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136
My Studio Neighbors
·
W. Hamilton Gibson
5
The
little
red-headed
chippy,
the
most
familiar
and
sociable
of
our
birds,
of
course
pays
me
his
frequent
visit,
hopping
in
at
the
door
and
picking
up
I
don't
know
what
upon
the
floor.
A
barn-swallow
occasionally
darts
in
through
the
open
window
and
out
again
at
the
door,
as
though
for
very
sport,
only
a
few
days
since
skimming
beneath
my
nose,
while
its
wings
fairly
tipped
the
pen
with
which
I
was
writing.
The
chipmonk
has
long
made
himself
at
home,
and
his
scratching
footsteps
on
my
door-sill,
or
even
in
my
closet,
is
a
not
uncommon
episode.
Now
and
then
through
the
day
I
hear
a
soft
pat-pat
on
the
hard-wood
floor,
at
intervals
of
a
few
seconds,
and
realize
that
my
pet
toad,
which
has
voluntarily
taken
up
its
abode
in
an
old
bowl
on
the
closet
floor,
is
taking
his
afternoon
outing,
and
with
his
always
seemingly
inconsistent
lightning
tongue
is
picking
up
his
casual
flies
at
three
inches
sight
around
the
base-board.
A
mouse,
I
see,
has
heaped
a
neat
little
pile
of
seeds
upon
the
top
of
the
wainscot
near
by--cherry
pits,
polygonum,
and
ragweed
seeds,
and
others,
including
some
small
oak-galls,
which
I
find
have
been
abstracted
from
a
box
of
specimens
which
I
had
stored
in
the
closet
for
safe-keeping.
I
wonder
if
it
is
the
same
little
fellow
that
built
its
nest
in
an
old
shoe
in
the
same
closet
last
year,
and,
among
other
mischief,
removed
the
white
grub
in
a
similar
lot
of
specimen
galls
which
I
also
missed,
and
subsequently
found
in
the
shoe
and
scattered
on
the
closet
floor?
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