Concerning the Bad Repute of Whiskey John in 



half a dozen such thistle-down birds as he to weigh a pound, and he 

 says: "Look at me, do you imagine that a fellow as old and gray -headed 

 and respectable as I am would steal ? " You do look at him— a little, 

 stout, white-headed old gentleman with a clear hazel eye, like a super- 

 annuated clergyman who had gone into business too late in life to learn 

 the ways of a wicked world, and you apologize profoundly — that is, if 

 you are a novice in the woods; if you have already paid for your intro- 

 duction to Mr. Whiskey John, you remark, "Pecksniff, get out!" and 

 resort to the argument of the paddle. 



He flits away forgiving you; Whiskey Jack is never above such mean 

 revenges. When he comes back, as he is pretty sure to do, it is with 

 the nonchalent impudence of a private detective, "If you don't mind," 

 says he, "I think I'll just take a look at this outfit; I'm a sort of game- 

 warden and have a right to overhaul your baggage." The next minute 

 you hear the guide's paddle bang the middle bar of the canoe. "That 

 there blame Meat-bird a-stealin' our saddle of deer," he explains briefly. 



This time Whiskey John is irritated and he flies off talking jay-talk, 

 a most profane language, threatening to follow you to your camping 

 ground and bring with him every last relative that he has. 



He. does it, too. When you put your stuff ashore and begin to pitch 

 your tent you know that you have a part of a saddle of deer, a big 

 trout cleaned and split, a Partridge in the leg of one wading boot and 

 a Wood-duck in the other, thrust there hunter-fashion to safe-guard 

 them from accidental loss. You turn your back for a few moments, hear 

 nothing unusual, suspect no mischief; but when you turn again you 

 find the trout is a drabbled rag, rolled in dirt, the roast of venison which 

 was to be the best part of your feast, is riddled above the kidneys (which 

 are the favorite morsel of most meat-eating birds), and both the Duck 

 and the Partridge have been dragged from their concealment and chiseled 

 down the breast till there is nothing left. This is lesson number one. 

 It teaches that the Meat-bird will destroy an incredible amount of meat 

 in a very brief time. 



You are now prepared to proceed to lesson number two, which is 

 that if his appetite is limitless yet nothing comes amiss to it. The tent 

 is up; the guide is off to get water from the spring; the fire crackles 

 and the potatoes, boiling in their kettle, are knocking at the cover of 

 it; the bread is baking in the open baker and the nice little collops of 

 venison are lying in a tin plate before the fire all ready for the pan; 

 you lie back on your blanket and dream dreams. Nothing happens till 

 the guide returns, and then you hear a muttered growl about leaving a 

 "sport" to keep a camp. There is the guide, looking at an empty plate, 

 and there on a bush sits a Meat-bird with a very bloody breast. The 

 connection is unmistakable. 



