Day breaks in the great forest in a hushed solemnity, as if all nature bowed in silent worship. The very leaves hang motionless. The voices of the night are stilled. The prowlers in the dark have slunk back to their lairs. The furred and feathered folk who people the mighty woodland through all the hours of light have not yet awakened. The peace of the perfect stillness is at once a benediction and a prayer.
It was at just this hour that Walter awoke. There was no sound save the heavy breathing of Big Jim. For a few minutes he lay peering out through a break in the bark wall of the shack. Swiftly the gray light threaded the forest aisles. A rosy flush touched the top of a giant pine and instantly, as if this were a signal, a white-throated sparrow softly fluted its exquisite song from a thicket close [137] by the camp. Another more distant took up the song, and another and another until the woods rang with the joyous matins. A red squirrel chirred sharply and his claws rattled on the bark of the roof as he scampered across. A rabbit thumped twice close at hand. Cautiously raising himself on one elbow Walter discovered the little gray-coated fellow peering with timid curiosity into the opposite lean-to.
As if this were the morning alarm Big Jim yawned, then sprang from his blankets. Brer Rabbit dived headlong for the underbrush, but the guide’s quick eyes caught the flash of bunny’s white tail, and he laughed good-naturedly.
“Why didn’t you invite him t’ breakfast, son?” he inquired.
Walter grinned as he crawled out of his blankets. “Felt too bashful on such short acquaintance,” he replied.
“Prob’ly them’s his feelin’s, too,” said the guide, producing two rough towels from the depths of his pack basket. “Now fer a wash and then breakfast.”
There was a sharp nip to the air that made [138] Walter shiver at the thought of what the water must be like. He dreaded that first plunge, but he said nothing, and followed Big Jim’s lead down to the lake. To his surprise he found the water warmer than the air, as if the heavy blanket of mist in which the lake was still shrouded was indeed a coverlid provided to hold fast the warmth absorbed from the sun of yesterday. A brisk swim followed by an equally brisk rub-down banished all thoughts of chill, and just as the first low-flung rays of the rising sun burned a hole through the slowly rising vapor they started back for camp and breakfast.
“You start th’ fire while I rastle round th’ grub,” said the guide, as he once more dug down into the pack. “How will flapjacks and th’ rest o’ them trout hit yer fer a lining fer yer stomach, pard?”
While the guide prepared the batter Walter showed how well he had learned his lesson in fire building the night before. Between the two big bed-logs he placed two fairly good-sized sticks about a foot apart. Dry twigs and splinters were laid loosely across, and on these at one side some strips of birch bark. [139] Two more sticks were now laid across the twigs at right angles, then another layer of small sticks. The next layer of larger sticks was laid at right angles to the former. So the pile was built up, log-cabin fashion, good-sized split hard wood being used for the upper layers.
Touching a match to the birch bark he had the satisfaction of seeing the whole mass leap into flame in less than a minute because, built in this way, air had immediate circulation to the whole mass, free access of air being essential to a brisk fire. Then again the whole would burn down together to live coals, the object to be obtained for successful cooking.
In the meantime Big Jim had stirred up the flapjack batter and gone in quest of the trout, which had been left in a pail hung on the stub of a dead branch of a pine near by. He returned with a look of chagrin on his good-natured face.
“Reckon, pard, thet we’ve had more visitors than thet leetle cottontail we ketched a glimpse o’ this mornin’. If yer ain’t no ways pertic’lar you an’ me will have bacon stid o’ trout with them flapjacks. Ought t’ known [140] thet if leetle ole Mr. Mink really wanted them fish he wouldn’t mind takin’ th’ trouble t’ shin up a tree. If I’d hung thet pail by a wire as I’d ought t’ hev, Mr. Mink wouldn’t hev th’ laugh on us now.”
Walter laughed at the rueful face of the guide. “How do you know it was a mink?” he asked.
“’Cause thar’s no other critter in these here woods likes fish well enough t’ use his wits thet way t’ git ’em. Besides, he wasn’t pertic’lar ’bout coverin’ up his tracks. Left ’em ’round most promiscus and insultin’. Say, son,” he added, his face brightening with a sudden thought, “you take thet tin dipper and hit th’ trail past th’ big pine over yonder. Keep a-goin’ till yer strike a patch o’ old burned-over ground. Yesterday I see a lot o’ early blueberries over thar. Pick th’ dipper full and I’ll give yer somethin’ t’ tickle yer ribs so thet yer’ll fergit all about them trout.”
Walter took the dipper and following the trail shortly reached the burned land. Sure enough, there were the berries, so plentiful that it took but a short time to fill the dipper. Before he reached camp he smelt the bacon [141] and his mouth watered. A pot of steaming cocoa hung from one of the pot-hooks, and a plate of crisp bacon rested on one end of the fore-log where it would keep warm.
Big Jim took the dipper with a grin of satisfaction and stirred the berries into his kettle of batter. Then into the sizzling hot frying-pan, well greased with bacon fat, he poured enough batter to cover the bottom, and placed it over the glowing coals before which he squatted, watching the bubbling cake with a critical eye. Suddenly he lifted the pan, and with a dextrous twist of the wrist, so deftly executed that Walter did not see how the trick was done, the flapjack was sent into the air, where it turned over and was caught in the pan, brown side up as it came down. It was returned to the fire all in the one motion and two minutes later, buttered and sugared, was on its way to “line Walter’s ribs.”
“Well, pard, how do yer like ’em?” inquired the cook, sending another spinning over to Walter’s plate.
“They’re just the best ever!” exclaimed the boy enthusiastically. “I’m going to teach cook to make ’em when I get home. Wish [142] dad could have one of these right now. Say, Jim, it’s my turn to fry now.”
The guide tossed one more to begin on while Walter was frying the next, and then turned the frying-pan over to the amateur cook. Big Jim’s eyes twinkled as the boy reached for a knife with which to turn the cake. His big hand closed over the knife first.
“Nobody can be a side pardner o’ mine who has t’ take a knife t’ turn a flapjack,” he drawled, “and, son, I kind o’ think I’d like you fer a side pardner. Thet bein’ so, up she goes!”
Walter grinned sheepishly and gave the frying-pan an awkward toss. The required twist of the wrist was wholly lacking and, instead of turning a graceful somersault in the air, the cake shot out at an angle and landed soft side down on the very spot the guide had occupied a second before. That worthy, with wisdom born of experience, had shifted his base at the first motion of the frying-pan, and was now rolling on the ground in huge glee, his infectious laugh rolling through the camp.
Walter, his face crimson with more than [143] the heat of the fire, bit his lips in chagrin which he could not hide, but being blessed with a strong sense of humor he joined in the laugh and straightway prepared to try again. This time, under a running fire of comment and advice from Big Jim, who solemnly assured him that in his humble opinion “the landscape ain’t really a-needin’ blueberry frescoes t’ improve its beauty,” he succeeded in sending the cake into the air within catching distance of the pan, but it lacked the impetus to send it high enough to turn completely over, and fell back in the pan in a shapeless mass.
Big Jim cast an appraising eye at the batter kettle and, evidently considering that his chances of a square meal were in jeopardy, reached for the pan and gave Walter a practical demonstration. Holding the pan slanting in front of and away from him he gave it a couple of preliminary easy flaps to get the swing, then flipped boldly and sharply. It seemed the easiest thing in the world, and in fact it is when you know how. Returning the pan to Walter he had the latter go through the motions several times until he was satisfied. [144] Then he bade him pour in the batter and go ahead.
Slowly at first, then faster the bubbles broke to the surface. Presently the edges stiffened and with a little shake Walter felt that the cake was loose and free in the pan. Getting the preliminary swing he gave the pan a sharp upward flip and a second later the cake was back over the fire, brown side up.
The guide nodded approvingly. “Reckon yer goin’ t’ be a sure enough woodsman,” he said. “Nobody what can’t toss a flapjack has any business t’ think he’s th’ real thing in th’ woods.”
Breakfast finished it fell to Walter to wash the dishes while the guide went out to look for deer signs. Cleanliness is next to godliness in camp as well as at home, and hot water is as necessary to wash dishes in the one place as in the other. Walter had finished his work and was hanging the towel to dry when he heard a queer noise behind him. Turning, he was just in time to see a bird about the size of a blue jay, but gray and white in color, making off with the cake of soap which he had left on a log.
[145] Flying to the nearest tree it started to sample its queer breakfast. But one taste was enough. With a harsh scream, which was a ludicrous blending of disappointment, disgust and rage, it dropped the soap and vigorously wiped its bill on the branch on which it was sitting. Then scolding and protesting in a harsh, discordant voice, it flew to the next tree, stopping long enough to give the bill another thorough wiping on a convenient branch, only to repeat the performance on the next tree, and so on until it disappeared in the depths of the forest.
Walter laughed heartily, disgust was so clearly manifest in every motion of the bird and the torrent of invective being poured out was so very plainly aimed at him personally as the author of its discomfiture. The boy had never seen a bird of this species before, but he recognized it at once from its markings, the fine silky plumage and certain unmistakable characteristics in general appearance and actions, as a member of the jay family. It was, in fact, the Canada Jay, Perisoreus canadensis, first cousin to the blue jay, and a resident the year through of the north [146] woods, where it is often called the moosebird.
Big Jim returned just in time to witness the last of the performance.
“Whisky Jack seems t’ think yer ain’t been usin’ him just right, son,” said he. “What yer been doin’ t’ rile him up so?”
Walter told him the incident of the soap, and the guide chuckled with enjoyment. “Serves th’ old thief right,” said he. “Why, I’ve had one of them fellers sit on my tent just waitin’ fer me t’ go out so’s he could go inside an’ steal somethin’. He’ll swipe a meal out of yer plate while yer back’s turned. Just th’ same, it’s kind o’ sociable t’ have him neighborly if yer happen t’ be all alone in th’ deep woods fifty miles from nowhar, ’specially in winter.”
“Where did he get the name of Whisky Jack?” asked Walter.
“Don’t know, son, unless it comes from an Indian name I heered a half breed in a Canada lumber camp use once. He called one o’ these jays thet hed got caught tryin’ t’ steal th’ bait from a mink trap he had set a ‘whis-kee-shaw-neesh.’ When yer say it quick it [147] sounds something like ‘Whisky John,’ an’ I reckon maybe thet’s where th’ trappers and lumbermen got th’ name ‘Whisky Jack.’ Anyhow, thet’s what they all call him. Ever see one before?”
“No,” replied Walter, “but I knew it was a Canada Jay as soon as I saw it. You see I had read all about it in a bird book,” slyly putting just the least emphasis on the word book.
Big Jim grunted and then abruptly changed the subject. “Been a-lookin’ fer signs o’ Mr. Peaked Toes, an’ they ain’t none too plentiful. If it was two months later I should say this country hed been hunted hard. I wonder now——” he paused abruptly to gaze into the fireplace with an air of deep abstraction.
“What do you wonder?” asked Walter when the silence became oppressive.
Big Jim reached for his pipe. “I wonder,” said he slowly as with his fingers he deftly transferred a hot coal from the embers to the bowl of his pipe, “I wonder if some o’ them sneakin’ low-lived poachers ain’t been a-killin’ deer out o’ season right round these here parts. Durant’s lumber camp has been [148] havin’ a right smart lot o’ fresh ‘veal’ all summer, an’ some one’s been supplyin’ it. You an’ me will have a look around on th’ ridges this morning—take a kind o’ census, mebbe. This afternoon we’ll have another try at th’ trout t’ make up fer those Mr. Mink had fer breakfast.”
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