The Wooden Horse

       "Come and have a ride," the big brother said. "I am afraid," the little one answered; "the horse's mouth is wide open." 

      "But it's only wooden. That is the best of a horse that isn't real. If his mouth is ever so wide open, he cannot shut it. So come," and the big brother lifted the little one up, and dragged him about. 

       "Oh, do stop!" the little one cried out in terror; "does the horse make that noise along the floor?" 

       "Yes." 

      "And is it a real noise?" 

      "Of course it is," the big brother answered. 

      "'But I thought only real things could make real things," the little one said; "where does the imitation horse end and the real sound begin?" 

      At this the big brother stood still for a few minutes. 

      "I was thinking about real and imitation things," he said presently. " It's very difficult to tell which is which sometimes. You see they get so close together that the one often grows into the other, and some imitated things become real and some real ones become imitation as they go on. But I should say that you are a real coward for not having a ride." 

      "No, I am not," the little one laughed ; and, getting astride the wooden horse, he sat up bravely. 

      "Oh, Jack, dear," he said to his brother, "we will always be glad that we are real boys, or we too 

might have been made with mouths we were never able to shut!" by Edith Campbell

The Poor Little Doll

       It was a plain little doll that had been bought for sixpence at a stall in the market-place. It had scanty hair and a weak composition face, a calico body and foolish feet that always turned inwards instead of outwards, and from which the sawdust now and then oozed. Yet in its glass eyes there was an expression of amusement; they seemed to be looking not at you but through you, and the pursed-up red lips were always smiling at what the glass eyes saw.

" It is never bad-tempered; it never complains,
and it never did anything unkind,"

       "Well, you are a doll," the boy said, looking up from his French exercise. "And what are you staring at me for is there anything behind?" he asked, looking over has shoulder. The doll made no answer. "And whatever are you smiling for?" he asked; "I believe you are always smiling. I believe you'd go on if I didn't do my exercise till next year, or if the cat died, or the monument tumbled down." But still the doll smiled in silence, and the boy went on with his exercise. Presently he looked up again and yawned. "I think I'll go for a stroll," he said, and put his book by. "I know what I'll do," he said, suddenly; "I'll take that doll and hang it up to the apple tree to scare away the sparrows." And calling out, "Sis, I have taken your doll; I'm going to make a scarecrow of it," he went off to the garden.
       His sister rushed after him, crying out, " Oh, my poor doll! oh, my dear little doll! What are you
doing to it, you naughty boy?"
       "It's so ugly," he said.
       "No, it is not ugly," she cried.
       "And it's so stupid, it never does anything but smile, it can't even grow, it never gets any bigger."

        "Poor darling doll," Sis said, as she got it once more safely into her arms, "of course you can't grow, but it is not your fault, they did not make any tucks in you to let out."
       "And it's so unfeeling. It went smiling away like anything when I could not do my French." 

       "It has no heart. Of course it can't feel."

       "Why hasn't it got a heart?"

       "Because it isn't alive. You ought to be sorry for it, and very, very kind to it, poor thing."

       "Well, what is it always smiling for?"

       "Because it is so good," answered Sis, bursting into tears. " It is never bad-tempered; it never complains, and it never did anything unkind," and, kissing it tenderly, "you are always good and  sweet," she said, "and always look smiling, though you must be very unhappy at not being alive." by Edith Campbell

The Wooden Doll

Many a time the poor wooden doll wished
 it were a tin train, or a box of soldiers, or a
 woolly lamb, or anything on earth rather
 than what it was!

       The wooden doll had no peace. My dears, if ever you are a doll, hope to be a rag doll, or a wax doll, or a doll full of sawdust apt to ooze out, or a china doll easy to break anything in the world rather than a good strong wooden doll with a painted head and movable joints, for that is indeed a sad thing to be. Many a time the poor wooden doll wished it were a tin train, or a box of soldiers, or a woolly lamb, or anything on earth rather than what it was. It never had any peace; it was taken up and put down at all manners of odd moments, made to go to bed when the children went to bed, to get up when they got up, be bathed when they were bathed, dressed when they were dressed, taken out in all weathers, stuffed into their satchels when they went to school, left about in corners, dropped on stairs, forgotten, neglected, bumped, banged, broken, glued together, anything and everything it suffered, until many a time it said sadly enough to its poor little self, " I might as well be a human being at once and be done with it!" And then it fell to thinking about human beings; what strange creatures they were, always going about, though none carried them save when they were very little; always sleeping and waking, and eating and drinking, and laughing and crying, and talking and walking, and doing this and that and the other, never resting for long together, or seeming as if they could be still for even a single day. "They are always making a noise," thought the wooden doll; "they are always talking and walking about, always moving things and doing things, building up and pulling down, and making and unmaking for ever and for ever, and never are they quiet. It is lucky that we are not all human beings, or the world would be worn out in no time, and there would not be a corner left in which to rest a poor doll's head." by Edith Campbell