ene, Ue Oe BcOONS BU Eel N 13 
wood ticks to release their hold. I knew I had a band about four inches 
wide above my boot-tops completely covered with mosquito bites, but was 
not prepared to see hundreds of wood ticks fastened to my anatomy. 
First, I rubbed the alcohol over me generously, according to the direc- 
tions of the game warden, next lathered well with soap and took a shower. 
Again, I rubbed on alcohol and then began to pick. I picked off one hundred 
ticks before I stopped counting. Each I drowned under the faucet and 
continued picking. Finally, believing I had pulled out all, I turned my atten- 
tion to my underwear, which, I had covered with water on removal. Many 
more were drowned. My skirt and blouse I had put into a big paper bag, 
which I had tied near the top. I now discovered three more ticks crawling 
on me. A glance at the clock showed me I had spent two hours drowning 
ticks. I was a wreck and went to bed. In the morning, I hung my skirt 
and blouse on a tree, removed three ticks from the bed and one from the 
top of a box that had been in the car. 
I was utterly discouraged, but determined to make one more effort to 
see those elusive birds. I drove to the Sarkey Road, the gravel crossroad 
which we had followed the day before on our way to the Singer Tract, 
and stopped where we had on the previous day paused. At this point, there 
was an old over-grown road leading out of the woods on either side of 
the highway. The ivory-bills, I was informed, had occasionally been seen 
flying through the woods and crossing the highway at this place. While 
parked, I saw the prothonotary warbler, red-eyed vireo, yellow-breasted 
chat, indigo and painted buntingss, and a wood pewee building its nest, but 
no ivory-bill! 
I was blue, indeed, when I returned to camp, but cheered a bit when 
I talked with a young man, Mr. Theo Killian, who helped his relative, 
owner of the camp and the near-by grocery store. He said that if I would 
stay until Sunday he would go with me to a tract of woods fifty miles 
away, near his father’s farm, where he had seen ivory-bills many times 
when a boy—had even shot one. I questioned him closely and was con- 
vinced that he knew what he was talking about. It was now Thursday, 
and in the next two days I would have time to rest, see that all my clothes 
were clean, and enjoy scratching. 
At nine o’clock Sunday morning, Mr. Killian, his young wife and I 
left Talulah, all three in the front seat, the man driving my car. After 
crossing Macon Bayou and driving through Delhi, we stopped at the farm 
home of Mr. and Mrs. Killian’s friends, French people who served French 
coffee at once, coffee quite black and bitter, but good, if you please. Then 
on to the woods. (This tract of trees, known as The Little Swamp, lies 
east of Killian’s Ferry Landing, Macon Bayou, Franklin Parish, Louisiana. 
The owners of the tract were said to live in Chicago, Illinois. The adjoining 
tract of woods, I learned, is the property of Mr. S. D. Gravell of Swamp- 
ers, Louisiana.) We remained in the woods until about two o’clock, going 
here and there to sections where woodpeckers were heard. 
When we first entered the woods, far overhead in a live oak tree I 
had a momentary view of an ivory-bill, but, as I was handing my binoculars 
to one of my companions, the bird suddenly departed. Mr. Killian said he 
