2B6 
'[5ct. 3, i§63. 
the darkness, you can faintly conceive of the glory of His 
infinite power. 
The sun suddenly penetrates the clouds and shines out 
anew; awe turns to gladness as tlie once more gloriotis 
orb of day dispels the mists. 
These sublime manipulations of If is power and might 
dispel doubts and fears from our hearts. As we go out 
in the revivifying air where all nature rejoices, higher 
thoughts possess us, and wonder that there are those that 
say '"There is no. God." Chas. G. Blandford. 
CoL E. B. Stoddard. 
High up in the necrology of the year will appear the 
name of Hon. Elijah B. Stoddard of Worcester, Mass. 
More than seven years had been added to the three score 
iiud ten years of the Psalmist before the summons came 
to him at Kiltery Point, Maine, whither he had gone to 
appear as counsel before the Supreme Court of that State. 
He was born June 5, 1826, in the town of Upton, near 
the city in which all the j^ears of his active life was spent, 
and in which he aK:rined distinguished eminence. 
After completing his classical studies' at Brown Univer- 
sity, where he was .graduated with the class of 1847, he 
studied law in. Worcester with some of the most dis- 
tinguished legal lights of the time, and was soon after ad- 
mitted to the bar. The question of slavery was then 
:iaramount in the country, and his natural kindness of 
leart prompted him te join with others to relieve the 
down-lrodden and oppressed, and to remove the foul blot 
Irom the escutcheon of fair Columbia. The Free Soil 
parly was the result, and in this he took prominent part 
and became a trusted leader. Having once entered pub- 
lic iife, station and honors came rapidly to him unsought, 
and during all the years of his long life he was promi- 
nently identified with the political, mtellcctual and busi- 
ness life and development of the city and State. He was 
called upon to serve the city as councilman, alderman and 
mayor, upon important committees of finance, education, 
and is many other ways; the St^te as Representative, 
Senator, and member of the State Bioard of Educa- 
ticn for more than tv^'enty-five years; and the business 
world as a director of different i-ailroads, president of a 
national bank, of a savings hank, of a fire insurance com- 
pany, and in many other ways. He was a man of dignity 
and commanding presence, a man of sterling worth, in 
whose breast beat a kindly, sympathetic heart, a man 
whose counsel was muqh sought and highly valued. 
But it is as a sportsman that his life will be of most 
interest to readers of Forest aisid Stream. It has been 
the writer's good fortune to have enjoyed the friendship 
of Col. Stoddard for a span of time not measured by a 
generation of years; to have tramped with him beside the 
rippling trout brooks in early spring; to have given pur- 
suit to the wary grouse upon the hillside in the hazy sun- 
.shine of the Indian summer; to have shared the mid-day 
lunch when no manufactured relish was needed to render 
it palatable or to stimulate the appetite; and to no man 
can I give greater praise for all the qualities that go to 
make up the gentleman and ideal sportsman. His was 
not the ambition to destroy all that he could the fascina- 
tions of the purling brook, the flowers of spring, the song 
of birds, the tree-covered hill top, the distant landscape, 
the fleecy clouds and golden sunsets were more to him 
than a well filled creel or plethoric game-bag. Along 
quiet lines during a long term of years he, together with 
a few congenial spirits, spent time and money to restock 
streams and coverts. Nor did he seek for approbation or 
praise for such good work in the columns of the press, 
as is now too painfully evident, offensive and injurious. 
He was also prominent in securing helpful game legisla- 
tion and the establishment of the State fish hatchery at 
Wliitinsville was due to his efforts and those of two 
others. By the death of Col. Stoddard the guild of 
American sportsmen has sustained a great loss, and it is 
a sad satisfaction to one in the humble ranks of the 
brotherhood to place this chaplet upon his new made 
yrave. Geo. McAleer. 
Worcester, Ma.ss. 
Destitution at Eustis. 
New York, Sept. 22. — Editor Forest and Siream: The 
many readers of your paper who have fished and hunted 
in the Dead River region of Maine will be shocked to 
hear that the village of Eustis was almost completely 
destroyed by fire on Friday, Sept. 11. The fire broke 
out in the afternoon, and in one hour and a half but 
fourteen buildings remained standing, fifty-four, includ- 
ing stables, barns, etc., being not merely in ruins but 
absolutely swept off the earth. The inhabitants are 
homeless, and the fire having spread with such rapidity 
that the coiUents of the houses could not be saved, they 
are all — men. women and children — left as regards 
clothing, with what they stand up in. Any donations 
of money or clothing contributed by any sportsman 
who lias pleasant recollections of summer and fall 
days spent in the Maine woods with one of the well- 
known Eustis guides, will be gladly received and placed 
where they will do the most good by Mr. Miles Wy- 
inan, the postmaster, and as the cold weather is com- 
ing on apace, let any one who wishes to help these 
stricken people remember that He gives twice who 
gives quickly. Charles J. B. Bell. 
That Maine S«mmef Deef Ktlling;. 
Brooklyn, N. Y., September 23.— Editor Forest and 
Stream: In last week's Forest and Stream I see my 
name mentioned under the heading "Maine Summer Deer 
Killers Fined." I wish to make a positive denial of the 
accusation there stated, as well as the insinuation of the 
game warden that I was "probably" after venison. 
C. B. Parker, 
New Hampshife Shootingf. 
Derry, N. H., September 17. — The hunting season has 
opened with a very poor prospect for ruffed grouse shoot- 
ing. The three weeks' continuous rains killed about all 
of the young birds. Woodcock seems to be well reported. 
No nuts for the squirrels, and the corn crop will make 
poor feeding for the raccoons. J. W. Babbitt. 
Bird Jottings. 
From a Gmvalescent's Point of View. 
Sept. h. — A friend — a lover of the countryside — 
called on me to-day and told me that while out driving 
yesterday he saw a flock of over fifty high-holes, all large, 
handsome, full-grown birds. Such an extraordinary 
gathering of high-holes must have been indeed a very in- 
teresting sight, enough to excite any bird lover. If I 
were able I'd be tempted to walk many a mile to wit- 
ness a similar flight. With the high-hole are associated 
the care-free days of boyhood, with enchanting glints of 
meadow and woodside pictures, hence when I heard the 
joyous cackle of one of these great rollicking fellows in 
a tree close to my bedroom the other morning, I quickly 
arose and opened the blinds to let in the sunshine; I 
imagined myself well and strong; the wooded hills looked 
near and inviting. 
I have noticed lately that the Engli'sh sparrow has 
acquired quite a taste for the juice of my rare-ripe Ger- 
man prunes, which are daily growing sweeter and juicier 
under the hot September sunshine. But for such tippling 
he is not the artist that the Baltimore oriole is, who has 
acquired his art by long practice. The latter, with his 
needle-like bill, makes only a tiny puncture, but the spar- 
row makes but sorry work of it. He jabs clumsily at the 
fruit, which invariably loosens from the stem and falls 
before that short, thick bill can even break the skin. But 
failure does not discourage him, and when he is suc- 
cessful in boring into a prune that holds on more tena- 
ciously than others, he seems to enjoy his sweet tipple 
immensely. Such fruit shows quite a hole and may as 
well be left now for the eager honey bees and hornets. 
The oriole operated chiefly on my large red Japanese 
plums. Morning after morning I took my stand in a 
certain plact to watch him. Approaching the well-laden 
tree in little journeys from a dense mass of elder bushes 
close by, he cast his eyes about, no doubt to see where 
the largest and ripest plums could be reached to the best 
advantage. Then he would calmly, deliberately, and fear- 
lessly "tap" first this one and. then that one to get the 
different flavors, no doubt, like any true connoisseur. It 
was sip, sip, sip. Just a nice pleasant tipple, and just 
plain plum juice, but sweet and syrupy. My, how deli- 
cious it was I Nothing to equal it — in his estimation. At 
least his actions caused these reflections as I eagerly 
watched his every movement. I know this, that he en- 
joyed his little "spree," and immensely at that. It did 
me a great deal of good to see him, and I wouldn't have 
harmed him for the world. I was deprived by a stern 
decree of eating the fruit, why couldn't the oriole just as 
well take my place? After the third of September I 
missed my gayly-attired visitor, and for all his faults I 
regret his departure. 
I was almost afraid that the season would slip by with- 
out me catching a glimpse of even a single cuckoo. But 
a stealthy, flitting form attracted me to the elder thicket 
one morning, and peering to the right and left, in his shy, 
fearsome way, was the object of my concern, the black- 
billed. I feasted my eyes for a moment on the large, 
slim, pigeon-shaped, brownish-olive bird before me, when 
he detected me. Then how he did shrink into himself 
for very shyness ! I am tempted to say that the cuckoo 
is a sort of Thoreau among birds — a shy, solitary crea- 
ture. John Burroughs says: "He is like the showy 
orchis, or the ladies'-slipper, or the shooting star among 
plants — a stranger to all but the few." 
A bit of the woods and fields is now and then brought 
to ray very door. For instance, the meadow lark the 
other day that thought he would make a venture to fresh 
fields, and when I saw him fly past the garden bound in 
a northern direction, he was already wavering consider- 
able in his flight and did not seem near so confident where 
he was bound for. Uttering a few of his familiar notes, 
he presently turned and flew back in the direction of his 
old haunts, a short distance south. On another occasion, 
for several successive mornings and frequently through- 
out the day, I heard the sharp clicking chip of a bird in 
the trees about the house. It mystified me; I couldn't 
trace it, and yet I was almost sure that I had heard that 
note somewhere. Still, here may be a chance also to add 
a new bird to my list, A few mornings later, while 
strolling in the garden, I heard the same notes proceeding 
from a brush pile quite close to me. Cautiously peering 
through the branches of a small plum tree I saw the bird 
in the very act of uttering his sharp chip. It was my old 
friend, the indigo bird, familiar from boyhood. Still, I 
was very grateful for his presence, and what a message 
did he not bring from the thickets and woodside? And 
when such a distinguished visitor as the rose-breasted 
grosbeak condescended to invade my humble domain that 
is what I considered one of the red-letter days in my bird 
calendar. I had merely a fleeting glimpse of his black 
and white spotted back and rosy breast, and heard his 
call note, gimp, as he flew over, but it was enough. One 
can't expect to have too much at one time. I have 
never heard his song, but judging from what Hamilton 
Gibson says about it, it must be well worth going a long 
distance to hear. Here is what he says about the song: 
"Sensuous and suffused with color, it is like a rich, pulpy, 
luscious pink-cheeked tropic fruit rendered into sound." 
The most of my sunflowers have been leveled by vio- 
lent winds, but those that are left standing have been 
taken complete possession of by the goldfinches. I take 
great pleastire in observing them extract the seeds — the 
males in their fading plumage and the females in their 
usual sober attire. They go about' it so deftly, so prettily, 
so daintily. Then what endearing little small talk is 
passed back and forth between them ! _ One of the early 
morning sounds these days is his exquisite haybee, varied 
with perchickopee, as he flies from one wild lettuce stalk 
to another, and then he occasionally indulges in a pleasing 
little §ong. It is a pieasing reflection that the goldfinch 
stays with us throughout the winter. 
Another bird that tastes of the sunflower seeds occa- 
sionally is the white-breasted nuthatch, whose nasal yak, 
yak, yak, I frequently hear at dawn. But my two old 
apple trees are the main attraction. These are the shrines 
at which he daily worships, much to the consternation, 
no doubt, of the life under their rough, scaly bark. What 
an inexhaustible larder these old trees hold for the birds 
that make this their "banquet table!" The little downy 
woodpecker is the most frequent visitor, but the hairy 
looks that way also, likewise the chickadees, and rarely 
the little brown tree creeper. Later on I'll keep a sharp 
lookout for the kinglets and myrtle warblers that seldom 
fail to make the old trees a passing visit. 
Sept. 15. — These mid-September mornings are of those 
golden qualities that revive latent fires in the birds. On 
this particular morning the robins gave us delightful bits 
from their rich June chorus, there was also the delicious 
warble of the bluebirds, the sprightly singing of gold- 
finches, the humble trilling of the hairbird, to which the 
purple grackle added his_ harsh notes, and the downy- 
woodpecker his shrill clarion. 
The bluebird's autumn note, in which is strangely in- 
termingled sweetness, tenderness, sadness and plaintive- 
ness, is as artistic a hit of melody as the bird's delicious 
spring warble. To me it is the saddest bird note of 
autumn. As it gently falls down to us from the sky I 
cannot associate it with anything but a refrain of the pass- 
ing season — a little dirge to autumn's passing loveliness. 
It also means "good-by." Theodore M. Schlick.* 
Dansvillb, N. Y., Sept 18. 
A Little Unprofitable Essay in 
Speculative Ornithology. 
Editor Forest and Stream: 
I must confess myself very much interested and some- 
what puzzled by Forked Deer's account, in your last issue, 
of the "apple-birds," and am appealing for more light. 
It would be of great interest to me to get fuller and 
authentic information about this bird, together Avith the 
head of one of the rascals "taken in the act." 
So far from discrediting Forked Deer's statement, it is 
just what I have been expecting to hear from some of 
those western woodpeckers for some years. Nevertheless 
in the description of the bird some mistake must have 
crept in — a slip of the pen, such as we all make, a blun- 
der by the compositor, which we all know is infrequent, 
or a clear case of trusting to a treacherous memory in- 
stead of taking the trouble to write it down — which is a 
fault I lament myself more often than either of the 
others. In one of these ways Forked Deer has brought it 
about that his description does not fit any woodpecker in 
this country — and, it might be said, would be very hard to 
attach to any other bird. "The size of a robin;" "back 
and wings perfectly black;" "a band of light brick color 
about an inch wide from the throat to the tail ;" "a circle 
of the same color about the eyes;" "a habit of lighting 
upon the side of posts" — which in itself, I may say, is, 
taken with its size, vmdoubted proof that the bird was a 
woodpecker. But the color, which I quote, not in ridicule 
of an honest attempt to describe the bird, but to prevent 
secondary misapprehensions, is not that of any known 
woodpecker in any plumage familiar to me. Within the 
hour, to refresh my memory, I have examined an exten- 
sive collection, including specimens of every species found 
in North America, and there is nothing which at all re- 
sembles this bird. I am a little more discourteous in 
pressing this point because a narrow stripe of color from 
throat to tail continuously (if throat is taken as mean- 
ing the whole tract to the bill) is so unusual a color 
pattern and so bad protectively that any bird possessing 
it should be very easily singled out from even a multitude, 
whereas of the woodpeckers we have but about twenty- 
five species to work upon. 
Assuming, then, for purposes of discussibn, that there 
has been some discrepancy which prevents certain identi- 
fication of the species without involving doubt as to the 
account given of its habits, the question at once becomes 
more intricate and more interesting. What bird would 
be most likely to take up this habit of robbing the 
orchard? And what one corresponds most nearly to the 
description ? 
To the first question I suspect that the editorial con- 
jecture of Lewis's woodpecker is correct. It would be 
the safest guess if one were reduced to guessing. The 
weight of other hypotheses and already collected infor- 
mation lies behind it. And it seems to suit the peculiar 
genius of the bird. 
On the other hand, Lewis's woodpecker in no particular 
answers to the description of this bird. In bulk and 
spread, even if not in actual inches, it is a much larger 
bird than a robin. It has not a trace of "light brick 
color" upon it whether that color be buff or brownish- 
red; its pink is a decided pink, and its crimson is a deep 
winey color. This crimson does envelop the eyes, but 
not as a "faint circle." Finally the bird has not a stripe 
nor the suggestion of a stripe upon it. Its coloration 
is almost unique among the woodpeckers upon just that 
point. The casual observer would be most likely to re- 
member the rich crimson around the eyes and throat 
(red being a color which impresses itself for psychological 
reasons), and the curious gray crescent upon the back be- 
cause that is an unusual mark. But one could hardly by 
any means carry off an impression of stripes from a bird- 
which has none, though heaven and the ornithologist only 
know what f^nny descriptions are sometimes given of 
birds "in the bush." 
But does this go to show that the Lewis's woodpecker 
was not the bird that did the damage? I incline to think 
not, merely that it could hardly have been the bird killed. 
The strongest evidence in favor of Lewis's not being the 
depredator is that Forked Deer expressly states that the 
birds were fall migrants, appearing suddenly in large 
numbers (from the south, he says, which must be just a 
slip of the pen, since there is but one bird known, the 
Ross's rosy gull, which does not head toward the south 
in autumn) — and then vanishing suddenly. Now, the 
