ep up a stable. The horse is a delicate animal
and requires a thousand attentions. If you don't believe me ask Roger.

Just now he is grooming his beautiful chestnut, who would be the pearl
of wooden horses, the flower of the Black Forest steeds, if he had not
lost half his tail in battle. It's a matter of some moment with Roger to
know if wooden horses' tails grow in again.

[Illustration]

Again having made believe groom his horses, Roger gives them some
imaginary oats, for it is an understood thing that the little wooden
animals on which small boys ride through the land of dreams are always
fed in this way.

Behold Roger starting out for his ride. He has mounted his horse. Even
though the poor beast has no more ears, and all his mane looks like an
old broken comb, Roger loves him. Why?

[Illustration: JUST NOW HE IS GROOMING HIS BEAUTIFUL CHESTNUT, WHO WOULD
BE THE PEARL OF WOODEN HORSES, THE FLOWER OF THE BLACK FOREST STUD, IF
HE HAD NOT LOST HALF HIS TAIL IN BATTLE.

_Printed in France_]

It would be hard to say. This red horse was a present from a poor man,
and maybe there is some secret grace in the gifts of the poor. Remember
our Lord who blessed the widow's mite.

Roger is gone. He is quite far away. The flowers on the carpet already
seem to him like flowers in tropical, distant countries. A pleasant
journey, little Roger! May your hobby horse conduct you safely through
the world. May you never have a hobby more dangerous. Little or great we
all ride. Who has not his hobby?

[Illustration]

Men's hobbies ride like mad through all the ways of life; one makes a
bid for glory, another for pleasure; many of them jump from high places
and break their rider's necks. I hope when you are grown up, little
Roger, you will bestride two hobby horses that will keep you always in
the right path: one lively, the other quiet; both beautiful--courage and
kindness.

COURAGE

Louisa and Frederick have gone to school along the village street. The
sun is shining and the two children sing. They sing like the nightingale
because their hearts are gay. They sing an old song that their
grandmothers sang when they were little girls and which one day their
children's children will sing, for songs are frail immortals which fly
from lip to lip throughout the ages. The lips that sing them lose their
color and are silent one after the other, but the songs are always on
the wing. There are songs that come down to us fro