Down the road came a little glass coach, drawn by a pair of tiny white ponies. On the coachman’s seat was a little old man with a white beard. “Whoa!” he piped up, and drew in the ponies. Merrimeg laughed at the sight of this little coach, made all of glass, and the cunning little ponies, and the funny little old coachman.
“Anything to laugh at?” said the old coachman, sitting up straight.
“Never mind, Porringer,” said Myrma. “We want to take a trip with you.”
“Where do you want to stop?” said Old Porringer.
“At number fifteen, number thirty-five, and number eighty,” said Myrma.
“Jump in then,” said Old Porringer, and flourished his little whip.
Myrma opened the door of the glass coach, and the two little girls got in and sat down. The ponies pranced, the coachman touched them up with his whip, and away they went at a smart trot down the road. Merrimeg laughed with glee.
“Now aren’t you glad you came with me?” said Myrma.
“Do you suppose he’d let us drive the ponies?” said Merrimeg.
“Oh no,” said Myrma. “He has to be very careful. There are bad creatures along the road, and they try to break the glass, and he has to watch out for them. If they break it to pieces before he gets to the end of the road, it’ll be a bad thing for you. They do, sometimes. You never can tell.”