8 T HIE. AU D\U BOON, 5: Ue ioe rae 
Winter Holiday 
By Doris A. PLAPP 
THE PLACE SELECTED was Starved Rock State Park. We could make it 
from Chicago with gasoline saved by using the bus line and accepting the 
kindness of friends who generously stopped at the corner on their way 
by to our mutual place of employment. What a winter for such a trip! 
It truly had to be accomplished. We sped on from the office of the Illinois 
Audubon Society, passed the English sparrows, the starlings and the 
pigeons, on to the beautiful open country our eyes were so hungry to see. 
How good it looked! Yes, that was a meadowlark, and some miles on a 
quail, with crows here and there flying leisurely by—a comfortable hundred 
miles through Illinois farms and woods and rivers to Starved Rock Lodge 
in time for a delicious dinner and a rest near the beautiful large fireplace. 
Morning, and sunrise from our window—a lazy way, but, after all we 
were school teachers gaining refreshment from the strenuous closing of 
one semester and about to begin an even more energetic one. The cardinal 
sang his part of the morning chorus with the goldfinch, the tufted titmouse, 
and the chickadee, and, could it be, the red-bellied woodpecker? That was 
a challenge to make us get up, put some breakfast under our belts, and 
pursue the birds on foot. One of the number was a Michigan Audubonite 
and she must see that woodpecker. The day was bright and cold, but very 
windy. It afforded a meager list of observations. Downy woodpeckers were 
about, gulls were flying over and near the river. Two were so close together 
that we heard their wings strike one upon the other. Could it have been 
accidental, with all outdoors around them, or was it a bit of bad-bird dis- 
position? Ducks flew by but we could not tell where they were spending 
the day. The canyons were lovely, the waterfalls and creeks frozen, ferns 
green on protected slopes, and liverworts and mosses holding their own 
against the rigors of winter; but few birds. We had only one unsatisfactory 
view of the red-bellied woodpecker and neither saw nor heard a blue jay, 
and surely they were here. We hoped for a better day tomorrow. 
Sunday dawned fair, warm, sunny, and windless. Out we were; we 
must have a bigger list. Ah, yes, here were the mourning doves, a pleasant 
surprise, and what were these little, streaked, brown birds in the canyon 
below us as we peered from the bridge? Pine siskins, to be sure. Part 
way down the steps from the Lodge we paused to identify the calls of the 
white-breasted and red-breasted nuthatches. Chickadees and titmice were 
everywhere. Down a forest trail, a flock of juncos. How attractive and 
trim they were. Blue jays were out in full force, making up in din for 
yesterday’s prolonged silence. Downies were all about, and here a hairy 
woodpecker, and what was that call in the distance? We hastened through 
the parking lot to see, if we could, the owner of this vocal number so well 
executed. This time we were not disappointed; it was the red-bellied 
woodpecker. What bird could deny to display his beautiful plumage on. so 
lovely a Sunday morning? We observed his yellow-red crown and nape, 
his cross bars of gray and white and dark tail. From all angles we saw 
him at the tops of the oak trees, and then watched him vanish into the 
