“I can’t understand,” said Hank, “why dogs bark at the moon. They can’t scare the moon, and the moon doesn’t pay any attention to the bark. So why do dogs do it?”

“Were you ever a dog?” asked Toto.

“No, indeed,” replied Hank. “I am thankful to say I was created a mule—the most beautiful of all beasts—and have always remained one.”

The Woozy sat upon his square haunches to examine Hank with care.

“Beauty,” said he, “must be a matter of taste. I don’t say your judgment is bad, friend Hank, or that you are so vulgar as to be conceited. But if you admire big waggly ears, and a tail like a paint-brush, and hoofs big enough for an elephant, and a long neck and a body so skinny that one can count the ribs with one eye shut—if that’s your idea of beauty, Hank—then either you or I must be much mistaken.”

“You’re full of edges,” sneered the Mule. “If I were square, as you are, I suppose you’d think me lovely.”

“Outwardly, dear Hank, I would,” replied the Woozy. “But to be really lovely one must be beautiful without and within.”

The Mule couldn’t deny this statement, so he gave a disgusted grunt and rolled over so that his back was toward the Woozy. But the Lion, regarding the two calmly with his great yellow eyes, said to the dog:

“My dear Toto, our friends have taught us a lesson in humility. If the Woozy and the Mule are indeed beautiful creatures, as they seem to think, you and I must be decidedly ugly.”

“Not to ourselves,” protested Toto, who was a shrewd little dog. “You and I, Lion, are fine specimens of our own races. I am a fine dog and you are a fine lion. Only in point of comparison, one with another, can we be properly judged, so I will leave it to the poor old Sawhorse to decide which is the most beautiful animal among us all. The Sawhorse is wood, so he won’t be prejudiced and will speak the truth.”

“I surely will,” responded the Sawhorse, wagging his ears, which were chips set in his wooden head. “Are you all agreed to accept my judgment?”

“We are!” they declared, each one hopeful.

“Then,” said the Sawhorse, “I must point out to you the fact that you are all meat creatures, who tire unless they sleep, and starve unless they eat, and suffer from thirst unless they drink. Such animals must be very imperfect, and imperfect creatures cannot be beautiful. Now, I am made of wood.”

“You surely have a wooden head,” said the Mule.