IN THE LAND OF THE GREAT SPIRIT 145 



pleased me very much. But Kakikapo was not 

 pleased. For he picked a little twig and brushed it 

 across my sleeve, and sure enough that noise, though 

 slight, was more than we could risk when after moose. 

 I turned the jacket inside out, and then all was 

 ready ; and we began to take that spoor along. 



The breeze, so very light when we started, had 

 freshened up and was now blowing pretty strong. 

 And this perhaps was just as well, for about twelve 

 o'clock we entered upon a bit of hunting just about 

 as difficult as anything I have ever come across. We 

 had all but come upon our moose. But he had 

 begun to suspect something was wrong. Whiskey 

 Jack, I fancy, put the notion in his head. A word or 

 two before I forget it about Whiskey Jack. 



There is a little grey bird with a black head whose 

 place is somewhere between the jays and shrikes. His 

 proper name is Perisoreus canadensis^ but to the Indian 

 he is known as Wiskachan ; and thence passes, by an 

 easy transition in settler language, through Whiskey 

 John to Whiskey Jack. This little bird is most 

 sociably disposed towards human beings. Some 

 Whiskey Jack of days gone by made the grand 

 discovery that, when hunters stopped and lit a fire, 

 there was commonly food about;. This information 



K 



