"Chum, you bounder," I shout as he is about to wade through the
herbaceous border.

He takes no notice; he struggles through to the other side. But a
sudden thought strikes him, and he pushes his way back again.

"Did you call me?" he says.

"How DARE you walk over the flowers?"

He comes up meekly.

"I suppose I've done SOMETHING wrong," he says, "but I can't THINK
what."

I smack his head for him. He waits until he is quite sure I have
finished, and then jumps up with a bark, wipes his paws on my
trousers and trots into the herbaceous border again.

"Chum!" I cry.

He sits down in it and looks all round him in amazement.

"My own bed!" he murmurs. "Given to me!"

I don't know what it is in him which so catches hold of you. His way
of sitting, a reproachful statue, motionless outside the window of
whomever he wants to come out and play with him--until you can bear
it no longer, but must either go into the garden or draw down the