George held up his kite. There was a large hole in it. In trying to raise his kite, the little boy, being perhaps rather clumsy, had got it entangled in a tree. Its beauty was spoiled, and George had brought it home without having had the pleasure of seeing it up in the sky.
"Well, well," said his kind old grandfather, "we will have it mended and try it again. Better luck next time!"
Carlo, the dog, looked up, as much as to say, "If there is anything I can do for you, George, call on me."
But George's bright little sister Susan, without saying a word, ran into the house and brought a pot of paste and some paper. "I'll mend it for you, George," said she, "in three minutes."
And sure enough, she mended it so neatly that it was as good as new the next morning, and George took it out again with a face as merry as ever. He got it up in fine style this time, and had a grand time flying it.
It went up higher and pulled harder than any kite on the play-ground. Susan, who often went out with George to have a share of the fun, was hardly strong enough to hold it.
One day when Susan was trying to wind up the string, the stick slipped out of her hands, and away went the kite. George got it back after a hard chase, but it was torn to shreds. Susan now looked sad in her turn.
But George only laughed, and said, "Never mind, Susie. Bring out the old paste-pot again."
IDA FAY.