My own principal enjoyment of the business, at present, is connected with a new toy, if I may call it so: a small, loosely knit, or crocheted, bag—made of knitting-cotton, I think I was told—sent to me by a correspondent in Vermont. Into this, following the donor's instructions, I have put nutmeats and hung it out of a window of my working-room, throwing a cord over the top of the upper sash, and allowing the bag to dangle against the pane.
At first I broke the nuts into small pieces, but I soon learned better than that. Now I divide the filbert once, and for the most part the birds (chickadees only, thus far) have to stay on the bag and eat, instead of pulling out the pieces whole and making off with them. The sight is a pretty one—as good as a play. I am careful not to fill the bag, and the feeder is compelled to hang bottom side up under it, and strike upward. The position is graceful and not in the least inconvenient, and possesses, moreover, a great economical advantage: the crumbs, some of which are of necessity spilled, drop on the eater's breast, instead of to the ground. I
