Christmas is for the birds.

From Alfred’s journal

December twenty-fifth, cold and bright, and the Hallorans put the tree out at the curb before noon. Tinsel still on it. I spent most of the morning on the Hallorans' gutter watching the feeder they only fill this one week of the year, and there were eleven of us on it, juncos mostly, a pair of chickadees, one jay being a jay. For years I thought the fuss indoors was the thing and the suet was an afterthought, something scraped off the edge of the day. Christmas is for the birds, and I mean that as the plainest kind of thanks; the lights went off in the house by four and we were still eating. What I cannot work out is whether they know what they are doing when they hang that cage out, or whether it is just the season making them generous in every direction at once.