April 25, 1908.] 
the elephant camp, or some other place nearer 
to the point of capture. Here he may struggle 
and fight for a long time or he may give up 
soon. There is as much difference in the tem¬ 
peraments of elephants as of people. 
Once the captive has reached the camp he sees 
men about him all the time, he is constantly 
guarded by the tame elephants, and if he at¬ 
tempts to resist instruction he is punished. 
After a few months’ training he can be mounted, 
and within a year he is probably as learned as 
most of his tame fellows. 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
Sometimes the elephants are captured with 
very little difficulty, at others only after a_ long 
chase, during which the mahout and above all 
any European rider, is likely to be swept off the 
elephant’s back and left lamenting on foot in the 
jungle. Many of the smaller elephants of the 
hunting pack are very fast, and they are kept in 
the pink of condition and the height of training 
all the time. They are thus much harder, and, 
for a long run, much swifter than the wild ele¬ 
phants, and can overtake them and often hold 
them by bothering them, until the big fighting 
65 1 
elephants come up. Sometimes the big fighters 
make short work of a wild one, and conquer 
him almost at once, but this is not always true, 
for occasionally there is a champion among the 
wild ones who literally puts the tame ones to 
flight. 
This hunt of Balrampur is, however, of espe¬ 
cial interest to me, for the sport that is in it. It 
is far and away more exciting and better fun 
than the ordinary elephant driving of which we 
read. 
1 ondon, Eng., Feb. 10. 
The “Camp Robber.” 
Louisville, Ky., April 4.—Editor Forest and 
Stream: Big-game hunters who have pitched 
their camp on North American soil are familiar 
with the “camp robber,” which to me is one of 
the most curiously interesting ornithological 
species to be found. Although its individuality 
is not attractive, its characteristics stand out 
conspicuous. Few birds possess anything like its 
wealth of nomenclature. These variations are, 
however, wholly within the mind of the observer, 
for I have never known the bird to change its 
phase or alter its peculiar character. It seems 
to elicit from man nothing except oaths, sticks, 
stones and bullets, but it accepts abuse with a 
calm resignation which has at times almost com¬ 
manded my admiration. 
The first living thing to welcome the camper to 
the wilderness is this bird; “moose bird,” because 
found within the moose’s range, or “tallow bird” 
on account of its decided partiality for grease. 
Others contend that it is a jay—“Canada jay” 
or “gray jay”—though it is neither boisterous 
nor does it disappear on Friday. It is always 
handy and very dignified and reserved in its 
vocal efforts, confining its cry to a short smoth¬ 
ered monotone. “Meat hawk” only half fits, for, 
though pronouncedly carnivorous, it is anything 
but a hawk. 
Fear it has no knowledge of; tricks it has 
never been known to practice, and if there is 
any attractive dainty in camp suiting its taste 
it flies straight down, quietly takes possession 
and industriously gratifies its appetite just with¬ 
out the reach of the incensed owner’s fist. A 
loafer and a thief, some say, hence perhaps the 
“whisky jack” or “whisky john” and “camp rob¬ 
ber” in the vulgar tongue. Classically it is 
known as Perisoreus canadensis. 
Fresh meat is its obsession. Before the lucky 
hunter has time to gralloch the stag which he 
has bagged, this bird, crow or jay, quietly an¬ 
nounces its arrival from the deerslayer knows 
not where, and, without words, almost says: 
“Hello! Good shot. Glad to see you. Nice 
stag we have. Let’s see,” and down it comes, 
“it’s good and fat, too. I am very fond of fat; 
they sometimes call me the tallow-bird. Phew! 
That’s a nice sack of tallow about that kidney. 
You’re awful slow and I’m as hungry as a wolf,” 
and the irrepressible jay proceeds to help him¬ 
self at the rump of the carcass while the hunter 
is busy flaying the neck. 
The impudence is more than the temper of the 
man will stand, and he makes a vicious whack 
at the voracious bird with his skinning knife, 
forcing it to retreat to a safer distance. 
“Phew! what a temper,” the indifferent bird 
chirps gently from an overhanging limb. “Your 
ugly disposition will spoil your shooting. I 
would not make such a to do over a little fat 
if I were a big strong man like you.” 
Such consummate impudence angers the hun¬ 
ter beyond bounds and, grasping his rifle, he fires 
a .44 caliber bullet straight through its body and 
nothing more is seen of the little intruder but 
feathers and toes. Its numerous cousins, how¬ 
ever, have arrived on the scene by this time, and 
unabashed by the fate of one of their kin. which 
they have just witnessed, they chirp gently and 
proceed to make merry in their subdued way 
over abundant prandial expectations, and the 
hunter, beaten and dismayed, selects such 
trophies and meat as he desires and leaves the 
persistent birds to a silent repast on the remains 
of the carcass. Brent Altsheler. 
[Whiskey john represents the Cree Indian 
name for this bird.— Editor.] 
Antoine’s Opinion. 
New York, April 10 . —Editor Forest and 
Stream: Happening to open “Uncle Lisha's 
Shop” at page 44 my eyes struck the following 
testimony of Antoine: “Bah gosh, ah don’ fred 
for skonk, me! Ah tek hoi’ of it hees tails 
an’ lif’ ’im up, he can’ do somet’ings! No, sah!” 
This ought to settle the question. 
D. R. Marshall. 
A CAPTIVE. 
