“Ponies, I am,” said Polly, “especially when their tails are long. But horses—n-no—too big, you know.”
“Well,” pursued Barbox Brothers, in a spirit of grave mysterious confidence adapted to the importance of the consultation, “I did see yesterday, Polly, on the walls, pictures of two long-tailed ponies, speckled all over—”
“No, no, NO!” cried Polly, in an ecstatic desire to linger on the charming details. “Not speckled all over!”
“Speckled all over. Which ponies jump through hoops—”
“No, no, NO!” cried Polly as before. “They never jump through hoops!”
“Yes, they do. Oh, I assure you they do! And eat pie in pinafores—”
“Ponies eating pie in pinafores!” said Polly. “What a story-teller you are, ain’t you?”
“Upon my honour.—And fire off guns.”
(Polly hardly seemed to see the force of the ponies resorting to fire-arms.)
“And I was thinking,” pursued the exemplary Barbox, “that if you and I were to go to the Circus where these ponies are, it would do our constitutions good.”