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.