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 sound in the snow behind me. I sat still, but very slowly turned my head, just in time to see a weasel coming hippety-hop to investigate me. The weasel is curious and vigorous in its movements. This one came right up to me, nosing about to see and to understand about me before he pattered off over the snow, disappearing in the woods like a dim moonlight shadow.
Once I came upon an open space in the creek. There must have been a warm spring there to keep this bit of water from freezing. A small group of mallard ducks apparently knew this pool would remain open and were taking a chance on spending the winter there. In later years in Alaska I found similar open places, some even north of the Arctic Circle, occupied by ducks and by water ouzels. This little sprite, the ouzel, or dipper, takes advantage of such open places in the snowy winter and exhibits the virility of its little life by singing through the winter!
These were some of the glimpses of life on Maidman Creek. There were other things, too—such as a literary adventure that did not require snowshoes or lunch. One Sunday I remained in my room most of the day reading The Silent Places by Stewart Edward White. What a treat it was to see how such a sensitive person could tell about living in just this kind of country—a varied country, with streams, forests, tamarack swamps—“the silent places.”
Then came Christmas! At home in Minnesota we had always had a Christmas tree and all the usual domestic trimmings that go with that day. What would it be like up here?
About the middle of December a “packet” came up from Cochrane, eight days by dogteam. In the mail were letters from home, a Christmas box, and the book The Man Without a Country. Here was I, too, in a far country. It was especially warming to get word from home, the first in a long time.
Christmas is celebrated variously in different countries, many of the activities being the result of tradition. Here at Moose Factory the Indians took advantage of some of the white man’s tradition. It was the custom for some of them to bring a stocking or a little bag to the houses to be hung up, and on Christmas day they would come calling for them, hopefully.
The highlight of the day for me was being invited to attend Christmas dinner in the evening at the home of Mr. Wilson, the head of the Hudson’s Bay Company for all of Hudson Bay. I felt a little strange among these very British folk because of their speech and their way of doing things, but it was a wonderful meal. At dessert time came another tradition I had only read about. Through a door of the living room where we were assembled came Mr. Wilson’s daughter, carrying a plum pudding aflame with brandy, the ceremonious climax of our Christmas dinner.
As I became better acquainted and entered into the life of this little community, I gained an impression which was strengthened by later experience. There was an atmosphere of the remote past. Oxen were still used to haul wood. There was an apparent lack of hurry in all activities, as if the powerful trading company, with a tradition and history dating back to 1670, need not join in the modern rush of the business world. Perhaps rush and hurry were not necessary in dealing with the northern Indians and Eskimos.
There were other things that had also come down in history—the long Indian history before any white men had come. The Hudson’s Bay Company initials were sometimes interpreted as “Here Before Christ.” It is true they had been there a long time; but the Indians had been there long before that, and the white people at Moose Factory had I learned some of the unwritten Indian history and mythology. One day Mr. Moore told me an Indian “yarn,” as he called it. Some Great Spirit—I don’t know what he was called— portioned out to the animals the fat they were to have on their bodies. One by one they were dipped in a lake of grease. The rabbit got anxious and jumped into the lake before his turn came. The Great Spirit was displeased with this selfish action, so to punish the rabbit he took him up and pulled him through his hand, wiping off the grease. For his disobedience the
