Mr. Hopper certainly throve on Dash's
bones, but unfortunately Dash took to applying them himself to the roots
of plants for which I believe that bone manure is not recommended. When
he made a hole two foot deep in the Nemophila bed, and laid a sheep's
head by in it against a rainy day, I felt that something must be done.
After the humblest apologies to my neighbour, I begged for a few days'
grace. He could not have spoken more feelingly of the form, scent, and
colour of his friend John Hopper than I ventured to do in favour of the
intelligence of my friend Dash. In short I begged for a week's patience
on his part, that I might teach Dash to know his own garden. If I failed
to do so, I promised to put him on the chain, much as I dislike tying up
dogs."
"How did you manage, Cousin?"
"Whenever Dash strayed into the next garden, I began to scold him in the
plainest English, and covered him with reproaches, till he slunk
gradually back to his own untidy grass-plat. When he touched his own
grounds, I changed my tone at once, to approbation. At first this change
simply brought him flying to my feet again, if I was standing with my
friend in his garden. But after a plentiful application of, 'How dare
you, Sir? Go back' (pointing), 'go back to your garden.
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