“What are you going to do to-day?”
asked Bobby one morning.
Father looked across the table with
a twinkle in his eye.
“Prince and Daisy and I are
going to help make bread to-day, Bobby,” said
“Why, father,” said Bobby,
“you cannot make bread and horses cannot make
“I did not say we were going
to make it alone,” said father. “I
said we were going to help.”
“Mother makes the bread.
She makes it in the kitchen,” said Bobby.
“But we are going to help,” said father.
“Can Prince and Daisy come into the kitchen?”
“No, they will not come into
the kitchen,” said father. “They truly
will help, though. Would you like to see them?”
“Yes,” said Bobby. “That would
“Come down to the field below the barn with
me,” said father.
So Bobby ran along beside father down the lane to
the Old Red Barn.
Father harnessed Prince and Daisy,
drove them to the field below the barn and hitched
them to a tool with a shiny steel point.
“But, father, that is a plow,”
said Bobby. “Mother does not make bread
with a plow. She makes it in a pan and stirs it
with a big spoon.”
“That is true,” said father,
“but we shall help to make bread with a plow.”
Soon father started the horses while
he held the handles of the plow so its shiny steel
point would dig down into the hard earth.
Straight to the other end of the field
they went, leaving behind them a long furrow of brown
Back they came toward Bobby, making
another furrow. And so back and forth, back and
forth, all the forenoon they went.
Bobby sometimes trudged along by father,
sometimes he rested at the end of the field.
Bobby was watching very hard.
At last he said, “Father, there is not any bread
yet. When shall I see the bread?”
“It takes a long time to make
bread from this brown earth,” said father.
“Does it take all day?”
said Bobby, who was beginning to get tired.
“Yes, it takes more than a day,”
said father. “It takes about a year.”
“I think mother’s way
is better,” said Bobby. “It takes
her only one day.”
“But mother could not make bread
at all, if we did not help,” said father.
“Oh, indeed, she does,”
said Bobby. “I have seen her make it all
“Bobby,” said father,
“of what does mother make our bread?”
Now Bobby was only six years old,
but he had often watched mother make bread.
“She makes it from flour,” said he.
“What is the flour made from?” asked father.
“The miller grinds it from wheat,” said
“And where does the wheat come from?”
“It grows in the field,” said Bobby.
“So far you are right, Bobby,”
said father. “Now look at the ground over
there where I have not yet plowed. Would wheat
grow if I sowed it there?”
“I suppose not,” said Bobby.
“No, indeed,” said father.
“It would lie on top of the ground and wither
and die; but when I sow it in the soft earth which
Prince and Daisy have plowed, it will grow.”
“Now I see,” said Bobby,
“Prince and Daisy do truly help to make bread.”
“You are good horses,”
said he, patting them on their noses.
Just then the dinner bell rang.
“Come, Bobby,” said father.
“We will take Prince and Daisy to the barn and
give them hay and oats. Then you and I will go
up to the house and eat some of mother’s nice
“Oh, father,” said Bobby,
“you forgot. It is Prince and Daisy’s