no Bird-Lore
whether half a cake (of soap) is better for birds than no bread. But, as old Jed Prouty said of the dog that wanted the moon, Whiskey Jack is ” cov‘tous."
If he were a bettereknown 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—kaetjon (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 Mooserbird or Meatvbird; 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 que, run- ning away with Lorna's diamond necklace. almost persuades John Ridd that he is a good man cruelly misnamedr Whiskey Jack is the bird counterpart of Counsellor Dooner 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 bondsv—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 "Sisd’ on Caucomgomoc, for example. There is a whistling and confabulating ashore and down scales a mediumesized 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-m-ra,’ 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 Hits ashore and tells the others that is So-andeso. of New York. Then back he comes; he never stays still long anywhere. "Captain? 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
