THE KITE.
John White
Flew his kite,
On a boisterous day,
A gale
Broke the tail,
And it soon flew away.
And while
On a stile,
He sat sighing and sad,
Charley Gray
Came that way,
A good natured lad.
“Don’t cry;
Wipe your eye,”
Said he, “little Jack;
Stay here;
Never fear,
And I’ll soon bring it back.”
To the stile,
With a smile,
He presently brought
The kite,
And John White
Thanked him much, as he ought.
