Greenery ain't gardening, greenery ain't not by chorks. Any fool, even
that cove nex door, can grow _greenery_!

_S.C._ Yes, but SMUGGINS, I _don't_ like my limes to look like
gouty posts, my branchy elms to show as bare as broom-sticks, and my
fruit-trees to be trimmed into timber-screens!

_G.O.G._ (_persuasively_). No, Sir, cert'ny _not_. Fact is they'd bin
let grow wild so long that cutting on 'em freely back wos the only way
to save 'em. Jest wait till next year, Sir, and _you_'ll see.

_S.C._ (_doubtfully_). Humph! Looks beastly now, anyhow. And you've
altered all the paths, and nearly all the beds. I didn't tell you--

_G.O.G._ (_emphatically_). No, Sir, you didn't. You give me _cart
blarnch_, you did, and I've done my level best. The Dook 'ad the
same idees at first, but when he comes to know me, he says, says
he, SMUGGINS, you're always right, he says. If you wos to run a
reaping-machine through my horchids, or a traction-engine over my
turf, I should know as you wos a-doing of the right thing--_in_
the long run! Oh, you leave it to me, Sir, and you won't repent it.
And--ahem--here's my little haccount, Sir,--_hup_ to date.

[_Presents dirty piece of blue paper, giving scanty details,
and a spanking total. Simple Citizen pays, and tries to look
pleasant._

[Illustration]

SCENE III.