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136
My Studio Neighbors
·
W. Hamilton Gibson
9
My
bamboo
brushes!
I
had
not
thought
of
them!
By
mere
chance
a
few
years
since
I
happened
upon
some
of
these
bamboo
brushes
in
a
Japanese
shop--large,
long-handled
brushes,
with
pure
white
hair
nicely
stiffened
to
a
tapering
point,
which
was
neatly
protected
with
a
sheathing
cover
of
bamboo.
A
number
of
them
were
at
my
elbow,
a
few
inches
distant,
in
a
glass
of
water,
and
on
the
table
by
the
vase
beyond
were
a
dozen
or
so
in
a
scattered
bundle.
Normally
each
of
these
brushes
is
closed
at
the
end
by
the
natural
pith
of
the
bamboo.
I
now
find
them
all
either
open
or
otherwise
tampered
with,
and
the
surrounding
surface
of
the
table
littered
with
tiny
balls,
apparently
of
sawdust.
I
picked
up
one
of
the
nearest
brushes,
and
upon
inverting
it
and
giving
it
a
slight
tap,
a
tiny
green
worm
fell
out
of
the
opening.
From
the
next
one
I
managed
to
shake
out
seven
of
the
caterpillars,
while
the
third
had
passed
beyond
this
stage,
the
aperture
having
been
carefully
plugged
with
a
mud
cork,
which
was
even
now
moist.
Two
or
three
others
were
in
the
same
plugged
condition,
and
investigation
showed
that
no
single
brush
had
escaped
similar
tampering
to
a
greater
or
less
extent.
One
brush
had
apparently
not
given
entire
satisfaction,
for
the
plug
had
been
removed,
and
the
caterpillars,
eight
or
ten
in
number,
were
scattered
about
the
opening.
But
the
dissatisfaction
probably
lay
with
one
of
these
caterpillars
rather
than
with
the
maternal
wasp,
who
had
apparently
failed
in
the
full
dose
of
anaesthetic,
for
one
of
her
victims
which
I
observed
was
quite
lively,
and
had
probably
forced
out
the
soft
plug,
and
in
his
squirming
had
ousted
his
luckless
companions.
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