MOTTO FOR THE MOTHER
The humblest workman has his place,
Which no one else can fill.
There was once a man who owned a little gray pony.
Every morning when the dewdrops were still hanging on the pink clover in the meadows, and the birds were singing their morning song, the man would jump on his pony and ride away, clippety, clippety, clap!
The pony's four small hoofs played the jolliest tune on the smooth pike road, the pony's head was always high in the air, and the pony's two little ears were always pricked up; for he was a merry gray pony, and loved to go clippety, clippety, clap!
The man rode to town and to country, to church and to market, up hill and down hill; and one day he heard something fall with a clang on a stone in the road. Looking back, he saw a horseshoe lying there. And when he saw it, he cried out:—
"What shall I do? What shall I do?
If my little gray pony has lost a shoe?"
Then down he jumped, in a great hurry, and looked at one of the pony's fore-feet; but nothing was wrong. He lifted the other forefoot, but the shoe was still there. He examined one of the hindfeet, and began to think that he was mistaken; but when he looked at the last foot, he cried again:—
"What shall I do? What shall I do?
My little gray pony has lost a shoe!"
Then he made haste to go to the blacksmith; and when he saw the smith, he called out to him:—