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136
My Studio Neighbors
·
W. Hamilton Gibson
46
A
QUEER
LITTLE
FAMILY
ON
THE
BITTERSWEET
In
a
recent
half-hour's
relaxation,
while
comfortably
stretched
in
my
hammock
upon
the
porch
of
my
country
studio,
I
was
surprised
with
a
singular
entertainment.
I
soon
found
myself
most
studiously
engaged.
Entwining
the
corner
post
of
the
piazza,
and
extending
for
some
distance
along
the
eaves,
a
luxuriant
vine
of
bittersweet
had
made
itself
at
home.
The
currant-like
clusters
of
green
fruits,
hanging
in
pendent
clusters
here
and
there,
were
now
nearly
mature,
and
were
taking
on
their
golden
hue,
and
the
long,
free
shoots
of
tender
growth
were
reaching
out
for
conquest
on
right
and
left
in
all
manner
of
graceful
curves
and
spirals.
Through
an
opening
in
this
shadowy
foliage
came
a
glimpse
of
the
hill-side
slope
across
the
valley
upon
whose
verge
my
studio
is
perched,
and
as
my
eye
penetrated
this
pretty
vista
it
was
intercepted
by
what
appeared
to
be
a
shadowed
portion
of
a
rose
branch
crossing
the
opening
and
mingling
with
the
bittersweet
stems.
In
my
idle
mood
I
had
for
some
moments
so
accepted
it
without
a
thought,
and
would
doubtless
have
left
the
spot
with
this
impression
had
I
not
chanced
to
notice
that
this
stem,
so
beset
with
conspicuous
thorns,
was
not
consistent
in
its
foliage.
My
suspicions
aroused,
I
suddenly
realized
that
my
thorny
stem
was
in
truth
merely
a
bittersweet
branch
in
masquerade,
and
that
I
had
been
"fooled"
by
a
sly
midget
who
had
been
an
old-time
acquaintance
of
my
boyhood,
but
whom
I
had
long
neglected.
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