MY STUDIO NEIGHBORS 



half-hour observing his frisky gambols on the hill- 

 side across the dingle below my porch, as he 

 jumped apparently for mice in the sloping rowen- 

 field. How quickly he responded to my slightest 

 interruption of voice or footfall, running to the 

 cover of the alders ! 



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 be- 

 neath my nose, while its wings fairly tipped the 

 pen with which I was writing. The chipmonk 

 has long made himself at home, and his scratch- 

 ing 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 



