles, and looks almost happy. Something good must have been whispered to him either by Ranger or by his own thoughts.”
“What was it, mother?”
“I think it was, ‘Don’t cry for lost kites; don’t cry for lost kites! Run home and make another; run home and make another!’”
“And will he?”
“I think so: I think he will. Yes, there he goes! He runs through the grass, leaps the brook, springs over the fence, whistling to Ranger all the while. Ranger is so glad, he barks and bounds like a crazy dog.
“There’s the house; and there’s his mother, looking out of the window, very glad to see her boy, if some of the dandelion feathers did stay on. I hope she’ll find some more newspapers for him, and let him make more paste on her stove.”
“O mother! please let’s go take a walk and find the little guess-boy, and see him make his kite.”