and we trudged along in silence. Then suddenly, there were the canoes! How did those Indians know?
While writing this account of experiences with Indians in the Hudson Bay country back in 1914, I am interested now, in 1962, by the necessity of examining critically some bills currently in Congress aimed at laying waste some of the beauty of our outdoors—with huge appropriations for the purpose. And I wonder: can we compare the hectic, unethical motivation in our vast effort to change the face of the earth, with the simple, honest motivation shown by those Indians facing coexistence with fellow creatures in their environment? Which is the more worthy, from the standpoint of human, spiritual progress—those of us who blindly use machinery and kill polar bears in the Arctic from airplanes, or those who many years ago felt humbly apologetic in shooting down a bear? We can smile at primitive beliefs, but it is the human motivation behind them that counts.
As the season went on at Moose Factory I collected specimens, for I had the zeal to add to our scientific knowledge and to add specimens to the museum collections somewhere. But, also I could not help being aware of the culture I was living in. There were, of course, the alcoholic sprees found anywhere. Here they occurred on special occasions, to celebrate something. On the other hand, my blacksmith-landlord, Mr. Moore, often sat reading the Bible of an evening.
There were other activities. During the whole snow-free autumn the snow buntings and especially the horned larks were about in flocks. Two boys with whom I often associated would hunt them with bow and arrow. One of the boys was the Moores’ son Harry; I don’t recall the name of the other. Most of the white people here, the “servants” of the Company as they were called, were Scottish. I used the American way of pronouncing words, and so pronounced Harry’s name in this soft manner. One day the other boy undertook to correct me: “Not Harry—Hah-rry!” And he rolled the r delightfully.
I have always had a strong feeling for color, whether in the sky or in the earthy landscape. It was still autumn weather on October 30, when I wrote in my notes an account of what I saw at Moose Factory, apart from anything human:
“This evening was perfect. The water was smooth, reflecting the dull, deep gold of the nearer islands, the deep blues of the more distant spruce woods, and in the west one little daub of coppery red gleaming through the dark trees where the sun had gone down. The clouds were tinted a dull purplish, deepening in the eastern sky. Along the shores is a narrow edging of ice, drifted upriver by the tide, tinted a delicate purplish pink with blue shadows. It was a rare, peaceful scene, a fine northern autumn evening, which makes one glad to be alive and makes indoor work seem unbearable.”
Two days later, on November 1, I looked out to see snow falling quietly, whitening everything. Later in the day it grew colder and blew hard from the northeast, drifting the snow. The trees were whitened by the moist snow, and the river looked dark in contrast. A few snow buntings went whirling by among the snowflakes.
The significance of all this came to me that evening. Just before dark I heard excited voices outside. When I hurried out, I heard someone call, “The wavies are going!”
At first there was only a babel of voices in the darkening snowfall, but soon I made out dim lines of birds flying by in the distance. They were the “wavies,” the blue geese, and a few white ones, all going up the river, flock after flock. Winter had come to this southern outpost of Hudson Bay, and the birds knew it was time to leave.
In the spring and summer these geese had nested on Baffin Island and in other parts of the Arctic north of Hudson Bay; they had come down to spend a month in the autumn on the lush tidal flats of James Bay. Now their delightful feeding vacation was over and, in response to long racial experience, they set off in the first real snowstorm on the next long journey to the southland, near the Gulf of Mexico. They knew! The next day more flocks were passing over.
A strange feeling came over me as I listened to those bird voices. My companions and others had gone by canoe back to civilization, the horned lark flocks had gone, and now the geese were leaving. Winter had come to the northland, and I was entering a new life experience. But in spite of these thoughts, I was looking forward to it. What would a Hudson Bay winter be like?
When the last flock of geese had gone, we felt indeed that winter was with us. Only a few kinds of birds now remained—the chickadees and red-polls, the warmly feathered owls, and some other hardy northerners. The ice on the river gained in volume and strength until it reached clear across. And it snowed until the landscape shone in purest white.
But I was not the only newcomer staying on in the north. Among the buildings were some English sparrows, virile explorers who, I was told, had first come to Moose Factory about five years before to make it their home. The sparrows occasionally met disaster, as we all do. One day I found one hung by the neck in a fork of a tree, the work of the shrike or “butcher bird” who hangs up such carcasses until it needs them for food.
This brings up something about the language of the Cree Indians. The gray or Canada jay they called wiska-zhon-shish. It means, as it was explained to me, “the little one that works at a fire,” referring to the fact that these jays come intimately to a campfire for any food they can find. Undoubtedly, here is where we got our name “whiskey jack” for this friendly bird. My friend Mr. Moore, the blacksmith, the Indians called wiskazhon, because he worked at a forge. He was a big burly man, so they left off the final diminutive syllable shish.
As for the shrike, the bird that had hung up the sparrow, they called him weethigo wiskazhonshish—the “bad spirit Canada jay.” Of course, when we translate from one language to another we can only approximate.
Wiska-zhon-shish! As usual the Indian name is most appropriate, for normally in the north whiskey jacks are at hand when a campfire is built, looking for scraps of food. No sooner does the thin smoke of a campfire begin to rise than the feathered visitors appear. Little gray shadows float into the limbs of the trees about you, and hopping from branch to branch, the silent birds draw as near as they dare. They eye you cautiously and cock their heads at the fire, carefully sizing up the situation. Just show your hospitality by tossing them a few crumbs, and how confiding they become!
To the lone traveler the whiskey jack (or gray jay, as he is now called) is a companion. He comes to share the fire built for the noonday or evening meal and brings a sense of fellowship, a bit of life in the silent forest. Familiar and companionable as he is, he is also a bird of mystery. He can easily remain invisible among the trees when he wants to, especially in the nesting season. He does not wait for warm spring weather but builds his nest in March, while the snow is still deep. So quiet and secretive is he at this season that the nest is very difficult to locate.
Far north, among people and a culture strange to me—here was a way of life I had only read about, and I was in it! One cannot enumerate all the activities of such a winter, but some things stand out which have meant much to me in the years since. I learned that a stream valley nearby, called Maidman Creek, had no Indian trappers claiming it, so I took that as my hunting and trapping ground for museum specimens.
I can’t remember how my hosts adjusted to my way of doing things. In the first place, they thought I should have a thermos of hot coffee in my pack when I was away all day up Maidman Creek. “No thanks,” I assured them. “All I need is a sandwich for lunch. When I get thirsty I just chop a hole in the ice.” They couldn’t understand that but saw that I meant it.
There are memories of Maidman Creek! One day I watched three otters having a fine time. One after another they coasted down a high, snowy bank, sliding on their bellies. At the bottom was an opening in the ice, so they slid right into the water at the foot of the slide. They came up through another hole, clambered out on the ice and up the bank for another slide. Over and over they did this, seemingly in pure joy.
On other days I found otter tracks in the snow showing places where they had taken a great forward leap, sliding a few feet on the snow. Surely they were having a playful, happy life here in the snow country.
One night I was sitting on a bank in the moonlight. I heard a slight, mysterious tapping