WINTER VISITORS, 



For several years I have been inter- 

 ested in birds. I have watched them 

 through the glad nesting time of spring, 

 have sought their quiet retreats in sum- 

 mer and have heard their faraway calls 

 as they moved southward in the dark, 

 cold, misty evenings of autumn ; but for 

 the first time I have succeeded in bring- 

 ing them near enough to study them in 

 winter. 



On the ledge of a second story window, 

 out of the reach of cats, a wide shelf is 

 fastened, and above it the branch of a 

 dead cherry tree is securely wired to a 

 shutter. On the shelf I scatter scraps 

 from, the table and shelled corn. To the 

 branch, a long piece of suet is always 

 bound with a cord. This is mv free lunch 

 table, spread for all my bird friends who 

 wish to come. They have accepted the 

 invitation beyond my expectation, and 

 have fully repaid me for all the trouble 

 it has been to prepare for them, in the 

 pleasure their company gives me. I sit 

 just inside the window and they appear 

 not to notice me, so that I have an ex- 

 cellent opportunity to note their peculiari- 

 ties. 



The one that comes every day and all 

 day, is the tufted titmouse.' He comes 

 down with a whir, looks sharply about 

 with his bright, black eyes, then takes 

 a taste of the suet or marrow, and some- 

 times carries a crumb away. It is hard 

 to tell how many of them come, as they 

 all look so much alike. Not more than 

 two or three ever come at once. 



A pair of downy woodpeckers are con- 

 stant visitors at the meat table. They 

 seldom come together, but sometimes it 

 is the male with his bright red head spot, 

 sometimes the female, in her plain black 

 and white stripe. She is very plain, in- 

 deed, and somewhat more shy than her 

 mate. If an English sparrow comes to 

 the shelf while either of them is on the 

 branch, it quickly drops down beside him 

 as if to say, "See here, you are out of 

 place," and the sparrow leaves without a 

 taste of the good things. 



Occasionally a winter wren, with his 

 comical tail and delicate manners, calls 

 on liis way somewhere, and makes a 



pleasing variety in the appearance of the 

 visitors. He eats all he needs of the 

 bread crumbs before leavmg, unless some 

 sudden movement within startles him. 



The blue jays are the most persistent 

 and least welcome of all. Their plumage 

 is beautiful, viewed at such close range, 

 but their actions are not pleasing. They 

 flop down near the window and look in, 

 turning the head from side to side, as if 

 suspecting some enemy there. The slight- 

 est sound sends them back to the trees, 

 but they soon return, and eat as if they 

 were starved, driving their bills into 

 the meat with quick hard strokes, or 

 grabbing at the corn in a nervous, famish- 

 ing way. After eating a few grains, thev 

 fill their mouths and carry it away to hide 

 for future emergencies, I have seen 

 them hide it in an old gatepost or drive 

 it down in the crevices of trees. They 

 carry away more than they eat and prob- 

 ably never find half of it again, for they 

 have no special hiding place, but they 

 tuck it in wherever they see a conven- 

 ient place. It is somewhat provoking to 

 have the table cleared in this way, unless 

 it is always watched, for the corn is 

 spread especially for the cardinals whose 

 brilliant color is such a delight to the 

 eye amid the sombre colors of winter. 

 There is one blue jay with a drooping 

 wing. We call him our "Bird with the 

 broken pinion." He appears to have no 

 difliculty in getting to the table, and his 

 appetite is not impaired, but possibly, 

 as Butterworth says, "He will never soar 

 so high again." 



A pair of cardinals come and partake 

 of the corn with a grace and dignity be- 

 fitting their royal apparel. They do not 

 hurry nor worry, but eat slowly and stay 

 until they have enough. They are verv 

 quiet now, but their spring song Avill 

 repay me for all the corn they will eat. 



But of all that come, none are more 

 interesting than the chickadee. He surelv 

 merits all the bright sweet things that 

 have been said or written about him. He 

 is the only one that utters a note of 

 thanksgiving for his daily bread before 

 he begins to eat. Then he has such gentle, 

 confiding ways. Today the ground is cov- 



226 



