“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 he.

“Why, father,” said Bobby, “you cannot make bread and horses cannot make bread.”

“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?” asked Bobby.

“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 be fun.”

“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 fresh earth.

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 alone.”

“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 Bobby.

“And where does the wheat come from?” asked father.

“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 bread.”

“Oh, father,” said Bobby, “you forgot. It is Prince and Daisy’s bread too.”