The “Camp-Robber” appears promptly as interested neighbor and smell-feast before all who invade the precincts of the mountains. The hunter, the trapper, the prospector, the timber cruiser, the mere camper-out, all know him, and they speak well or ill of him according to their kind. The Gray Jay appears to have forsworn the craftiness of his race, and he wins by an exhibition of artless simplicity, rather than by wiles. The bird is mildly curious and hungry—oh, very hungry—but this is Arcadia, and the shepherds draw nigh with never a doubt of their welcome. There is a childlike insouciance about the way in which the bird annexes a piece of frizzled bacon, humbly intended for the man. “’Shoo,’ did you say? Why, what do you mean? Can’t I have it?” And the bird retires before a flying chip, baffled and injured by such a manifest token of ill-breeding. He complains mildly to his fellows. They discuss the question in gentle _whews_; generously conclude you didn’t mean it, and return unabashed to the quest. Hunger is the chief characteristic of these docile birds, and no potential food is refused, nuts, acorns, insects, berries, or even, as a last resort, the buds of trees. Meat of any sort has an especial attraction to them; and they are the despair of the trapper because of their propensity for stealing bait. The hunter knows them for arch sycophants, and he is occasionally able to trace a wounded deer, or to locate a carcass by the movements of these expectant heirs. Says Mr. A. W. Anthony[7]: “While dressing deer in the thick timber I have been almost covered with Jays flying down from the neighboring trees. They would settle on my back, head, or shoulders, tugging and pulling at each loose shred of my coat until one would think that their only object was to help me in all ways possible.” In the higher latitudes “Whisky Jack,” in spite of carefully secreted stores, often becomes very emaciated in winter, a mere bunch of bones and feathers, no heavier than a Redpoll. While the jays of our kindlier clime do not feel so keenly the belly pinch of winter, they have the same thrifty habits as their northern kinfolk. Food is never refused, and a well-stuffed specimen will still carry grub from camp and secrete it in bark-crevice or hollow, against the unknown hour of need. [Illustration: _Taken in Rainier National Park._ _Photo by J. H. Bowles._ A BACHELOR’S PET.]