the churchyard geranium flourishing side by side with the plumbago
and the Port Jackson fig?

The garden gate blows open, and the local commando of goats,
headed by an aged and fragrant patriarch, locally known as De Wet,
rushes in; but their teeth will barely bite through the wiry stalks
of the Parramatta grass, and the plumbago and the figtree fail
to attract them, and before long they stand on one another's shoulders,
scale the fence, and disappear into the next-door garden,
where a fanatic is trying to grow show roses.

After the last goat has scaled your neighbour's fence, and only De Wet
is left, your little dog discovers him. De Wet beats a hurried retreat,
apparently at full speed, with the dog exactly one foot behind him
in frantic pursuit. We say apparently at full speed, because experience
has taught that De Wet can run as fast as a greyhound when he likes;
but he never exerts himself to go faster than is necessary
to keep just in front of whatever dog is after him.

Hearing the scrimmage, your neighbour comes on to his verandah,
and sees the chase going down the street.

"Ha! that wretched old De Wet again!" he says. "Small hope your dog has
of catching him! Why don't you get a garden gate like mine,
so that he won't get in?"

"No; he can't get in at your gate," is the reply; "but I think his commando
are in your back garden now."

Then follows a frantic rush. Your neighbour falls downstairs in his haste,