Small but no picture book, light but no airborne fantasy. Jimmy Supworth liked to fly kites. He had vision and will. He grew up to be James Supworth, Kite Maker. One day he devises a five-kite Flyer, the first of its kind, to bear him aloft; when it pulls loose from its anchorage (an aerodynamic miscalculation) the Kite Man is floating free. He flies through the air with the greatest of ease except for a cloud of migrating birds, a floating balloon of spiders, a red glow which turns out to be the blast furnaces of Pittsburgh, a rainstorm, and a burning dump (Manhattan) where the Empire State Building spire tangles his tail. Despite subsequent idolizing he's discontented because his vision disappears. But his Fifth Avenue parade takes him right to the New York Public Library whose books ""will show him the way to bigger and better kites."" His centrally parted hair and herringbone knickers (with an extra handkerchief from his mother) are more fun to see than hear about; his impulses are too stiff and arty-ficial, the text unportentous.