A LITTLE GUESS-STORY.
“O mother,look up!—look up in the sky! away, ’wa—y up there! Oh! isn’t a kite a pretty sight? Now it only looks like a speck of something. I wonder where it comes from.”
“Yes, Nannie, I think it is a pretty sight; and no doubt the owner of it thinks so too. I wish we could see him. Let’s guess about him: what do you say to that? Let’s play we could follow the string down, down, down, away down behind yonder hill, till we come to the boy at the other end.”
“Oh, yes, mother! You guess about him, please.”
“I will try, Nannie. Ah, there he is! I’ve found the little fellow! He lies in the grass, flat on his back, paste on his hands, I think, and on his trousers too. The buttercups are thick about him,—bright yellow buttercups; but the dandelions are turning white.”
“Why do you shut up your eyes, mother?”
“Because I can guess prettier things with my eyes shut. The little boy holds fast to his kite-string. There’s a row of lilac-bushes near, and an apple-tree—a beautiful apple-tree—all in bloom; cherry-trees andpear-trees too, white as snow. I wish we were there, Nannie. A little brook goes dancing by all so gayly! Happy little brook, to be dancing so merrily on among the flowers! and happy little boy, to be lying there listening to its song, and smelling the apple-blossoms, with the south wind blowing over him! The clover-tops and the cool green clover-leaves come close to his cheeks,—his round, rosy cheeks; and there’s a little buttercup right under his chin, seeing for itself whether he loves butter or not.”
“And does he?”
“Yes, he loves butter. And now he has picked a dandelion-ball, and is blowing it to see—hold fast to your string, my boy!—to see if his mother wants him. Three blows.”
“Do they all blow off?”
“No, not all: a few stay on.”
“Then she doesn’t want him.”
“No, his mother doesn’t want him quite yet. He can lie there a little while longer, and watch his kite, and smell the flowers, and hear the birds sing. I wish I were a little boy lying in the grass.”
“How lovely is your littleguess-boy, mother?”
“Oh! quite lovely, quite lovely. He has brown wavy hair, and bright eyes, and a right pleasant, laughing face. Two cunning pussy-flowers come close down, and tickle his ear.—Be careful, littleguess-boy! don’t let the string slip. That kite is too good to lose. Great pains you took to make its frame light and smooth and even; worked hard with newspapers and paste; the tail was a trouble; the bobs got tangled: but that’s all over now.”
“What is your littleguess-boy’s name, mother?”
“His name?—let me think. Ah! his name is Ernest. Now Ernest turns his head; now he smiles; now he whistles.”
“And what is he whistling for?”
“I think, his dog. Yes, yes! there he comes,—a noble shaggy fellow, leaping, frisking, bounding. Ernest calls, ‘Ranger, Ranger, Ranger! here, Ranger!’”
“How noble is Ranger, mother?”
“Very noble. Oh! he’s a splendid fellow!—a knowing, good-natured fellow. Now he comes bounding on. The boy laughs, and lets Ranger lick his face all over.
“‘Nowdown!’ he says,—‘down. Ranger,down,down, sir!’ Good dog: he lies down by Ernest, and winks his eyes, and snaps at the flies and the bumble-bees.”
“O mother! what is your littleguess-boydoing to his kite? It snakes; it pitches: oh, it is falling down!—blowing away!”
“My poor little boy! Perhaps a bumble-bee startled him: it flew right in his eye, I’ve no doubt, and made him let go. How he runs! Too late, my boy: your kite is gone, and will never return,—never, never!”
“Where has it gone, mother?”
“Far, far over the woods: now it falls into the river, and the river will float it away to the sea.”
“Can you see it go floating along?”
“Yes: it floats along by green banks where willow-trees are growing.”
“Please don’t open your eyes yet. Can’t you see some littleguess-children coming to pick it out?”
“Perhaps I can. Now it gets tangled in the roots of a tree; now on it goes again; now it stops behind a rock. Yes, there are some littleguess-girls, little frolickingguess-girls, coming to the bank of the stream.”
“Do they see it?”
“Yes; but they can’t reach. Take care, you little thing with a blue dress ruffled round the bottom! you are bending too far over. Ha, ha, ha!”
“What are you laughing at, mother?”
“Why, there’s a little bareheaded one tugging a long bean-pole. She’ll never do any thing with that. Now they throw stones. One hits; another hits. There goes the kite; and there goes the bean-pole; and there—dear, dear!—no; but she did almost tumble in. On, on floats the kite,—on to the sea.
“There’s a little boat coming, rowed by two children. They steer for that odd thing which floats upon the water. ‘What is it?’ they ask. An oar is reached out, and a kite-frame picked up,—nothing but a frame: the paper is soaked away.”
“And what has become of Ernest, mother? Is he lying down there now, smelling the blossoms, and hearing the brook go?”
“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 badhas 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 littleguess-boy, and see him make his kite.”