"My kite flew away," said he to Mother. "And it was the best one I ever had."
Meanwhile, the kite went sailing along.
"It's my kite," said the West Wind. And he tried to blow it toward the Little Red Schoolhouse.
"No, it's my kite," said the North Wind. And he tried to blow it toward the clouds.
In spite of them both, the kite began to fall. Zigzag it went, first one way, then another, across the road where the Little Red Schoolhouse stood, to an open field on the other side.
Mr. Hill was just coming home from the city on that road. As he was driving along, he saw the kite falling.
"Whoa, Prince," he said to the horse.
Prince stopped. Mr. Hill got out of the buggy and climbed over the fence. "Perhaps I can catch it," he thought. Just before he got to it, the kite came to the ground. Mr. Hill picked it up.
"What a fine kite!" he said. "I wonder what boy lost it. I'll inquire at the houses as I go along."
He wound up the string, gathered up all the tail and went back to the buggy. He started to put it under the seat; but as he did so, his eye fell on something written on the cross-stick. It was the name Mrs. Hill had written there—Bobby Hill.