A Southern Illinois Lunch Counter 



By LAURA P. BEALL 



FOR many winters we kept a lunch counter for the birds at our home 

 in southern Illinois, and found so much pleasure in watching our feathered 

 neighbors and saw so many quaint antics, that a little history of it may 

 not be without interest. 



The beginning of it was a box fastened on a limb of a cherry tree that grew 

 about twenty feet from the kitchen windows; in that we placed bread crumbs, 

 bits of suet, and scraps of almost every kind. Finding how enthusiastically 

 this was received, we hung loosely crocheted bags filled with nuts and suet in 

 the tree, and tied gourds containing raw peanuts in the windows. 



After a while we added a shallow tin pan full of different seeds; this was 

 placed on the window-sill, carefully fastened so it would not upset when our 

 small boarders alighted on it . Often we popped corn and scattered it on the 

 ground underneath the tree. This was largely for the delectation of the English 

 Sparrows, who did not go to the box often if there was anything to be had on 

 the ground, and as they were numerous, and had good appetites, we preferred 

 to keep them out. They gave no trouble aside from numbers, however, and 

 appeared to be respectable, law-abiding citizens. 



One of the bird authorities says the male Downy is anything but chivalrous 

 in winter, but the one that patronized our counter was assuredly a cavalier 

 "without fear and without reproach." At first we had but the pair, and we 

 noticed that they never came together, that the female invariably came first in 

 the morning, and that they both carried food away, and always flew in the 

 same direction, with it. We wondered a good deal what it meant, and finally, 

 one day, we saw three Downies fly into the tree, our pair and another male. 

 They all came to the box and ate, and after that all three generally came together, 

 and what delightful hours we spent watching their gambols among the branches. 

 Thev would frisk and play, and chase each other in and out with the greatest 

 glee imaginable. 



A Chickadee that came to the window one winter had lost one leg, and though 

 he was almost as agile, and quite as gay as the rest, his kinfolk were very unkind 

 to him, pecking at him, and driving him away whenever they could. He never 

 came without a cheery song, and seemed so happy, and gentle, in spite of his 

 afflictions, that we loved him more than any of the others. He seemed to care 

 more for water than food, and every little while through the day we put out 

 warm water for him. But one day we watched for him in vain. Whether he 

 was killed, or whether he died a natural death, of course we never knew. 



The gourds at the windows were the especial property of the Chickadees 

 and Titmice. After they tasted the raw peanuts they could not be persuaded 

 to eat anything else, and one day a Titmouse actually stuffed himself so full 

 he could not fly. He sat in a heap on the sill for about an hour, blinking at us 



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