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Updated: May 3, 2025
No, it is not the bright little black and white bird like a small magpie which pecks around, that is a Whisky-Jack. I spend a gloriously lazy morning watching you crawling around behind the holes and trying to grab the gophers! Needless to say you never get one! At dinner-time Mr. Humphrey is much amused at your game.
He turned into the trail upon which Jean de Gravois had fought the Englishman, led his dogs and sledge in a twisting path through the caribou swamp, and stood at last beside the lob-stick tree that leaned out over the edge of the white barrens. With his knife he dug out the papers which he had concealed in that whisky-jack hole.
The men were up in the woods, and the shrill scream of the blue jay flashing across the open, the impudent chatter of the red squirrel from the top of the grub camp, and the pert chirp of the whisky-jack, hopping about on the rubbish-heap, with the long, lone cry of the wolf far down the valley, only made the silence felt the more.
If you find yourself wondering how I came to know about some of the things I'm going to tell you, just make believe I got it from the chickadee, who is the most confidential little chap in the world, or from the whisky-Jack, who makes a point, as you may have observed, of knowing everybody else's business." "Or from Jim Cringle?" inquired the Babe demurely. But Uncle Andy only frowned.
On the night of the third day the weather cleared and settled, cold and rasping. I took the rifle and looked about for game, but the snow was now so deep that walking far in it was out of the question. I did not see the track or sign of any living thing save a single whisky-jack, but even he was shy and kept well out of range.
Suddenly, when there were only two or three of the smallest scraps left, he stopped. "Mon Dieu, it was whisky-jack!" he cried. "I have eaten it all!" The young Englishman's white face grinned at him. "I've got the flour inside of me, Thoreau you've got the moose-bird. Isn't that fair?" The plate dropped between them.
That whisky-jack will remain with me until I die, for when I ate him I forgot to take out his insides!" "You're a lucky man, Croisset. It's good proof that she loves you." "If bullets and hot water and an empty belly are proofs, she loves me a great deal, Jan Thoreau! Though I don't believe she meant to hit me. It was a woman's bad aim."
The first thing Nanahboozhoo did was to disguise himself as a whisky-jack and fly over to the village of the Moose people and try to discover how it was that they had been so invariably successful when they gambled with the Elk people. It was as he suspected.
The men were up in the woods, and the shrill scream of the bluejay flashing across the open, the impudent chatter of the red squirrel from the top of the grub camp, and the pert chirp of the whisky-jack, hopping about on the rubbish-heap, with the long, lone cry of the wolf far down the valley, only made the silence felt the more.
He felt himself lifted, and opened his eyes with his head resting against the Englishman's shoulder. "Drink this, Thoreau," he heard. He drank, and knew that it was not tea that ran down his throat. "Whisky-jack soup," he heard again. "How is it?" He became wide-awake. Dixon was offering him a dozen small bits of meat on a tin plate, and he ate without questioning.
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