<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</SPAN></span></p>
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<h2><SPAN name="THE_KITE" id="THE_KITE"></SPAN>THE KITE.</h2>
<p>It was the most tiresome kite in the world,
always wagging its tail, shaking its ears,
breaking its string, sitting down on the tops of
houses, getting stuck in trees, entangled in hedges,
flopping down on ponds, or lying flat on the grass,
and refusing to rise higher than a yard from the
ground.</p>
<p>I have often sat and thought about that kite, and
wondered who its father and mother were. Perhaps
they were very poor people, just made of
newspaper and little bits of common string knotted
together, obliged to fly day and night for a living,
and never able to give any time to their children or
to bring them up properly. It was pretty, for it
had a snow-white face, and pink and white ears;
and, with these, no one, let alone a kite, could help
being pretty. But though the kite was pretty, it
was not good, and it did not prosper; it came to a
bad end, oh! a terrible end indeed. It stuck itself
on a roof one day, a common red roof with a
broken chimney and three tiles missing. It stuck
itself there, and it would not move; the children
tugged and pulled and coaxed and cried, but still it
would not move. At last they fetched a ladder,
and had nearly reached it when suddenly the kite<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</SPAN></span>
started and flew away—right away over the field
and over the heath, and over the far far woods, and
it never came back again—never—never.</p>
<p>Dear, that is all. But I think sometimes that
perhaps beyond the dark pines and the roaring sea
the kite is flying still, on and on, farther and farther
away, for ever and for ever.</p>
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