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136
My Studio Neighbors
·
W. Hamilton Gibson
7
Ah,
hark!
The
talking
"robber-fly"
(Asilus),
with
his
nasal,
twangy
buzz!
"Waiow!
Wha-a-ar
are
ye?"
he
seems
to
say,
and
with
a
suggestive
onslaught
against
the
window-pane,
which
betokens
his
satisfied
quest,
is
out
again
at
the
window
with
a
bluebottle-fly
in
the
clutch
of
his
powerful
legs,
or
perhaps
impaled
on
his
horny
beak.
Solitude!
Not
here.
Amid
such
continual
distraction
and
entertainment
concentration
on
the
immediate
task
in
hand
is
not
always
of
easy
accomplishment.
Last
week,
after
a
somewhat
distracted
morning
with
some
queer
beguiling
little
harlequins
on
the
bittersweet-vine
about
my
porch,
of
which
I
have
previously
written,
I
had
finally
settled
down
to
my
work,
and
was
engaged
in
putting
the
finishing
touches
upon
a
long-delayed
drawing,
when
a
new
visitor
claimed
my
attention--a
small
hornet,
which
alights
upon
the
window-sill
within
half
a
yard
from
my
face.
To
be
sure,
she
was
no
stranger
here
at
my
studio--even
now
there
are
two
of
her
yonder
beneath
the
spider-nest--and
was,
moreover,
an
old
friend,
whose
ways
were
perfectly
familiar
to
me;
but
this
time
the
insect
engaged
my
particular
attention
because
it
was
not
alone,
being
accompanied
by
a
green
caterpillar
bigger
than
herself,
which
she
held
beneath
her
body
as
she
travelled
along
on
the
window-sill
so
near
my
face.
"So,
so!
my
little
wren-wasp,
you
have
found
a
satisfactory
cranny
at
last,
and
have
made
yourself
at
home.
I
have
seen
you
prying
about
here
for
a
week
and
wondered
where
you
would
take
up
your
abode."
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