These are the days when, in middle-aged or old houses, you place a worn throw rug, torn towel, or shagged-out sweater along the inside bottom of the outside door to thwart the cold seepage.

Some more creative persons make a long, stuffed, snake-looking creature to put there. It may look more tidy, but I don't like the snake thing, especially if jet black button eyes that glitter in the winter light have been sewn on. It would make me think that Old Stripe had slithered in to share the warmth, and while I like to share winter warmth, I prefer Stripe to find his own, outside.

On such days the kitchen windows steam up from beans or soup cooking, lending an added sort of coziness as if I'm enclosed in some sort of protective isolation. I take my writing materials to the kitchen table and enjoy these "cocoon" hours, pretending I'm metamorphosing into something else as a butterfly from the chrysalis.

When the steam curtain is lifted, I can see clearly that my outer being hasn't metamorphosed at all. Oh, maybe temporary steam-frizzed hair. What I can see more clearly is that the gold finch, chickadees, snow birds and cardinals are flying, puzzled-like, about the empty bird feeders.

I look at the snow and sleet covered ground, the icy back steps, and an idea pops into my head. Instead of keeping the sacks of bird seed out in the garage, why haven't I moved them to the back porch, especially in winter?

My Jiminy Cricket whispers an answer, "A sense of neatness. You haven't wanted your back porch cluttered with sacks and covered cans. Most folks come into your house the back way."

"You're right, J.C. (I wonder, in my case, if it should be Jeanniny Cricket instead of Pinocchio's Jiminy), but there's going to be some changes made, neat or un-neat. Right now."

I put on my raccoon coat (it's fake), boots, gloves, sock cap and crunch out to the garage to lug (drag, really) in the 50-pound sack of sunflower seeds and return to get the 10-gallon, lidded, plastic bucket.

"J.C.," I said, since I like to put my thoughts into conversational form, "I'll still have to get up and down these four icy steps to get to the bird feeders and the third one is always treacherous for there is where the porch roof drips on it and it freezes, and I forget, and . . ."

J.C. doesn't comment, possibly because he/she can't see any ready remedy.

I go back into the house, eat a bowl of the basic soup and think. J-C. returns from his/her wandering and asks, "What would your Dad or sister, Lou, have done? They could always rig up some device, Rube Goldberg as it may turn out to be."

"Exactly! Lou would have taken that old discarded downspout, fastened it to the windowsill just outside the upstairs window and slanted it down to the inside tray of the roofed double bird feeder. The slant would have been just right for the seeds to slide along, and if they didn't she'd get the hair dryer and blow them along."

J.C. and I smile and chuckle at the same time, then he/she asks, "What would your visitors think, coming up the walk and having to bend their heads down to walk under the, uh, seed chute?"

"It would be a great conversation piece."

J.C. nods his/her head in agreement and says, "Well, before you attempt that, just take that old screen door you've been saving for lord only knows what, lay it cater-cornered across these right angle porch railings and scatter some seeds there."

"It'll un-tidy the back porch."

"Who cares?"

J.C. and I get along so well, most of the time.

REJOICE!