"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."