14 THE AUDUBON BULLETIN 
had recognized the bird without the glasses, but I was determined to have 
a more satisfactory view, both for myself and my witnesses. Hence we 
continued our search. 
These woods, which contained many live oak trees, hung with southern 
moss, were not so dark as those of the Singer Tract, for they were a bit 
more open and the day was bright and clear. Hence mosquitoes as well 
as ticks were much less in evidence. 
We identified two southern pileated woodpeckers. Three more great 
woodpeckers saw us first and flew before we could determine their species. 
Then there was a tremendous sound, as if a rivet were being driven into 
steel. You’ve all heard it when passing a new construction where steel 
girders were being riveted. Even I, whose ears are not attuned to the songs 
and calls of birds, heard the great noise as distinctly as I would if a rivet 
were driven into steel directly in front of me. Mr. Killian nodded toward 
the top of a tall bare tree trunk, forty or more feet up. And there, clinging 
to the trunk with its back toward us, drilling away, was a magnificent male 
ivory-billed woodpecker. Comparing its length with that of a hairy wood- 
pecker in the same tree, I judged this great woodpecker to be over twenty 
inches long. Its tall pointed red cap showed distinctly in the sunlight; the 
white areas of the closed wings caused the back of the bird to appear half 
white. When the bird shifted position slightly, the cream colored bill came 
into view. Quickly, I now handed the glasses to Mr. Killian, who, after 
looking until satisfied, passed them on to his wife. But when she looked, 
the bird was not there. 
On our return trip, was I downhearted? Wood ticks and mosquitoes, 
a long dirt road and a poor dinner, counted for naught; for at last I 
had seen the ivory-billed woodpecker. 
San Diego, California 
ft ft ft 
AMites Videene es Jig 
By CoRA CLARKE MCELROY 
A WOMAN GUEST who was having breakfast with us on our screened porch 
once said, “What kind of bird is that on the ground there, the one with 
rusty breast?” Astonished at the question, I said, ““Why, that’s a robin. 
You can hear him singing about four o’clock every morning.” To which 
she replied proudly, “I never heard a bird sing at four o’clock in the 
morning in my whole life, and I hope I never shall.” 
In contrast with this sub-zero interest in birds is that of another 
woman I know, a well known ornithologist, who went into her garden by 
the light of Arcturus and Jupiter one May morning to find out just how 
many songs a favorite song sparrow would sing during the day. With note 
book in hand and a watch she sat there until after sunset, counting and 
recording the songs—how many a minute, how many an hour, not leaving 
her post for breakfast or lunch lest a song be missed. 
Between these extremes are many gradations of interest in birds, but 
it seems safe to say that most people are supposed to have some interest, 
