In northern Canada, birds migrate south as soon as the winter sets in.
The only ones who remain throughout the entire cold season are the
Ravens, the little Arctic Owls and the Jays which are known from the
Atlantic to the Pacific as Whiskey Jacks. The latter can be found
everywhere in the bush. Although they shun the most northern villages
and settlements, still they can not live far away from the haunts of
men. Therefore one sees them hovering around every likely spot along all
the trails, either on land or by the water, in the neighborhood of
lumber camps, trapping shacks, hunting caches and portages. As soon as
the traveler appears in one of those places, a small flock of Whiskey
Jacks appear flitting from one tree top to another, calling, shrieking,
whistling, ever on the lookout for any sign of food.
[Illustration: Raven in tree]
There is a superstition in the North which claims that the killing of a
Whiskey Jack brings bad luck. No one, even an Indian, would ever think
of harming them. The result is that, being very tame, they often prove
themselves regular pests in camp. Their only idea seems to be to hoard
food for winter use. And from early spring until late fall one can see
them picking up any available scrap which they stow away in various tree
holes.
Their boldness is always a source of amusement to the traveler. I have
seen Whiskey Jacks pounce on a piece of bacon in the frying pan and
succeed in carrying it away; others raid an empty tent and steal any
small thing they can find. They often get in trouble—the unlucky one
then uttering the most extraordinary shrieks which are always taken up
by all the other birds. It is a common occurrence to see one poke its
head into an empty tin and have a great deal of difficulty in getting it
out. Some, raiding a tent, get their claws caught in the mosquito net,
while others hovering around a camp fire singe their tails and wings in
a mad scramble for some half cooked tidbit.
The funniest jam I ever saw a Whiskey Jack get into was when the bird
found a bowl on the ground filled with pieces of bannock soaked in rum.
The bird was hungry and gobbled five or six pieces before the old
prospector found out that his favorite evening dish was in danger.
Whiskey Jack flew a few feet away and settled on a branch of a tree. But
in a few minutes the liquor took effect. He began giving a series of
dismal squawks, cocking his head on one side then on the other, swaying
more and more until he actually fell down on the ground, where he lay
unable to get up but screeching madly all the time.
The bird was all right again in an hour or so and went on flying around
in search of more food, but he obstinately refused any more bannock from
any one’s hands.