"Plenty," said the creamery man. "Just hold your pail under the faucet."
"See our new pony," said Polly. "See our new sled."
"Are you driving your pony? I saw her the day she came. She is a fine
pony. If you tip over going home, come back for more buttermilk."
"Thank you," said Polly. "We have not tipped over yet."
"There always has to be a first time," said the man.
Going up the hill, Polly said, "We are nearly home. Perhaps we shall not
tip over to-day. Why does every one think that we shall?"
But, as they turned into their driveway, Polly pulled the wrong rein.
Brownie stepped to the side of the road. One of the sled runners struck
a bank of snow.
Over went sled, children, and buttermilk. Brownie stopped and looked
around. Polly was standing on her head in the soft snow. Peter was
covered with buttermilk. No one was hurt.
Polly scrambled up. She pulled Peter to his feet. She said, "Don't cry,
Peter. Buttermilk will not hurt you. You like it."
"Yes, I do," said Peter. "But that is inside, not outside. How would you
like it down your neck?"
"Well," said Polly, "you get into the sled again. We must go back for
more buttermilk. You may drive all the way. Perhaps you won't tip us
over."