When night steals over the Big Woods, the cry of a prowling bird sounds like a ghostly wail, and the crackling of a small twig resembles the sharp rapport of a revolver. The brush of a fluttering leap across his cheek brings the “greenhorn” to his feet with a startled cry.
    It is then, as they sit about the campfire, the old guides like to spin the yearns that have been handed down by generations of their predecessors.
    “What is that?” exclaims a tenderfoot hoarsely, as one of the many strange sounds of the night strikes his ear.” “It sounds like some one whistling away off in the distance.”
    “Why that,” explains the twinkling-eyed old-timer, “must be the gazunk, or flute-bill bird. When the gazunk was a young bird, he went to sleep in a tree and a woodpecker, by mistake, drilled some holes in his long bill. Of course, it made him sore, until he found he could play on his bill like a flute, using his claws as stops. It almost tickled him to death. So now he goes around playing like that all night. Listen! Just strain your ears a bit. Yep, sure enough, that's the gazunk.”