Von Vlom Schlopsch had a dog, as Dutchmen often have, who was less unintelligent than his master, and who had, since leaving his "faderland," become sufficiently civilized not only to appropriate the soil as common stock, but had progressed so far in the good work as to obtain his dinners from the neighbors' sheepfold on the same principle.
When Hiram discovered this propensity in the canine department of the Dutchman's family, he walked over to his new neighbor's to enter complaint, which mission he accomplished in the most natural method in the world.
"Wall, Von, your dog Blitzen's been killing my sheep."
"Ya! dat ish bace—bad. He ish von goot tog: ya! dat ish bad!"
"Sartain, it's bad; and you'll have to stop 'im."
"Ya! dat ish allas goot; but ich weis nicht."
"What's that you say? he was niched? Wall, now look here, old feller! nickin's no use. Crop 'im; cut the tail off close, chock up to his trunk: that'll cure him."
"Vat ish dat?" exclaimed the Dutchman, while a faint ray of intelligence crept over his features. "Ya! dat ish goot. Dat cure von sheep steal, eh?"
"Sartain it will: he'll never touch sheep-meat again in this world," said Hiram gravely.
"Den come mit me. He von mity goot tog; all the way from Yarmany: I not take one five dollar—but come mit me, and hold his tail, eh? Ich chop him off."