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136
My Studio Neighbors
·
W. Hamilton Gibson
4
There
are
those
snickering
squirrels,
for
instance!
At
this
moment
two
of
them
are
having
a
rollicking
game
of
tag
on
the
shingled
roof--a
pandemonium
of
scrambling,
scratching,
squealing,
and
growling--ever
and
anon
clambering
down
at
the
eaves
to
the
top
of
a
blind
and
peeping
in
at
the
window
to
see
how
I
like
it.
A
woodchuck
is
perambulating
my
porch--he
was
a
moment
ago--presumably
in
renewed
quest
of
that
favorite
pabulum
more
delectable
than
rowen
clover,
the
splintered
cribbings
from
the
legs
of
a
certain
pine
bench,
which,
up
to
date,
he
has
lowered
about
three
inches--a
process
in
which
he
has
considered
average
rather
than
symmetry,
or
the
comfort
of
the
too
trusting
visitor
who
happens
to
be
unaware
of
his
carpentry.
The
drone
of
bees
and
the
carol
of
birds
are
naturally
an
incessant
accompaniment
to
my
toil--at
least,
in
these
spring
and
summer
months.
The
tall,
straight
flue
of
the
chimney,
like
the
deep
diapason
of
an
organ,
is
softly
murmurous
with
the
flurry
of
the
swifts
in
their
afternoon
or
vesper
flight.
There
is
a
robin's
nest
close
by
one
window,
a
vireo's
nest
on
a
forked
dogwood
within
touch
of
the
porch,
and
continual
reminders
of
similar
snuggeries
of
indigo-bird,
chat,
and
oriole
within
close
limits,
to
say
nothing
of
an
ants'
nest
not
far
off,
whose
proximity
is
soon
manifest
as
you
sit
in
the
grass--and
immediately
get
up
again.
Fancy
a
wild
fox
for
a
daily
entertainment!
For
several
days
in
succession
last
year
I
spent
a
half-hour
observing
his
frisky
gambols
on
the
hillside
across
the
dingle
below
my
porch,
as
he
jumped
apparently
for
mice
in
the
sloping
rowen-field.
How
quickly
he
responded
to
my
slightest
interruption
of
voice
or
footfall,
running
to
the
cover
of
the
alders!
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