Last Days at Revels Island

LIKE many other members of the Revels Island Club, in the middle nineties, I visited the shore in the spring not so much for shooting at a time when other game was protected as for enjoying the beauty of Nature throwing off her drab winter garment and replacing it with green, swelling buds and unfolding leaves. This beauty, the gentle warmth of the sun, and the soft spring breezes constituted a welcome change to residents of more northern latitudes who loved the out-of-doors.

To Revels Island during these balmy days came nearly all the species of shore birds that inhabit our Atlantic coast. Some were en route from their winter homes in South America to their breeding grounds beyond the Arctic Circle. There were others that nest in less distant places, as well as those that remain to rear their young along the Eastern Shore. Though the different species arrived at different times, each form had its special schedule of arrival and departure.

First to appear were the jacksnipes, or grass snipes, which usually kept to the mainland, for the fresh-water meadows were to their liking. These were followed successively by Hudsonian curlews (many of which had wintered in South Carolina), willets, greater and lesser yellowlegs, numerous species of sandpipers, plovers (ring-necked, Wilson's, and black-breasted), turnstones, dowitchers, and knots or robin snipe.

In those days the wastefulness and cruelty of shooting birds that were already mating,
or those that were actually in the midst of their nesting activities among the broken shells of the seashore or in tussocks of grass in the marshes, were not appreciated until several species were approaching extinction.

Because of the large numbers of species, each with its peculiar habits, shore-bird shooting at the island afforded a far pleasanter and more varied form of sport than did the wildfowling in the adjacent bays, where the salt water appeared to have attractions mainly for scaups, golden-eyes, geese, and brant. Comparatively few kinds of waterfowl were to be found in the vicinity of the island, although not much farther to the south, on Back Bay and Currituck Sound, were millions of marsh and deep-water ducks, together with tens of thousands of greater snow and Canada geese and whistling swans.

An ample supply of wooden and tin decoys, shaped and painted to resemble the larger or more desirable species of shore birds, was available at the club. In a catboat with a large leg-of-mutton sail the gunner was conveyed by his guide from the clubhouse to a blind, which, the direction and force of the wind being considered, was best located for the purpose in view.

In hunting curlew, fowlers often dug a pit at the edge of a sand point in the marsh where the birds were accustomed to feed as the receding tide exposed the mud flats. When the tide was rising, the curlews followed the narrow channels through the island, alighting to rest on the grassy flats along either side. In such places, the hunters, well concealed behind grass blinds, could enjoy flight shooting.

These birds were favorites with many sportsmen because of their size and slow, steady flight. Their large, compact flocks could be seen a mile or more away, as they came in to their feeding or resting places. If the hunter wished to shoot yellow-legs or willets, he would occupy a bush blind close to the edge of a little fresh-water pond, in the mud and shallow water of which the decoys would be placed in such spots as these birds commonly frequented when feeding.

The turnstones gathered on the mud banks bordering the larger bays in company
with the smaller sandpipers that preferred the open shores. Because of the small size of these birds and their habit of flying in compact flocks, the gunners were able to bring them down in such numbers, sometimes a dozen or more at a shot, that they provided the material for many a delicious potpie, a welcome relief from the products of the frying pan.

CAMERA HUNTING BIRDS AND NESTS ON REVELS ISLAND

Toward the end of the season, about the middle of May, flocks of robin snipe frequented the exposed sea beaches, and for years they afforded excellent shooting. After a time I became seriously alarmed about the future of these handsome birds, for they began to decrease rapidly in numbers, and late in May, 1904, I made a special trip to Revels Island to obtain pictures of what I feared might be a doomed species.

All day I remained in a blind with my camera before a flock circled over the decoys. The marked difference between hunting with a gun and with a camera was here demonstrated. Had I discharged a gun at this flock, a few birds might have been dropped, and the rest would have hurried on in wild alarm toward their far northern home. As it was, I obtained a fine series of pictures of the entire flock as its members circled back time after time to satisfy their innocent curiosity concerning the strange wooden counterfeits.

During the days I passed in the blinds I was much interested in noting the skill with which some of the local guides imitated the notes of these birds. Often when the birds were passing on their northward flight, or were merely seeking new feeding grounds after having been disturbed by a rising tide, they would pass our decoys, which were strung out near shore, without paying them the least attention.

The guide at my side in the blind would imitate the note peculiar to the species that was passing, and very commonly the flock would respond by swinging in on a graceful curve that would bring them within gunshot. If we did not shoot, they would alight among the decoys, where we could photograph them at our leisure.

Nature photographers, especially beginners, find much enjoyment in picturing the nests and eggs of birds to be found so
readily in most country places. The more ambitious of them photograph the parent bird on the nest, or when it is feeding its young. In many cases the notes made by these amateurs have proved of value to ornithologists concerned with the home life of our birds.

At first, being interested mainly in game animals and birds, I neglected opportunities to get pictures of the nests, even of rare birds. Moreover, I was seldom in the forests in May or June, my outings occurring usually at a time when the birds were already hatched and on the wing.

After many visits in spring to the island as a sportsman, I went there to make photographic records of the birds and their nests. Once on going to photograph the northern flight of the robin snipe, I found that the movement had not yet begun, and after waiting a day or two, I decided that it would be interesting to look for the nests of breeding birds. Such a search should result in a fairly complete census of the summer-bird residents of the Eastern Shore. How fascinating this endeavor proved.

On the first morning of my quest I left the cottage with a small camera affixed to a tripod for use in taking pictures of stationary objects at close range. This was the outfit that I had used in photographing fungi in the forests of northern Michigan. First I went down on the sand beach that extended for nearly a mile along the southern end of the island.

I had never hunted on this beach but had often walked its entire length for exercise after a day in the cramped confines of a shooting blind, and frequently had brought back a basket of clams for Aunt Caroline to convert into one of her famous chowders. In addition to sanderlings, turnstones, and other migrants, the birds that inhabited this beach in the spring included a number of species that remained to breed, and it seemed quite certain that on the sand above high tide some nests could be found.

After I had gone a few hundred yards along the beach, I saw the black and white figure of an oyster catcher near the edge of the water, but it took wing as I approached. Closely examining the upper beach near the place where it had appeared, I found two heavily splotched eggs in a little hollow where the sand had been scratched out. The eggs were surrounded by a number of broken sea shells as if an attempt had been made to outline a crude nest or to camouflage the eggs. I photographed the eggs and continued my walk.

A TERN UTTERS PROTEST

Soon afterward I discovered three dark-colored eggs with dark spots in a depression in the bare sand, but no parent bird was visible in the neighborhood. As I was focusing the camera on this new find, the identity of the owner was established by the arrival of a common tern, which flew over my head protesting loudly.

As I approached the end of the sandy point, I observed a pair of black skimmers on the beach, but I doubt that they were nesting there, since these birds had a large breeding colony on Hog Island, on the opposite side of the channel. I was pleasantly surprised, therefore, to find their nest in this unexpected place.

After I had photographed it, I retraced my steps to the clubhouse along a line of small sand dunes covered with bunches of grass, from the direction of which the notes of Wilson's plover had sounded as I came down the beach. In that vicinity I had frequently seen these pretty little ring-
necked plovers. After a considerable search I found a set of their eggs on the sand and added a photograph of them to my collection.

Two days later I returned, and by concealing the camera a few feet away, with a thread running about 75 yards to some sheltering bushes, I was able to release the shutter while the parent bird stood close by the eggs. On my way back to the cottage, as I was crossing some low, wet ground covered with long grass, a pair of willets flew about close overhead, uttering cries of distress -- behavior that indicated that their nest was close by. Careful search, however, failed to disclose the nest they were guarding.

These birds are remarkably skillful in concealing their eggs. I was probably led astray by the cunning maneuverings of the birds, which showed apparent anxiety first in one place and then in another. The willet is one of the few species of shore birds that nest as far south as Virginia. I saw many willets in Florida in winter. The migratory flights of some of these birds seem to be comparatively short.

Abandoning the search for the nest of the willets, I returned to the clubhouse, in the vicinity of which I hoped to obtain another picture. The buildings were surrounded by several acres of tall, thin grass that afforded some grazing for Jerry, the ox, in addition to harboring myriads of mosquitoes that could not be dislodged, even by the heaviest winds off the ocean. If a person wearing black garments passed through this grass in the spring, in a few minutes the black on his back would turn to a uniform brown from the host of mosquitoes alighting on it. Fortunately, in the daytime these insects were not very vicious, and at night well-screened windows prevented them from being annoying.

This grassy locality was the resort of a pair of meadow larks that could be seen flying about at all hours of the day, and heard singing musically mornings and evenings. That these birds were nesting on this little island, surrounded by miles of
salt marshes, and so far away from the mainland, would have seemed unlikely to me had not their actions indicated that they were housekeeping.

Several times I had observed one of the birds descend into the grass near a small cedar. Approaching the spot, I searched carefully and at length discovered a pyramid of grass tops, like a little Indian tepee, under which was a nest containing four eggs. Parting the grass, I photographed the cleverly concealed nest and then restored the canopy to its original position.

By this time I had photographed the nests and eggs of five quite different kinds of birds, and before attempting any further subjects, I decided to develop the plates to learn whether the camera was doing its duty. The developed plates proved to be satisfactory, and I started out the following morning to visit a breeding colony of laughing gulls. These birds had been seen circling about the marshy end of a bay situated about half a mile west of the clubhouse.

Before departing for the bay, I asked Jonah, the colored chore boy, whether the gulls had begun to lay. He replied that he had been down there a few days before, and that he thought that more than a hundred pairs were nesting.

Approaching the edge of this marsh, I found a place where the wind and waves had beaten down the bushes along high-tide mark, and where considerable debris had lodged. Wherever there was a flat surface of rushes or other material a foot or more in extent, a pair of gulls had hollowed out a small depression and had laid their eggs. Very little effort was expended in constructing a nest. I took several pictures of these crude nests.

As I returned to the clubhouse the sight of a flicker led me to try to locate the nest of the pair of these birds that had been seen flying about a little south of the houses. A short search revealed a dead pine stub containing a nesting hole only five feet above the ground. Placing the tripod and camera within a few feet of the tree, I fas-
tened a string to the shutter and moved off a short distance. In few minutes a flicker alighted on the side of the stub close to the entrance to the nest and helped me to a satisfactory picture.

I next explored the pine ridge, where I expected to find the nests of many other species of birds. Low ground, through which ran a tidal creek, separated the grounds surrounding the clubhouse from the ridge, and across this an elevated board walk a quarter of a mile long had been built. This made it possible for one to visit the pine ridge even in times of high tides.

In a small bush close to the boardwalk I discovered a little nest containing four speckled eggs. It was impossible for me to identify the bird as it flew away, but later I was convinced that it was a seaside finch, a rather common bird in those marshes.

In an old clearing on the ridge stood the ruins of the first clubhouse, which had been built in 1885. In a sheltered nook of the ruined structure, a pair of barn swallows had built a nest. Close by, a pair of tree swallows was found nesting in the bottom of a hole in an old stub. With a little saw I cut an opening to the nest and exposed the four beautiful white eggs on a soft bed of feathers. After taking a picture, I nailed the strip of wood back in place so that the birds could continue their housekeeping undisturbed.

From this place I went westward to a patch of low cedars, which sheltered a dozen nests of the grackle. These structures, large and deep, were composed almost entirely of coarse swamp grass with a finer lining. After taking one photograph of a nest showing the eggs, I found another nest in which the young were nearly ready to fly. They were placed in a row on a neighboring branch on which they sat for their portraits, and appeared to be quite unafraid. Meanwhile, the mother bird protested vehemently.

Beyond this point, at a place where deciduous bushes replaced the cedars, I saw a flash of brown and recognized the slender, graceful form of the brown thrasher with which I was so familiar in the winter quarters of the species in Florida, as well as during the spring and summer in the District of Columbia. A short search revealed that it also was nesting, and I took a photograph of its neat home. In some little bushes that grew among the heavy grass in damp open ground between the trees on the ridge and the open marsh a number of red-winged blackbirds were nesting, and these made easy subjects for the camera.

From the border of the marsh I turned toward the east to examine the wooded ridge near the site of the old clubhouse. As I approached some large yellow pines, several fish crows departed hurriedly and thus betrayed the presence of a half dozen nests. These were beyond reach, however, without the aid of a ladder or strips of wood nailed to the tree trunks.

Leaving these nests for later attention, I went on to another group of low cedars, very much like those in which the grackles were nesting, and here found many nests of the little green heron. They were flimsy structures, consisting of loosely built platforms of small sticks with saucer-shaped depressions in the tops for the eggs. One nest that I photographed held four greenish eggs, and another contained young birds four or five days old.

The green heron is the smallest and one of the most common of the true herons of North America. When perched in a tree, it usually sits with its head drawn down
so that it has the appearance at a distance of a rather unattractive bird. But when standing alertly upright, it discloses all the grace of form usual to its kind. At a distance it looks dull and dingy in hue, but when held in the hand it reveals exquisitely blended variegated colors.

Although usually solitary in habits, during the nesting season the green herons gather in small groups or colonies in their chosen breeding places. The birds are so frequently seen as they rise and fly along the course of small wooded streams that in some parts of their range in the eastern States, the species is commonly called "fly-up-the-creek."

Not far from the colony of green herons stood a dead pine in which was an osprey's nest. Near this I built a blind of bushes and focused on the nest a camera equipped with a large lens. After a wait of only a few minutes the parent birds began flying about and I was able to obtain a series of photographs showing them circling about an outspread wings or perching on the nest.

Ospreys, or fish hawks, have long frequented the large salt marshes along the eastern shore of Virginia, where the meadows are penetrated by small bays and tidal creeks in which there are many fish that attract them. In many parts of the marshes, however, no woody growth is found other than bushes too frail to support the bulky nests, and the ospreys must carry their catches miles away to their young.

OSPREYS BUILD NESTS ON CROSSBARS OF TELEPHONE POLES

Several years after a life-saving station had been established on Parramore Island and a telephone line had been built across the Revels Island marsh, the ospreys began building their nests, precariously balanced, on the top crossbars of the telephone poles. These interfered so seriously with the working of the line that all the nests were destroyed. Sometimes the birds built nests on the roofs of cabins in the marshes.

I had not as yet located and photographed the nests of the willet and the marsh hen, two game birds in which I was particularly interested, and which were unusually abundant on Revels Island during the summer.

While I was taking the osprey picture, I noticed several willets flying back and forth over a little fresh-water pond, a short distance away in the marsh. As I approached the place, a willet sprang up from the tuft of grass on a little hummock surrounded by water. Although I looked carefully, I could see no nest, but when I parted the tall grass I discovered one containing four eggs. Pushing the grass to one side I took a picture and then restored the grassy cover.

Soon afterward I obtained two additional pictures of the nests of the willet, but could not get one of a bird on the eggs. The bird would fly away as soon as I approached. It usually alighted in the grass at some distance and returned to its eggs under that cover so stealthily that I never knew just when it arrived.

PHOTOGRAPHING A WILLET IN FLIGHT

At one place I stuck a stick in the ground as a marker about eight feet from the nest. Then I focused the camera carefully ready for a shot later, and retired for half an hour. Setting the focal plane shutter at 1/1000 of a second, I stalked cautiously up to the marker and aimed the camera several feet above the nest. I had just got in the proper position when the willet sprang through the concealing grass, and the picture I obtained shows it hurtling through the air.

The tall, stately willet is one of the handsomest of our shore birds. The variegated plumage of its back is brownish gray, black, and white, and the secondaries and part of the primaries in the long tapering wings are brilliant white. The bird is strikingly beautiful in flight. During the nesting season it incessantly utters loud ringing cries, pilly-will-willet, pilly-will-willet -- as it flies about or hovers over the head of an intruder in its nesting ground. It is the only shore bird, so far as I am aware, that tries to protect its nest. I have found it nesting from northern Florida to Delaware, the breeding range on the Atlantic coast being comparatively limited.

Hundreds of marsh hens, or clapper rails, nested within a mile of the clubhouse. Their nests were usually built within fifty feet of the upper tide limits or about freshwater ponds. Like the nests of the willet, they were well concealed from the keen-eyed crows that flew continually about the marshes in search of eggs. They were placed in thick grass or rushes and covered with grassy canopies.

I found that by zigzagging back and forth near the water, especially during high tide, I could easily flush the birds, or, if they were absent, could discover the nests by looking beneath every wisp of grass blade such as is woven above the eggs by the parent bird. At the time of my search the nest contained from four to 16 eggs. In those having 16 incubation had begun.

I parted the grass concealing one of these completed clutches of eggs and took the picture shown in the text. I then placed a small camera covered with grass in front of the nest where hatching had begun, and twisted back the concealing grass so as to expose the eggs or the setting bird. I attached a threat to the shutter so that by pulling on it I could take the picture when I was about 50 feet away.

After a short absence I cautiously returned, none too soon to get the desired photograph. The mother bird was sitting on the nest busily engaged in pulling back, with little jerking motions of her bill, the grass blades I had disturbed.

The next morning I returned with some slats to nail on a pine tree containing a nest of the fish crow, and had little difficulty in getting a satisfactory picture.

FISH CROWS DRIVEN AWAY

The following year I was able to climb up the same tree and get a photograph of a nearly grown young crow, the two others having left the nest while I was focusing the camera. When the extent of the depredations of the fish crow on the other nesting birds was fully realized, the superintendent of the club was directed to destroy all their nests found on the place. This was done with a shotgun, and most of these pests were driven away.

The last nest I photographed was that of a bob-white. It was located near tide water on the mainland opposite the island, and was well hidden in dense grass growing in a fence corner. It contained 15 eggs.

In the week I devoted to nest hunting I took photographs of 18 species, which were fairly representative of the birds most commonly living there during the breeding season. By concentrating one's efforts on a given area typical of the surrounding country, one can obtain a series of pictures that affords evidence of the birds nesting there, and that indicates their conceptions of what constitutes a desirable home. In many instances efforts apparently had been made by the birds to conceal or camouflage the eggs and later the young.

I often neglected to take the picture of a bird or animal when occasion offered, believing that this could be done, possibly more conveniently later. Delay, however, is poor policy when dealing with wild things, for they are subject to many more vicissitudes than are tame creatures.

PROCRASTINATION THE ENEMY

As a striking illustration, I might cite my failure to photograph the largest osprey nest I have ever seen. It was in the top of a tall dead pine on Revels Island, where during many successive seasons I saw the structure grow in bulk by annual additions. The tree was an outstanding one in a grove north of the clubhouse, and so large and elevated was the nest that it constituted a conspicuous landmark for visitors seeking the island.

Year after year I passed this tree always with the thought that some day I would photograph it with the osprey perching on its huge structure or circling over it. Time passed without my doing so, however, until one afternoon in the spring of 1902 I examined the locality to determine the best place in which to conceal the camera in order to obtain the long-desired picture which I planned to take the next morning.

An unusually heavy northeaster occurred that night. The club buildings creaked and rattled under the strain, but, comfortably sheltered, we enjoyed the rush and shrieking of the wind and the booming of the surf along the shore.

The following morning dawned clear and warm, and, shouldering my tripod and camera, I set out to photograph the osprey's home. Reaching the spot, I found the gaunt dead pine prone on the ground and the nest reduced to a great mass of sticks and other material. That the tree had sunk slowly to the earth under the force of the wind was indicated by the three unbroken brown-blotched eggs of the hawk that lay on the ground beside the nest. Among the debris were seven or eight smaller, bluish eggs of grackles, which had been unceremoniously ejected from their big, rent-free apartment house by the catastrophe that had overtaken their landlord.

Millions of shots are fired every season at ducks passing over decoys, or on flight to feeding or resting grounds. Unless a duck is shot through the head or other vital organ, or comes down with a broken wing,
it may not be apparent that it has received a wound that will cause death in a few minutes by internal hemorrhage. Every gunner, therefore, should observe closely a departing bird that may have been hit, although it shows no evidence of injury.

Frequently a wounded bird will suddenly drop after it has flown several hundred yards, very commonly when the gunner is reloading his weapon or has his attention otherwise distracted. I recall an instance of retrieving two black ducks that if they had not been watched in their flight of about a mile would not have been found. This occurred during an unusually low tide in Revels Island Bay, when much of the bottom was exposed for a couple of hours.

Knowing that under such conditions black ducks were likely to come in considerable numbers to feed in the few places, I built a small blind at the edge of the marsh in the hope that some would passing within range. After a while a pair of black ducks headed in my direction, but dropped to a pile of seaweed nearly a hundred yards away.

Substituting for the cartridges in my gun others containing No. 3 shot, I stood up in the blind. As I expected, the pair arose almost perpendicularly, quacking loudly. I fired at the upper duck and then took a shot at the other.

I saw the birds leave, apparently unscathed. I could not be sure of this, however, and I watched them fly north toward the end of the bay.

When they were so far away that they looked like two tiny black spots, one of them turned and came back along the opposite shore. Its high and undeviating flight suddenly ended; it stopped abruptly and feel straight down with a splash on the surface of the muddy pool, directly in line with a distant stunted cedar.

By its actions I knew that the duck had died in mid-air before it fell. While pulling up my hip boots to go for it, I happened to notice that the surviving duck was returning along the same course as that followed by the first. Within a hundred yards of its dead mate it, too, collapsed and fell with a splash. A few minutes later I made the
trip across the muddy flats and without difficulty found both birds.

Bald eagles were rather common about Revels Island. They seldom harmed the other birds, but one once caused great excitement at the clubhouse. Captain Wickes, then superintendent, was returning to the club through the "swash" channel in a small ducking boat when he saw one of these handsome birds flying overhead within easy gunshot. Thinking it would make a good specimen to mount as a trophy, he fired and dropped it near the boat.

OUR EMBLEMATIC BIRD MAKES A STIR

Picking up the apparently lifeless form, Captain Wickes stowed it between his legs and continued rowing toward the clubhouse. Suddenly one of his legs was gripped by the long talons of the bird, which sank into the flesh, causing great pain.

At such close quarters he could neither shoot the bird nor hit it with an oar. He did what seemed to be the best thing -- leaped overboard, hoping to drown his assailant and thus cause it to release a grip that would only enlarge his wounds if he tired to pull the bird away while it was alive. As he came to the surface, he found the eagle had let go its hold and was standing erect on the bow seat of the boat.

No wind was blowing at the time, and the boat continued to drift with the tide toward the clubhouse. The captain swam ashore and limped along after the drifting boat for a quarter of a mile, expressing his feelings meanwhile in violent language.

The boat at length touched the bank at a bend, and the ousted skipper was able to get on board. Seizing one of the small oars, he gave the defiant bird a knockout blow, and it sank to the bottom of the boat, apparently with a broken neck.

On reaching his destination, the captain carried his trophy ashore, and threw it on the porch back of the kitchen.

While binding his bleeding wounds, for a small artery had been opened, he heard loud shrieks from the rear of the kitchen. Hastily tying on a temporary bandage, he hurried back to learn the cause of the uproar. A colored maid, with bare feet, while examining the bird, had given it a kick to turn it over for further inspection. Thereupon the apparently lifeless bird had sunk his talons deep into the calf of her leg. She shrieked and jumped about on one foot until she fell down the back steps to the ground. Picking up a piece of stove wood, the captain finished the eagle.

There were days in the spring when the migrating shore birds were not in flight, and then I turned my attention to nesting gulls, skimmers, herons, and oyster-catchers, or to such land birds as the osprey, fish crow, flicker, brown thrasher, tree swallow, grackle and bluebird. Seldom at this season of the year need the camera be laid aside for want of subjects, and thus the period lost by the devotees of hunting, now that spring shooting is necessarily prohibited throughout the country, can be utilized by the true lover of the out-of-doors.

The next to my last trip to the island was made to photograph the robin snipe and the Hudsonian curlew, for it seemed to me as if they were going the way of the wild pigeon and would soon be exterminated.

My last visit to the island was in May, 1923, at which time I was accompanied by Dr. E. W. Nelson, then Chief of the Biological Survey of the United States Department of Agriculture. The purpose of the trip was to check up on the reported increase of shore birds as a result of their protection under the Migratory Bird Law.

The launch had no sooner put out from the little town of Wachapreague, on the mainland side of Wachapreague Inlet, north of Parramore Island, than Hudsonian curlews began springing up on all sides, and we observed nearly a thousand on the six miles trip. Yet this bird had nearly become extinct ten years before.

THE FEDERAL LAW HELPS

In our several days on the marshes and mud flats we found that the protection given the birds by the Federal law had resulted in an increase in the numbers of most of the shore birds, including the willet, the black-breasted and the smaller plovers, the knot or robin-snipe, dowitcher, calicobacks, or turnstones, and many varieties of sandpipers. The yellow-legs, however, were scarce, since an open season still permitted shooting of this species.

Subsequently the Advisory Board, of which I was a member, a committee of game commissioners and sportsmen appointed to offer recommendations for drafting regulations relative to the administration of the Migratory Bird Law, advised that the season be closed on yellow-legs. This suggestion was adopted by the Department of Agriculture in 1927.