So they got into the carriage pulled by the fat, black horse and driven by a young man so tall that he couldn't sit up straight in the seat or his head would have hit the roof of the carriage.
"Is Central Park bigger than Brookside?" Sunny Boy asked, as they drove over a well-kept road past the greenest of green lawns and bright flower beds. Brookside was the name of Grandpa Horton's farm.
"How big is Brookside?" asked the driver, slapping the reins to make his horse go faster.
"Oh, ever so big," Sunny Boy assured him. "Seventy-nine acres, Daddy said."
"Well, you could put Brookside right down in Central Park and never see it," announced the driver complacently. "This park has eight hundred and seventy-nine acres."
"Gee!" murmured Sunny Boy.
He was silent for a few moments, trying to imagine how large the park must be.
"What a funny way to hay," he remarked, as they came up to a horse tramping steadily over the grass pulling a machine that looked something like a mower. "Grandpa didn't do it that way."
"They're cutting the grass," explained the driver of the carriage. "Guess you haven't seen one of those machines. If they had only a lawn mower like the one your father uses on your lawn at home, you know, the grass would never get cut in one summer."
"Can't we get out?" Mrs. Horton asked next. "I'd like to go up and see the reservoirs."