Molly was an old white donkey. Every summer， as long as she could remember， she had taken the children for rides along the sands. The other donkeys all trotted or galloped； but not Molly.
“Why don't you trot and gallop？” cried Frisky， her young friend. But Molly shook her head wisely. “I carry the little ones， and they would be afraid if I trotted or galloped.”
But one day something happened. A new man was in charge of the donkeys.
“We'll leave this old slow-coach at home，” he said. “Molly's too old.”
Molly's long ears drooped sadly， and a salty tear trickled down her nose.
Then suddenly a gleam shone through Molly's tears. She dried her eyes and perked up her ears. Too old， indeed！
Molly's rope was tied to a post， and she struggled with the knot. It was not tied very fast because the man never thought she would try to escape. She pulled and tugged， till at last the knot was undone. The gate was closed， but Molly wasn't going to stop for a silly old gate. Heigh-ho！ Over she jumped， then-clipperty-clop-down the lane she trotted， with her rope trailing behind. She knew her way well.
When she reached the sands she found a crowd of children.
“Where's Molly？” they cried. “We want Molly！”
“Molly is not coming any more，” replied the man. “She is too old. Try Frisky.”
But Frisky had a saucy twinkle in his eyes. He was all right for the older children， who were not afraid. But the little ones cried：
“We want Molly！ Where is she？”
“Here I am！” brayed Molly， pushing her nose through the crowd.
“Well， I never！” gasped the man.
He fastened the saddle on Molly's back， and the children shouted with glee.
“Hurrah！ Three cheers for Molly.” And Molly's heart swelled with pride and joy. She knew that she would never be left behind again.