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136
My Studio Neighbors
·
W. Hamilton Gibson
16
"Haow
them
blackbirds
doos
love
the
smell
o'
thet
caow's
breath!"
said
an
old
dame
to
me
once
in
my
boyhood.
"I
don't
blame
um:
I
like
it
myself."
Whether
it
was
this
same
authority
who
was
responsible
for
my
own
similar
early
impression
I
do
not
know,
but
I
do
recall
the
surprise
at
my
ultimate
discovery
that
it
was
alone
the
quest
of
insects
that
attracted
the
birds.
Upon
the
first
arrival
of
the
bird
in
the
spring
an
attentive
ear
might
detect
its
discordant
voice,
or
the
chuckling
note
of
his
mischievous
spouse
and
accomplice,
in
the
great
bird
medley;
but
later
her
crafty
instinct
would
seem
to
warn
her
that
silence
is
more
to
her
interest
in
the
pursuit
of
her
wily
mission.
In
June,
when
so
many
an
ecstatic
love-song
among
the
birds
has
modulated
from
accents
of
ardent
love
to
those
of
glad
fruition,
when
the
sonnet
to
his
"mistress's
eyebrow"
is
shortly
to
give
place
to
the
lullaby,
then,
like
the
"worm
i'
the
bud,"
the
cow-bird
begins
her
parasitical
career.
How
many
thousands
are
the
bird
homes
which
are
blasted
in
her
"annual
visit?"
Stealthily
and
silently
she
pries
among
the
thickets,
following
up
the
trail
of
warbler,
sparrow,
or
thrush
like
a
sleuth-hound.
Yonder
a
tiny
yellow-bird
with
a
jet-black
cheek
flits
hither
with
a
wisp
of
dry
grass
in
her
beak,
and
disappears
in
the
branches
of
a
small
tree
close
to
my
studio
door.
Like
the
shadow
of
fate
the
cow-bird
suddenly
appears,
and
has
doubtless
soon
ferreted
out
her
cradle.
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