no Bird- Lore 



whether half a cake (of soap) is better for birds than no bread. But T 

 as old Jed Prouty said of the dog that wanted the moon, Whiskey 

 Jack is " cov'tous." 



If he were a better-known bird his ill-repute would be in everybody's 

 mouth; his isolation saves him. But all fur-hunters and all who travel 

 the great spruce woods, from Atlantic to Pacific, know and revile Whis- 

 key John. He goes by many names, of which this, being only a cor- 

 ruption of the Indian Wis-ka-tjon (but wouldn't one like to know 

 what that means in Indian ! ) is as complimentary as any. In Maine he 

 is most commonly called the Moose-bird or Meat-bird; in the Adiron- 

 dacks he is the Camp -robber; in books he is the Canada Jay. If you 

 would know how he looks do not go to the scientific books that tell 

 you every feather on him, but take down your Lorna Doone and turn 

 to those pages where that wily old scoundrel, Counsellor Dqpne, run- 

 ning away with Lorna's diamond necklace, almost persuades John Ridd 

 that he is a good man cruelly misnamed. Whiskey Jack is the bird 

 counterpart of Counsellor Doone. He looks like him, acts like him and 

 has the same undesirable expertness in acquiring property not his own. 

 Newcomers to the woods dread bears, wolves and snakes. What they 

 fear will never harm them; it is the weak things of the wilderness that 

 are exceeding strong. There is a certain large-winged, tiny-bodied little 

 fly, so feeble and appealing that in pity for his frailty you tenderly brush 

 him aside — and then learn that he is the bloody butcher who is flaying 

 your neck and ears; there is this clear-eyed, mild-mannered, trustful 

 bird, for whose good behavior you would go bonds — until he eats your 

 soap. These two and the mosquito are the real enemies of man in the 

 wilderness. 



Suppose that you are paddling along one of the still, thicket -bordered, 

 moose-haunted streams of northern Maine, the "Sis," on Caucomgomoc, 

 for example. There is a whistling and confabulating ashore and down 

 scales a medium-sized gray bird, whitish beneath and with a white fore- 

 head which gives him a curiously venerable and bald-headed look. He 

 stretches out his black legs and alights with an uncertain hover on your 

 canoe-bow. " Ca-ca-ca? Who are you anyway?" he inquires, looking 

 boldly at you. You are new to this sort of thing and the woods are big 

 and lonely; it seems like getting into a city to go where nobody cares 

 about you, and this confidence man takes you in at once. He flits ashore 

 and tells the others that is So-and-so, of New York. Then back he 

 comes; he never stays still long anywhere. "Ca-ca-ca? Got any meat 

 today? " says he, seating himself again upon the bow. Perhaps the guide 

 has given you a hint, and this time you bat at him with the paddle and 

 bid him begone for a thief. That hurts his feelings; he puffs out his 

 waistcoat feathers in ruffled innocence till you forget that it would take 



