“Your chief fault, my friend, is in being made of wood, and that I suppose you cannot help. Real horses, like myself, are made of flesh and blood and bones.”

“I can see the bones all right,” replied the Sawhorse, “and they are admirable and distinct. Also I can see the flesh. But the blood, I suppose is tucked away inside.”

“Exactly,” said Jim.

“What good is it?” asked the Sawhorse.

Jim did not know, but he would not tell the Sawhorse that.

“If anything cuts me,” he replied, “the blood runs out to show where I am cut. You, poor thing! cannot even bleed when you are hurt.”

“But I am never hurt,” said the Sawhorse. “Once in a while I get broken up some, but I am easily repaired and put in good order again. And I never feel a break or a splinter in the least.”