Jxily,1913 
THE ALL-DAY TEST AT SANTA BARBARA 
155 
entirely white save for the black tip of the bill, which still marks the last stage 
preceding maturity, and the other with plumage of a dirty white cast. Still an- 
other of this species was seen later in the day on the beach near Carpinteria, 
some ten miles to the eastward. 
The sandy stretch along the boulevard, where at least a thousand automo- 
biles pass daily at this dull season and three thousand in the tourist season, yield- 
ed five new species; viz., Semipalmated Plover, Pludsonian Curlew, Forster Tern, 
Sanderling, and Snowy Plover — the last-named resident and breeding. But still 
we had only 87. 
The fortunes of the day hinged upon the behavior of Sandylands, Mr. 
Stewart Edward White’s waterfront stretch near Carpinteria. A line of sand 
dunes backed by a shallow lagoon and extended into a low spit, had usually treat- 
ed us well ; but there was no predicting this day, and the wind was blowing al- 
most a gale. Belding Marsh Sparrow, California Brown Pelican, and Plyper- 
onca Blue Heron were certainties, but Black-bellied Plovers and the Turnstones 
were more gracious materializations, while the Snowy Egret was a gem of gen- 
erosity. This wary bird cherishes its skin more carefully than the Last of the 
Mohicans, and I verily believe he is the same one who showed up at this time 
last year. 
We left at 4:30 p. m. with Squawk ranking as 99. A surly road boss spread- 
ing asphalt on the Summerland road intercepted our Santa Barbara-ward flight 
and sent us around by El Toro Canyon over a very Hades of bumps — thus losing 
us fifteen minutes of the precious daylight. If the list is one short it is the fault 
of that Plutonian taskmaster. 
From Ortega Hill I scanned the sea and succeeded in locating a single West- 
ern Grebe, No. 100. Here is where I cheated the boy, quite unintentionally ; for 
I monopolized the glasses until the Grebe was gone. So Master Will mourns 
that his list falls one short of his daddy’s, for otherwise he checked up on every 
one. 
So surely as you pass the hundred point, you get interested, enthusiastic, ex- 
cited. You are making history and you know it. Every bird is a godsend, and 
you watch the descending sun like an anxious Joshua. Cedar Birds ! Bless them ! 
Forty plump bodies ranged on a telegraph wire by the roadside on purpose to be 
listed. 
The Beale Estero, approached cautiously from the north side, yields Greater 
Yellowlegs, Spotted Sandpiper, and an able-bodied Pintail at one clip, while an 
Eared Grebe bobs up by the roadside as we cross the outlet, and it submits to a 
delighted scrutiny. All sail now for the Mission Hill ! We know a bank where 
the wild Rufous-crowned Sparrow grows, and we’ll malce it by sundown or crack 
a cylinder. Or — by the way. Sonny, we flushed a Poorwill the other day from 
that field the other side of the new Normal School, didn’t we? Well, we’ll try 
for that, first. Poor Will wouldn’t; but just as we were about to heave a very 
much aspirated sigh, “click tsip” came from a Western Grasshopper 
Sparrow. Delighted to meet you, Buzzy. Come again! Now up the winding road 
to Rufous-crowned Sparrowburg! And just as the lower limb of the sun plunged 
into the western sea, we silenced the motor and listened to the evening offering 
of the titled singer himself. Twice he held forth in those exquisite sweet strains 
and then plunged into the thicket for the night. 
Our work was done at 6:37, and the Jolly Ellen rolled her soft shoes home- 
ward to her dreamless stall. The record was 107, although we still had hopes ; not 
vain ones either, for at eight o’clock when we came forth from dinner to test the 
