ANTOINE GARDAPEE. 207 



mutual, as indeed it was, for the first skating or snow- 

 shoeing of the season strains muscles in an unusual 

 way. And we rested and fished. We used bits of veni- 

 son for bait, and laid in a stock of trout and some other 

 small fish, which we stored in the snow when frozen. 



A portion of a deer had been hung on the north side 

 of the cabin, and it had been torn and picked in a way 

 that neither dogs, wolves nor bears could nor would have 

 mutilated it, because the tearing had been done from the 

 upper side. I called my partner's attention to it, and 

 suggested that ravens had found us out. 



He looked at the meat and said: "Miss'r Raven he 

 doan lak come near shanty, but dem mis'able meat hawk 

 he come an' take de meat out yo' mouf. I hate dat cuss, 

 de meanes' bird in de wood, 'cause he no 'fraid. You 

 keep a' eye out an' see how I fix him wid a flip." 



I saw the bird the same day. It was the "Canada 

 jay," "meat hawk," "whiskey jack," etc., a relative of our 

 blue jay, tmt not so noisy. As I have since known this 

 Northern bird on its extreme Southern limit in winter, 

 in Michigan and Minnesota, it is of an ashy gray color, 

 with black and white markings, and so unfamiliar with 

 man as to be impudent, and therefore very interesting. 

 This is all very well when a bird visits you in a winter 

 camp where birds are scarce, and one drops down by 

 your feet, hops around and swipes a venison chop or a 

 fish which has been laid out ready for the pan; but when 

 it invites all its sisters, its cousins and its aunts to a feast 

 on a saddle of venison, which you have left out for safe- 

 keeping entirely for your own purposes, the familiarity 

 of the bird breeds a feeling which differs from contempt. 

 Somewhere back in memory the word "flip" seemed con- 

 nected with some sort of a beverage, and I imagined that 

 Antoine intended to give "whiskey jack" a drink that 



