In the boy's nursery the velveteen rabbit befriend the shabby old horse. The horse was made of burlap and the stitches were crooked and his nose was a faded black. He was ruff to the touch, resulting in a very long, very lonely shelf life inside the nursery. The rabbit was pink with one brown patch of fur around his eye. A blue ribbon strangled his kneck. The rabbit too, lived on the shelf. He was too perfect to stain, too new to play with.
The velveteen rabbit spoke to the horse,
" What does it mean to be real"
In which the horse stood up, lights came on, music began to play in the background with horns and trumpets and banjo's and tamborines and the horse replied, " To be real...is to be old. I am old and shabby and as you may have noticed I am falling apart."
"But aren't other things real?" The velveteen rabbit asked.
"I am quite new and I was hoping most passionately that I...was reall."
"No." said the horse.
And for awhile there was silence as the velveteen rabbit pondered the words of the shabby old horse. He pondered the things that velveteen rabbits ponder when they are not sure.
He pondered the meaning of his life and eventually after much mental trepidation concluded the final absolute truth of the matter.
" You have lost your mind" said the velveteen rabbit.
"Look at you, " said the shabby old horse. " You are a talking rabbit."