The chief aim of life is not joy, nor is it repose. It must be labor. Perhaps there is no chief aim, after all.
Love and labor are the body and soul of mankind. Happy is he in whom they are united. I have forfeited love--nothing is left me but labor.
My white foal! It looks at me, and I look at it in return. Free and uncontrolled, it scampers about the field, and yet I seize it and send it out into the world, so that others, too, may delight in the pretty, playful animal.
I have sketched it in various positions. Its every movement is replete with strength and grace.
I have carved the figure of my white foal, and have completed it with incredible rapidity. My friends are astonished, and so am I. I look upon it as a success.
My little pitchman--why should I dislike to mention it?--carried the figure down to the dealer. It grieved me to part with my work, but the little magic horse must, and does, support me. It was sold at a good price, and I received a large order, besides.