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136
My Studio Neighbors
·
W. Hamilton Gibson
70
Only
a
short
walk
from
my
studio
door
in
the
country
I
recently
observed
its
singular
reception
to
the
tiny
black-and-white
banded
bee,
which
seems
to
be
its
especial
companion,
none
the
less
constant
and
forgiving
in
spite
of
a
hospitality
which,
from
the
human
stand-point,
would
certainly
seem
rather
discouraging.
Fancy
a
morning
call
upon
your
particular
friend.
You
knock
at
the
door,
and
are
immediately
greeted
at
the
threshold
with
a
quart
of
sulphur
thrown
into
your
face.
Yet
this
is
precisely
the
experience
of
this
patient
little
insect,
which
manifests
no
disposition
to
retaliate
with
the
concealed
weapon
which
on
much
less
provocation
he
is
quick
to
employ.
Here
he
comes,
eager
for
the
fray.
He
alights
upon
one
of
the
tiny
bells
scarce
half
the
size
of
his
body.
Creeping
down
beneath
it,
he
inserts
his
tongue
into
the
narrowed
opening.
Instantly
a
copious
shower
of
dust
is
poured
down
upon
his
face
and
body.
But
he
has
been
used
to
it
all
his
life,
and
by
heredity
he
knows
that
this
is
Andromeda's
peculiar
whim,
and
is
content
to
humor
it
for
the
sweet
recompense
which
she
bestows.
The
nectar
drained,
the
insect,
as
dusty
as
a
miller,
visits
another
flower,
but
before
he
enters
must
of
necessity
first
pay
his
toll
of
pollen
to
the
drooping
stigma
which
barely
protrudes
beneath
the
blossom's
throat,
and
the
expectant
seed-pod
above
welcomes
the
good
tidings
with
visions
of
fruition.
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