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136
My Studio Neighbors
·
W. Hamilton Gibson
30
The
path
leading
to
the
studio
lay
through
a
tangle
of
tall
grass
and
weeds,
with
occasional
worn
patches
showing
the
bare
earth.
As
it
approached
the
door-step
the
surface
of
the
ground
was
quite
clean
and
baked
in
the
sun,
and
barely
supported
a
few
scattered,
struggling
survivors
of
the
sheep's-sorrel,
silvery
cinquefoil,
ragweed,
various
grasses,
and
tiny
rushes
which
rimmed
the
border.
Sitting
upon
this
threshold
stone
one
morning
in
early
summer,
I
permitted
my
eyes
to
scan
the
tiny
patch
of
bare
ground
at
my
feet,
and
what
I
observed
during
a
very
few
moments
suggested
the
present
article
as
a
good
piece
of
missionary
work
in
the
cause
of
nature,
and
a
suggestive
tribute
to
the
glory
of
the
commonplace.
The
episodes
which
I
shall
describe
represent
the
chronicle
of
a
single
day--in
truth,
of
but
a
few
hours
in
that
day--though
the
same
events
were
seen
in
frequent
repetition
at
intervals
for
months.
Perhaps
the
most
conspicuous
objects--if,
indeed,
a
hole
can
be
considered
an
"object"--were
those
two
ever-present
features
of
every
trodden
path
and
bare
spot
of
earth
anywhere,
ant-tunnels
and
that
other
circular
burrow,
about
the
size
of
a
quill,
usually
associated,
and
which
is
also
commonly
attributed
to
the
ants.
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