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T HE road that ran by the little brown house where Bobby and his mother and father lived was a long road, and a wide road, and a smooth road.
It began at the little town and wound on and on like a
great white ribbon through the green country and away
to the
Trees grew on either side of it, and tiny flowers. The air was sweet with ferns and balm, and birds sang there the livelong day.
A great many people traveled on the Big Road. From early morning till late at night they were passing the little brown house.
Some of them rode on horseback, and some in carriages. Some of them had fine automobiles to carry them to their journey's end, and some of them walked.
But no matter how they traveled, or whether they were rich or poor, the Big Road belonged to every one of them alike.
It belonged to Bobby, too. His father told him about it the very day that he was five years old and came to the little brown house for the first time.
"The Big Road is my road and your mother's road, and it belongs to a great many other people; but it is your road, too. It will take you to pleasant places and bring you pleasant friends, and you must be a friend to every one who travels on it," said Father.
Bobby felt just as if the Big Road were one of his birthday presents. A queer present, but he liked it.