In this comical position the two horses circled slowly around each other for a while, each being unable to realize what the singular thing might be which it now beheld for the first time.  Then Jim exclaimed: 

“For goodness sake, what sort of a being are you?”

“I’m a Sawhorse,” replied the other.

“Oh; I believe I’ve heard of you,” said the cab-horse; “but you are unlike anything that I expected to see.”

“I do not doubt it,” the Sawhorse observed, with a tone of pride.  “I am considered quite unusual.”

“You are, indeed.  But a rickety wooden thing like you has no right to be alive.”

“I couldn’t help it,” returned the other, rather crestfallen.  “Ozma sprinkled me with a magic powder, and I just had to live.  I know I’m not much account; but I’m the only horse in all the Land of Oz, so they treat me with great respect.”

“You, a horse!”

“Oh, not a real one, of course.  There are no real horses here at all.  But I’m a splendid imitation of one.”

Jim gave an indignant neigh.

“Look at me!” he cried.  “Behold a real horse!”

The wooden animal gave a start, and then examined the other intently.

“Is it possible that you are a Real Horse?” he murmured.

“Not only possible, but true,” replied Jim, who was gratified by the impression he had created.  “It is proved by my fine points.  For example, look at the long hairs on my tail, with which I can whisk away the flies.”

“The flies never trouble me,” said the Saw-Horse.

“And notice my great strong teeth, with which I nibble the grass.”

“It is not necessary for me to eat,” observed the Sawhorse.

“Also examine my broad chest, which enables me to draw deep, full breaths,” said Jim, proudly.

“I have no need to breathe,” returned the other.

“No; you miss many pleasures,” remarked the cab-horse, pityingly.  “You do not know the relief of brushing away a fly that has bitten you, nor the delight of eating delicious food, nor the satisfaction of drawing a long breath of fresh, pure air.  You may be an imitation of a horse, but you’re a mighty poor one.”

“Oh, I cannot hope ever to be like you,” sighed the Sawhorse.  “But I am glad to meet a last a Real Horse.  You are certainly the most beautiful creature I ever beheld.”

This praise won Jim completely.  To be called beautiful was a novelty in his experience.  Said he: 

“Your chief fault, my friend, is in being made of wood, and that I suppose you cannot help.  Real horses, like myself, are made of flesh and blood and bones.”

“I can see the bones all right,” replied the Sawhorse, “and they are admirable and distinct.  Also I can see the flesh.  But the blood, I suppose is tucked away inside.”

“Exactly,” said Jim.

“What good is it?” asked the Sawhorse.