A GOSSIP ABOUT MY NEIGHBORS. 



"What, peeping and spying on your 

 neighbors to make copy? Think shame 

 to yoursel' !" say you disgustedly. 



"Yes, and sometimes even using an 

 opera glass," say I boldly. 



Then you sit down in my little opera 

 box in the back veranda, curtained in by 

 the trumpet-creeper, and you look about. 

 In front, the sloping lawn with the pear 

 trees and evergreens, the pond with the 

 willow trees, the orchard, the creek and 

 the mountains. At the right, the big 

 apple tree near the kitchen door, the pop- 

 pies and corn-flowers in a big mass, sep- 

 arated from the vegetable garden by a 

 hedge of sweet-peas ; the maple grove 

 and the stone wall. At the left, the 

 lawn, the driveway through the lindens 

 and maples, the tennis court and the 

 meadow. 



"Oh, I see, it is all a joke ; you have no 

 neighbors," say you. 



"Indeed, it is no joke, for I have fifty 

 neighbors whom I can watch from this 

 very green wicker chair," say I. "I 

 have watched the building of many 

 homes. I have been an uninvited guest 

 at weddings and christenings. I have 

 been an unappreciated mourner over des- 

 ecrated and deserted homes. I have 

 peeped and listened at love-makings 

 both timid and bold. I know a beggar, 

 I know a thief, I know a murderer, I 

 know a faithless wife. Look! there 

 comes a bold and shiftless beggar." 



"Oh, birds !" say you with a yawn, as 

 I fling some crumbs to the beggar. 



"This optimistic and shameless beg- 

 gar is the mother of three optimistic and 

 shameless little mendicants like herself. 

 Just watch a moment." 



The beggar gives a call, and down 

 come her three, alighting in open greed- 

 iness on the very steps of my veranda. 

 There they sit in a row like Sunday- 

 school scholars, while the devoted moth- 

 er drops my crumbs into their cavernous 

 mouths ; I, the easiest of victims, con- 

 tinuing the crumbs until they are satis- 

 fied, and logy. 



"How pretty!" say you. 



"Pretty!" say I. "The whole pro- 

 ceeding is a disgrace to them and to me. 

 Instead of eating my bread, they should 

 be digging good wholesome worms for 

 themselves. My garden paths are lost 

 in weeds, and here I sit and weakly fling 

 crumbs — thus ruining their careers and 

 my garden. Pretty indeed — shoo !" and 

 away they go. 



"Look!" say I, nodding toward the 

 flecks of flame that make my poppy-bed, 

 "the gay beauties !" Five, six, little yel- 

 low goldfinches in black caps are tilting 

 and swaying among the poppies and 

 cornflowers. 



"What are those dull green birds 

 playing with them?" say you, ignorant, 

 as are all the industrious. 



"Their wives," say I. "Hark to those 

 yellow warblers, warbling to split their 

 throats, in the willow tree. See the 

 kingfisher, poised on top of the fir tree 

 across the pond, watching his dinner as 

 it swims about in the sunlight. Say 

 your prayers, little fish, Mr. Kingfisher 

 has numbered your seconds." 



Over there in the orchard I see Mr. 

 Flicker enjoying a meal which carries 

 consternation to a whole ant colony. 

 Little does he care. I saved the life of 

 one of his babies up there in the dead 

 branches of that cherry tree, and he nev- 

 er even gave me a civil "thank you" for 

 it. 



"See, the Purple Finch has come to 

 visit his cousins in the poppy field ; and 

 do look at the Vesper Sparrows and the 

 Englishmen and the Robins all bathing 

 together in the corner of the pond! 

 There is a fight going on in the hemlock 

 tree, but never mind that. The noise 

 that sounds like a squeaky lawn-mower 

 is only the Chippy family quarreling 

 over luncheon. 



Cats? No, I do not keep them. That 

 is Mrs. Cat-Bird in the trumpet-vine 

 above your head. They have been in 

 hard luck. They settled first in the 

 syringa bush near the pond. Just as 



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