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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/33758-h.zip b/33758-h.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..02d94ad --- /dev/null +++ b/33758-h.zip diff --git a/33758-h/33758-h.htm b/33758-h/33758-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f857c7a --- /dev/null +++ b/33758-h/33758-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,1941 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=ISO-8859-1" /> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Derby Day in the Yukon, by Yukon Bill</title> + <style type="text/css"> + + p { margin-top: .75em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + clear: both; + } + hr { width: 33%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + clear: both; + } + + table {margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;} + + body{margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + } + + .pagenum { /* uncomment the next line for invisible page numbers */ + /* visibility: hidden; */ + position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: smaller; + text-align: right; + } /* page numbers */ + + .tocnum {position: absolute; top: auto; right: 15%;} + .blockquot{margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 10%;} + + .center {text-align: center;} + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + + .caption {font-weight: bold;} + + .figcenter {margin: auto; text-align: center;} + + .figleft {float: left; clear: left; margin-left: 0; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: + 1em; margin-right: 1em; padding: 0; text-align: center;} + + .figright {float: right; clear: right; margin-left: 1em; margin-bottom: 1em; + margin-top: 1em; margin-right: 0; padding: 0; text-align: center;} + + .poem {margin-left:10%; margin-right:10%; text-align: left;} + .poem br {display: none;} + .poem .stanza {margin: 1em 0em 1em 0em;} + .poem span.i0 {display: block; margin-left: 0em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem span.i2 {display: block; margin-left: 1em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem span.i4 {display: block; margin-left: 2em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem span.i3 {display: block; margin-left: 1.5em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem span.i6 {display: block; margin-left: 3em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem span.i8 {display: block; margin-left: 4em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + + hr.full { width: 100%; + margin-top: 3em; + margin-bottom: 0em; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + height: 4px; + border-width: 4px 0 0 0; /* remove all borders except the top one */ + border-style: solid; + border-color: #000000; + clear: both; } + pre {font-size: 85%;} + </style> +</head> +<body> +<h1>The Project Gutenberg eBook, Derby Day in the Yukon, by Yukon Bill</h1> +<pre> +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at <a href = "http://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a></pre> +<p>Title: Derby Day in the Yukon</p> +<p> and Other Poems of the "Northland"</p> +<p>Author: Yukon Bill</p> +<p>Release Date: September 19, 2010 [eBook #33758]</p> +<p>Language: English</p> +<p>Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1</p> +<p>***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DERBY DAY IN THE YUKON***</p> +<p> </p> +<h4>E-text prepared by Bryan Ness, Josephine Paolucci,<br /> + and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team<br /> + (<a href="http://www.pgdp.net/c/">http://www.pgdp.net</a>)<br /> + from images generously made available by<br /> + Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries<br /> + (<a href="http://www.archive.org/details/toronto">http://www.archive.org/details/toronto</a>)</h4> +<p> </p> +<table border="0" style="background-color: #ccccff;" cellpadding="10"> + <tr> + <td valign="top"> + Note: + </td> + <td> + Images of the original pages are available through + Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries. See + <a href="http://www.archive.org/details/derbydayinyukono00yukouoft"> + http://www.archive.org/details/derbydayinyukono00yukouoft</a> + </td> + </tr> +</table> +<p> </p> +<hr class="full" /> +<p> </p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 393px;"> +<img src="images/cover.jpg" width="393" height="650" alt="" title="" /> +</div> + +<p><a name="front" id="front"></a></p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 404px;"> +<img src="images/frontispiece.jpg" width="404" height="650" alt="THE MALAMUTE" title="" /> +<span class="caption">THE MALAMUTE</span> +</div> + + +<h1>Derby Day<br /> in the Yukon</h1> + +<h2>and other Poems of the "Northland"</h2> + +<h3>by</h3> + +<h2>Yukon Bill</h2> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> + +<p class="center"> +TORONTO<br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">The Musson Book Company<br /> +limited</span><br /> +<br /> +Copyright, 1910, by<br /> +GEORGE H. DORAN CO.<br /> +</p> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">So, go you, little broken Song,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And carry to some heart in bitter pain<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Only my lute's light laughter; make thou strong<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The weak of heart, and bid them smile again!<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="center">THESE RHYMES<br /> OF THE NORTHLAND ARE AFFECTIONATELY<br /> INSCRIBED TO MY PARDS, +B. AND B.,<br /> WHO HELPED ME TO CARRY MY<br /> PACK OVER LIFE'S TRAIL.</p> + + +<p class="center">Y. B.</p> + + +<p>On the Trail, 1910.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[Pg 5]</a></span></p> +<h2>CONTENTS</h2> + + +<p> +<span class="tocnum">Page</span><br /> +<br /> +GREETING <span class="tocnum"><a href='#Page_11'>11</a></span><br /> +<br /> +DERBY DAY IN THE YUKON <span class="tocnum"><a href='#Page_17'>17</a></span><br /> +<br /> +THE MALAMUTE <span class="tocnum"><a href='#Page_23'>23</a></span><br /> +<br /> +RED-JACKET <span class="tocnum"><a href='#Page_29'>29</a></span><br /> +<br /> +UP AGAINST IT <span class="tocnum"><a href='#Page_35'>35</a></span><br /> +<br /> +HOW SLIPPERY PLAYED THE GAME <span class="tocnum"><a href='#Page_39'>39</a></span><br /> +<br /> +HEROES <span class="tocnum"><a href='#Page_47'>47</a></span><br /> +<br /> +LOWER-FLAT ANNALS <span class="tocnum"><a href='#Page_53'>53</a></span><br /> +<br /> +THE TRAIL <span class="tocnum"><a href='#Page_61'>61</a></span><br /> +<br /> +THE KING OF THE KLONDIKE <span class="tocnum"><a href='#Page_67'>67</a></span><br /> +<br /> +GHOSTS <span class="tocnum"><a href='#Page_75'>75</a></span><br /> +<br /> +AN ANGEL <span class="tocnum"><a href='#Page_81'>81</a></span><br /> +<br /> +BILLY BIRD'S CELEBRATION <span class="tocnum"><a href='#Page_87'>87</a></span><br /> +<br /> +INVITATION <span class="tocnum"><a href='#Page_93'>93</a></span><br /> +<br /> +JIM <span class="tocnum"><a href='#Page_97'>97</a></span><br /> +<br /> +TALE OF THE CHE-CHA-KO <span class="tocnum"><a href='#Page_107'>107</a></span><br /> +<br /> +ST. BONIFACE FIRE BRIGADE <span class="tocnum"><a href='#Page_113'>113</a></span><br /> +<br /> +WINDY <span class="tocnum"><a href='#Page_119'>119</a></span><br /> +<br /> +MY SONG <span class="tocnum"><a href='#Page_127'>127</a></span><br /> +</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</a></span></p> +<h2>LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS</h2> + + +<p> +THE MALAMUTE <span class="tocnum"><a href="#front">Frontispiece</a></span><br /> +<br /> +RED-JACKET, BULLY BOY HE IS <span class="tocnum">facing <a href="#Page_29">p. 29</a></span><br /> +<br /> +WHEN I MET WITH JIM ALONG THE DAWSON TRAIL <span class="tocnum"><a href='#Page_97'>97</a></span><br /> +<br /> +PRAY, SIR, HAVE YOU SEEN MR. MARMADUKE? <span class="tocnum"><a href='#Page_121'>121</a></span><br /> +</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</a></span></p> +<h2>GREETING</h2> + +<h4><span class="smcap">To Robert W. Service</span></h4> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</a></span></p> +<h2>GREETING</h2> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Shake, Pard! I'm mighty proud o' you!<br /></span> +<span class="i2">(I'm know'd as "Yukon Bill");<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You blazed th' trail an' blazed it true;——<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Some o' my friends I see y' knew<br /></span> +<span class="i2">On old Che-cha-ko Hill;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But say, old man, y' clean forgot my friend, "Swiftwater Bill!"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">You was a kid in pettic'uts<br /></span> +<span class="i2">When I went in, a man;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Grub-stakin' with two other goats——<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We sow'd th' last of our wild oats<br /></span> +<span class="i2">An' th' new, clean life began;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We was th' fu'st (an' p'raps th' wu'st) Five Fingers' Rapids ran.<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</a></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I staked out Eldorado crick<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Long 'fore th' world was told<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Them hills from Hunker to St. Mick<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Groaned f'r th' drill an' f'r th' pick,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The'r bellies achin' GOLD!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where many a night th' moon pale white saw me in blankets rolled.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">At Magnet Gulch I lit my pipe——<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Got drunk upon Gold Hill;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I hoofed it cle'r t' Kokusqum——<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Twas ther' I lost my Siwash chum<br /></span> +<span class="i2">(She drownded in a spill),<br /></span> +<span class="i0">An' Love an' Luck together went from pore old Yukon Bill!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Big Skookum claim might a-bin mine,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">But fortune ther' I missed;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For all I got a-though I sought——<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I starved an' thirsted, dug an' fought,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Was d—— plumbago schist!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ten years of toil, of muck an' spoil; then on th' "Failure list."<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</a></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Labarge; th' Canyon; I was there;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I clumb th' Glacier mound.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I might a-bin a millionaire——<br /></span> +<span class="i0">God! think of it, and see me—WHERE?<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A bum on Puget Sound!——<br /></span> +<span class="i0">At night my roof th' open sky—my pillow th' cold ground.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Me for th' trail at seventy!<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I'm longin' f'r th' track:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I'll try again—no, I'll not fail——<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I hear them "Little Voices" wail:<br /></span> +<span class="i2">"Come back! come back! come back!"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">O, God! how Mem'ry knifes me now an' puts me on th' rack.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Yes, yes—I failed! Yes, yes, a drink!<br /></span> +<span class="i2">An' then my pipe I'll fill.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Boy, here's t' you—y'r picter's true<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of them old sinners that I knew<br /></span> +<span class="i2">On old Che-cha-ko Hill;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But say, old man, y' overlooked my friend, "Swiftwater Bill!"<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</a></span></p> +<h2>DERBY DAY IN THE YUKON</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Talk of England's Derby Race; of Kentucky's blue-grass chase;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Epsom Downs an' Frisco "Tanforan" t' boot;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I don't say they ain't done well, but I tell y' even h—ll<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Couldn't match th' Yukon racin' malamoot.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">How them dogs they love th' Race! Y' kin see it in th' face<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Of th' starvin' scut that hangs aroun' th' claim;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">F'r he knows, like you an' me, that th' Derby Day'll be<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Th' big jag day—th' glad rag play, that brings th' Yukon fame.<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</a></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">It was Fool's Day f'r th' Race; every husky in his place;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Wasky's dogs was runnin' Billy Brown of Nome;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">But at th' Starter's line ranged up Jake Berger's Nine,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Ten t' one <span class="smcap">they'd</span> bring th' Derby money home!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Thousands hit th' trail that night; we was out t' see th' sight;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Th' stakes, eleven-thousand-plunks in gold!<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Th' thermometer on strike—every bench-claim on th' hike——<br /></span> +<span class="i2">An' them leaders b' th' leash y' couldn't hold.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Oh, th' run was cruel hard—th' white frost how it scarred<br /></span> +<span class="i2">As they galloped down th' long, unending trail;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The whip cut like th' wind, an' Carey's dog, snow-blind,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Joined his howlin' t' th' screeches of th' gale.<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</a></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Down where Candle's bonfires glow see th' racin' huskies go,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">All keen t' win—McCarthy's purp drops dead——<br /></span> +<span class="i2">He's thrown out upon th' track f'r th' lean an' hungry pack<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Of grey wolves follerin' th' flyin' sled.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Two-an'-eighty hours they raced—an' four hunderd-miles they paced,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Them dogs never paused f'r frozen fish 'r drink;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Hung with icicles of foam, the'r lithe bodies stretched whale-bone,—<br /></span> +<span class="i2"><span class="smcap">but they broke the record made by jimmie fink</span>!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Cursed, an' kicked, an' whipped ahead, th' dumb brutes, staggerin', bled<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Where th' whip cut cruel in; but comes th' feast<br /></span> +<span class="i2">When at Nome t'morrow night there'll be brawl an' drink, an' fight;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">An' no tellin' which is man an' which is beast.<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</a></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Then th' dumb an' winded brute—th' blood-blinded malamoot,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">All frosted foam is gaspin' upon th' bar-room floor;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">He, the <span class="smcap">winner of th' race!</span> in th' glory has no place;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">He's jes' a slinkin' malamoot when Derby Day is o'er!<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</a></span></p> +<h2>THE MALAMUTE</h2> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Hi, there! Into your harness of thong!<br /></span> +<span class="i4">(Whip.) You get into your place;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Give him the lash, Bill. Eh? What's wrong?<br /></span> +<span class="i4">See that look in the mal'mute's face:—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Is it devilish cunning o'ermastering pain?<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Some lost soul reincarnate again,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Running Sin's last race.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Come skulkin' into the camp last June,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">A leprous, mangy cur;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Reasty and rotten—bayed at th' Moon<br /></span> +<span class="i4">As if you'd a grudge 'gainst her.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">All fester and soil—corruption and boil;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Your evil face like some carved gargoyle,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">And you refused to stir<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</a></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Though I broke th' lash on your back,<br /></span> +<span class="i4"><span class="smcap">You</span> subjugated me:—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">You proved the master—I proved the hack,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">For, plainly I could see<br /></span> +<span class="i2">You'd been sent back to earth to work out y'r sin,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And y' came straight t' me, a larrikin;<br /></span> +<span class="i4">An' why did you come to me?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">What were you There? Unregenerate thief,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">A derelict from your birth?<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Were you a church-going pharisee,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">That Belial of this earth?<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Was your lecherous, lutish, animal mind<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Drawn to me as one of your kind?<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Your grin betrays your mirth.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Well, me an' you, Mal'mute, stand chums;<br /></span> +<span class="i4">We won't each other despise;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The camp may call us a couple o' bums<br /></span> +<span class="i4">But we hold our own assize:<br /></span> +<span class="i2">We stand for Arbitration straight—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">An' mebbe' some day, at St. Peter's Gate<br /></span> +<span class="i4">We'll look in each other's eyes.<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</a></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Ah, you leprous devil! you taught me how<br /></span> +<span class="i4">To fumigate my soul<br /></span> +<span class="i2">From wanton ways and dicing days,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">And lush of the flowing bowl:<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I'm steeped in guilt right up to the hilt,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Worshipped in temples of Shame I've built,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">And Pleasure's been my goal,<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But here with you in th' hinter-world<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Where there's nothing pure but snow,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Some words long dumb t' my lips have come,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">A prayer that I used to know:—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">"<span class="smcap">Our—Father!</span>"—I wonder will HE refute<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A fellow that learns of a malamute<br /></span> +<span class="i4">T' take th' kick an' blow?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Oh, down here below we may go th' pace,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Loot, gut, palter, prey, maraud;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">But here or There comes settling day,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">For y' can't bamboozle God——<br /></span> +<span class="i2">He'll send us back, like you, mal'mute,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Mangy an' whining—black with hell-soot——<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Say, Bill, did y' see him nod?<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 401px;"> +<img src="images/fig_001.jpg" width="401" height="650" alt="RED JACKET, BULLY BOY HE IS" title="" /> +<span class="caption">RED JACKET, BULLY BOY HE IS</span> +</div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</a></span></p> +<h2>RED-JACKET</h2> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Where it's eighty below zero, there you'll find the Northland hero,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Red-Jacket; bully Boy he is—sure thing he fills the bill!<br /></span> +<span class="i2">In that trackless waste of snow, where the Northern Lights hang low,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">He is doing deeds of daring that would make your pulses thrill:—<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2"><span class="smcap">An' we'll drink t' You, Red-Jacket;</span><br /></span> +<span class="i4"><span class="smcap">The equator of your vest</span><br /></span> +<span class="i6"><span class="smcap">Bunches all the pride an' glory</span><br /></span> +<span class="i8"><span class="smcap">Of th' wild an' woolly West!<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</a></span></span><br /> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Red-Jacket does no askin', but he's ready for th' taskin'<br /></span> +<span class="i4">When they sling him out his orders, with a hunk o' pemmican;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">An' he'll travel day an' night after Red-man or bad white,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">An' he'll go through hell-an'-blazes, <span class="smcap">but he'll never miss his man</span>!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2"><span class="smcap">He laughs at death an' danger,</span><br /></span> +<span class="i4"><span class="smcap">For th' chin-strap on his jaw</span><br /></span> +<span class="i6"><span class="smcap">Is th' link that binds Creation:—</span><br /></span> +<span class="i8"><span class="smcap">British fair-play, an' th'—LAW!</span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The spur hitched to his heel—at his hip th' gleam of steel,—<br /></span> +<span class="i4">With his belly-band strapped tighter his hunger to forget,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">He may drop upon th' track <span class="smcap">but you bet he won't turn back</span>—<br /></span> +<span class="i4">For it's duty, Duty, DUTY! That's Red-Jacket's am-u-let!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2"><span class="smcap">An' it's "Hi! you skulkin' husky"</span>!<br /></span> +<span class="i4"><span class="smcap">O'er th' wintry, wind-swept ground</span>,<br /></span> +<span class="i6"><span class="smcap">The dog his lone companion—</span><br /></span> +<span class="i8"><span class="smcap">And the Silence that is Sound!</span><br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</a></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Oh, the Arctic wilds are weary, and the Arctic nights are dreary;<br /></span> +<span class="i4">And Red-Jacket sometimes wonders why he's livin' th' wild life?<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Then he eyes th' British Flag; says: "<span class="smcap">God bless YOU, you old Rag</span>!<br /></span> +<span class="i4">It's through courtin' <span class="smcap">you</span> I've neither child nor wife"!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2"><span class="smcap">Then a shamed an' silent tear</span><br /></span> +<span class="i4"><span class="smcap">Falls upon the Arctic snows</span>;<br /></span> +<span class="i6"><span class="smcap">An' the anguish of his heart</span>,<br /></span> +<span class="i8"><span class="smcap">God—an' Red-Jacket, knows!</span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Now, you folks, don't get hard thinkin' when Red-Jacket starts a-drinkin',<br /></span> +<span class="i4">An' he busts th' Ten Commandments into five-an'-twenty bits;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">When he hears th' bugles sound, ain't he fu'st upon th' ground?<br /></span> +<span class="i4">An' don't his "powders" cure 'em of the'r hell-damnation fits?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2"><span class="smcap">So we'll drink t' YOU, Red-Jacket</span>!<br /></span> +<span class="i4"><span class="smcap">God's blessin' on y'r head</span>;<br /></span> +<span class="i6"><span class="smcap">You're th' British Con-sti-too-shun</span><br /></span> +<span class="i8"><span class="smcap">Bound in yella' stripes, an' Red!</span><br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</a></span></p> +<h2>UP AGAINST IT</h2> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">When y're up against it, don't get feelin' blue;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Somewher' in this world of ours ther's a place f'r you.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Y'r jes' a round peg in a squar', y' ain't th' proper fit;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Keep turnin', twistin' every way—an' rise a little bit.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">If we'd all we wanted in this whirlin' globe we're on,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">W'y we'd all begin t' grouch—then begin t' yawn;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">We'd get dead sick o' summer without a tech o' frost,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">An' Ex-pe-ri-ence we got t' hev' regardless of th' cost.<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</a></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Oh, th' smell o' fightin' powder, that's th' perfume f'r th' nose;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Without th' thorn in hidin' who'd care t' pluck th' Rose?<br /></span> +<span class="i2">An' th' tears that wet y'r pillo' at night when y' go t' bed,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">They'll wash away y'r troubles—an' y'r sins, tho' ruby red.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Boy, when y'r up against it, get y'r back agin' a fence<br /></span> +<span class="i2">An' swing that good ol' we'pon we used t' call "horse sense":<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Pitch off y'r coat—go at it jes' like a fightin' man;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Throw up y'r head—glad y' ain't dead—<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Then sluice y'r bench—an' pan!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Say, when y'r up against it, don't get feelin' blue;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Ther's room t' spare, ther's plenty air; ain't that enough f'r you?<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Every bed-rock wash-up ain't all gold t' th' pan,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">But life <span class="smcap">can't</span> be a "failure" if y' play th' game a MAN!<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</a></span></p> +<h2>HOW SLIPPERY PLAYED THE GAME</h2> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</a></span></p> +<p><span class="smcap">No, th' story ain't never bin told afore, as I'm th' on'y man seed th' +game played on th' dance-hall floor. I was ther' when the fun began. An' +what I see I tell you straight—tell it as man to man.</span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</a></span></p> +<h2>HOW SLIPPERY PLAYED THE GAME</h2> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Lost ag'in!" yelled Slippery Jim,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">"Never a mo'sel o' luck in m' life!<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Yankee, you're on th' velvet agin!"<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Says Yankee: "Jim, let's play f'r a wife!<br /></span> +<span class="i2">There's Bonanza Pearl, she's sweet on you;—<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Fairer 'card' no gambler ever drew!"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Slippery Jim staked high that night,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">The game was poker,—rake-in keeps——<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Yankee Pete hilarious, ready t' fight——<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Rakin' th' gold-dust up in heaps.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Jim's last poke throw'd on th' table, so;<br /></span> +<span class="i4">"It's my last ounce, boys! Well, let 'er go!"<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</a></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">He had staked the dance-hall—staked the bar—<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Then, reckless, staked the "Wonder" mine,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Known on Bonanza near an' far<br /></span> +<span class="i4">As the lucky strike of Eighty-nine.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Jim had played it all—an' lost! The sweat<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Come when he gasps: "It's my last—bet!"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"You've got Pearl left," grins Yankee Pete,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">"Don't funk now, Jim: make her th' stake."<br /></span> +<span class="i2">With a howl of hate Jim was on his feet——<br /></span> +<span class="i4">But a voice rings out: "<span class="smcap">That bet we'll take!</span>"<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And Bonanza Pearl steps up t' me,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">"You'll see this game played square!" says she.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Says Yank. "I stake my all 'gainst th' Girl."<br /></span> +<span class="i4">(Then I see th' flame le'p in his eyes)<br /></span> +<span class="i2">"An' if I win you, Bonanza Pearl,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Your soul an' body no man denies<br /></span> +<span class="i2">B'longs t' me!" He stacked his gold,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">As a groan from Jim his agony told.<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</a></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Now, Jim was a MAN. He funked no game;—<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Says he: "I'll stake blood, bone an' life,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">But I'll put no woman to th' shame<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Of bein' played 'a chip' in tin-horn strife!"<br /></span> +<span class="i2">But Bonanza, she steps up t' him<br /></span> +<span class="i4">An' she says: "<span class="smcap">Y' couldn't lose me, Jim!</span>"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Come," says Bonanza, "Turn up th' pack";<br /></span> +<span class="i4">She skinned the bunch with a laughin' eye;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I gets close up ahind Jim's back<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Ready t' let th' bullets fly.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Th' two men playin' a round 'r so,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">An' the luck agin' Slippery seem'd t' go.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Straight flush o' di'monds—Ace at th' head;"<br /></span> +<span class="i4">In a whirlwind play Yank takes the pot.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Slippery's eyes was now blood-red——<br /></span> +<span class="i4">His lips crack'd dry—his breath comin' hot;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The last deal ended the game, I saw<br /></span> +<span class="i4">'Twas Yankee Pete's first play—an' draw.<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</a></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Jim's hand? cripes! 'Twas a reg'lar prize;<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Luck had turned—he had aces t' burn!<br /></span> +<span class="i2">But he sot there starin' with bloodshot eyes,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">An' what I saw then gev' <span class="smcap">me</span> quite a turn——<br /></span> +<span class="i2">F'r th' divil's own luck was at his heel,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">He'd an <span class="smcap">extra card</span>—'twas a clear MISDEAL!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I let my hand t' th' trigger go——<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Jim's throat gev' a sickish kind o' laugh;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">An' he says: "I'm dry as h—ll, so,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">W'ot d'ye say to a shandy-gaff?<br /></span> +<span class="i2">An'," says Jim, "I'll hev' a bite t' eat;<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Pearl, fetch me a sangwich o' bread an' meat"!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I felt like shootin' that gol-durn Jim,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Losin' th' game with a stake like that;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Wanted t' up an' lambaste him<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Chawin' of meat like a hungry cat:<br /></span> +<span class="i2">When, all at onct, sort o' swallerin' hard,<br /></span> +<span class="i4"><span class="smcap">I perceives Jim eatin' that extra card!<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</a></span></span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Locoed!" yelled Yankee, quittin' th' game,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Handin' over th' stakes. But Slippery Jim<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Hunchin' up of his powerful frame<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Giv' a kind of a grin o' hate at him.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">"D——n y'r gold!" he says, "Slippery Jim to-night<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Will begin t' live like a man born white!"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Now, perhaps you'd say the game warn't square——<br /></span> +<span class="i4">An' some might call it a bunko trick;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">But if you loved a ga'l an' she stood there,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Wouldn't y' swap souls with old Nick<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Rather'n let her go t' Yankee Pete<br /></span> +<span class="i4">An' play her game on Bonanza street?<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p><span class="smcap">No, th' story ain't never bin told afore. I saw it finished—saw it +began. Saw it play'd out on th' dance-hall floor. It's betwixt us, man +t' man!</span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</a></span></p> +<h2>HEROES</h2> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">If ye run up ag'in Carnegie, I'd kind o' thankful be<br /></span> +<span class="i2">If he gets a-talkin' of heroes, you'd ring in Sandy McPhee.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Now, Mac don't want no medals—he ain't th' braggin' set;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">But what he done back in eighty-one, he's livin' t' tell; you bet!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">We was trekin' th' trail t' Forty-Mile; sleepin' in snow-b'ilt caves,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">An' the great White Trail we hoofed it on was milestoned jest by graves.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Mac shot on ahead with his dog—itchin' t' make his pile;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Carried his grub-stake on his back. Got there? I should smile!<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</a></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But th' blizzard struck him; th'r he was, him an' his dog alone——<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A week passed by—then his grub give out; but he never made no moan.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">His husky died an' he e't his guts; tho't his brain 'ud go——<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Then he 'member'd his wife an' kids at home. Who'd hoe their row?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Both feet fruz cle'r int' th' bone! Says he "Fac's is fac's";—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Gangrene sot in—black t' th' knees. Then he ups an' eyes his axe:—<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"I ain't," says he, "no great M.D., but I kinder calcalate<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To meet this here e-mergency as was sent b' a unkind Fate."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">So he humped hisself up ag'in a rock in a little bunch o' trees,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A couple o' hacks with that there axe, an' off went his laigs at th' knees!<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</a></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And he stumped it int' Forty-Mile! What's that? It ain't true?<br /></span> +<span class="i2">It's hard t' b'leeve, I kin onderstand, b' a white-livered skunk like <span class="smcap">you</span>!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But, if old Skibo is huntin' a hero, ther's somethin' in my mind<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Says that, if he don't see McPhee, <span class="smcap">he must be gol-durn'd blind</span>!<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</a></span></p> +<h2>LOWER-FLAT ANNALS</h2> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">When we lived in Lower-Flat us folks know'd where we was at;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">But them Eastern folks come, puttin' on great style:<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Us Old-Timers, we all said we was better we was dead,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">F'r th' way they talked an' acted, raised our bile.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">They interduced new dances—thing-a-me-bobs called—"Lance's"——<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Where they traipsed up an' down upon th' floor,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A-bowin' and a'scrapin' (lords an' ladies they was apin'),<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Th' Red River Jig? 'Twa'n't never danced no more!<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</a></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Sniffed at bannock—sniffed at bacon; then, dried apples, they was taken;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">An' that good old dish "plum-duff" went out th' door;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Then "part singin'" in th' church—"A Choir" up in a perch——<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And a "Tenner" frum th' city. Say, y' should a-heard <span class="smcap">him</span> roar!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Then the pretty little crea'cher, boardin' 'round, th' country Teacher;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">(Her we fought about f'r dances in th' barn)<br /></span> +<span class="i2"><span class="smcap">She</span> went out o' date; a "perfesser" come t' prate<br /></span> +<span class="i2">About ologies an' colleges; things childern <span class="smcap">couldn't</span> larn.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Then they started "makin' calls," ketched Pa in his over-alls;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">But he met 'em with a "How'dy!" at th' door;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The place was in a clutter—Ma, she was churnin' butter,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">An' Pa fetch'd 'em in th' kitchen, an' they didn't "call" no more.<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</a></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">That was Mrs. Mumble-Mumps. Say, she <span class="smcap">did</span> put on humps;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Took her daughter Gwendolina t' furrin lan's,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">An' they say paid out shin-plasters t' one o' them Old Masters<br /></span> +<span class="i2">F'r t' make a bust of Gwendolina's hands!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Gone was th' good old days, and gone th' good old ways<br /></span> +<span class="i2">When an invitation meant th' fambly all;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">When th' little an' th' big would crowd into th' rig,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">An' th' fiddle livened up th' Chris'mus Ball.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">It was "Welkim, welkim, Boys!" Lots of laughin', lots of noise;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">With the babies piled like cordwood on th' floor;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Boys an' girls all dancin'—old folks too got prancin'——<br /></span> +<span class="i2">An' th' supper? Say, we'd eat ontil we couldn't hold no more.<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</a></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But them Eastern folks fetched "Style"; changed all that in a while;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Printed tickets told th' folks they was "to-home";<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Served the supper frum "a buffey," an' they acted kind o' huffy<br /></span> +<span class="i2">When our childern round the parler used t' roam.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">House was full of bricky-brack; china tea-pot with a crack,—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">An' they sort o' boasted of it; set it out t' common view;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Talked about the'r "Fambly Tree"—good land! why, they know'd that we<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Had ninety acres of 'em—scrub-oak bluff—an' poplars too!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Then Miss Mary Ellen Jones (her that come from Pile-o'-Bones)<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Lived in nothin' but a mud-shack all her life,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">She got puttin' on some airs, an' her nose jes' said, "Who cares?"<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And th' District Member picked <span class="smcap">her</span> f'r a wife.<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</a></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">She did cut a silly caper: had her envelopes an' paper<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Painted with a little brand in blue sot up on top;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">When th' Flat laugh'd, I'll be blest! she said, "It's Poppa's crest"!<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Well! Providence, that year, hailed out their crop.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But Mary Ellen's fall come when they gave th' weddin'-ball;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Invited all th' stylish folks—gave us th' glassy eye;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">But says Pa, "Th' next election we'll bust th' damn connection,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">F'r th' District Member goes out on th' fly!"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">He he'er'd that. He wanted votes. So them stylish printed notes<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Come trailin' in t' us who'd been rejected;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">But Mary Ellen said (underlined in ink bright red),<br /></span> +<span class="i2">"<span class="smcap">please understand no children is expected</span>"!<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</a></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">That joke went far an' wide, us folks laugh'd ontil we cried;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">But Retribution it was on th' District Member's shins,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">F'r that sassy little bride who behaved so very snide,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Inside a year perduced a pair of TWINS!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Since that time we get on better. Mary Ellen wrote a letter<br /></span> +<span class="i2">T' th' weekly paper, statin' "District Member liked our ways";<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Yes, Lower Flat's grow'd quite a place, runnin' other towns a race;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">But ther' ain't th' fun we had them good old days!<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</a></span></p> +<h2>THE TRAIL</h2> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">It measures the boundless distance,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Led by wild ways that run<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Hither and thither in chase of the Winds<br /></span> +<span class="i4">That worship the Northern Sun:<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The Trail! which, never ending, was never yet begun.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">In the dip of the far horizon<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Trembles the Morning Star;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To the heights of the fathomless ether<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Nor lock, nor bolt, nor bar;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The Trail! God's finger beckoning to the new Home afar.<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</a></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">No sound in that void of Silence<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Save call of bird to its mate,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Or cry of the lone coyote<br /></span> +<span class="i4">At the bars of hunger's gate;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And the heart is drawn by the wond'rous dawn, or some mysterious Fate.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The Trail hath a storied splendor:<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Tepee and Indian Mound;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Where the glory of God is chanted<br /></span> +<span class="i4">By no sacrilegious sound;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Where the dumb brute bays HIS praise through Nights profound!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Here the haunts of men are bounden<br /></span> +<span class="i4">By the links of Custom's chain;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">There you find embosomed freedom<br /></span> +<span class="i4">In the heart's exquisite pain,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And thereafter will be heard the cry, "O, give me the wilds again!"<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</a></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The Trail hath no languorous longing;<br /></span> +<span class="i4">It leads to no Lotus land;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">On its way dead Hopes come thronging<br /></span> +<span class="i4">To take you by the hand;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">He who treads the Trail undaunted, thereafter shall command!<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</a></span></p> +<h2>THE KING OF THE KLONDIKE</h2> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">We called him the King of the Klondike; but<br /></span> +<span class="i4">He really was "Mac."<br /></span> +<span class="i2">He walked int' Dawson in tatters an' rags,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">His frozen feet tied in a pair of ol' bags,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">An' perceeded t' go on a couple of jags;<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Pack on his back.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">He worked empty-bellied f'r many a day,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Pore old Mac!<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Stuck tight t' his diggin as if it was play;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">With a good game of poker 'till daylight he'd stay——<br /></span> +<span class="i2">An' a gun he could han'le. I also might say<br /></span> +<span class="i4">He would crack<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</a></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">A fine joke. But he never was known<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Wasn't Mac.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">T' refuse man 'r dog a crust 'r a bone.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">He kep' t' hisself; perferred livin' alone——<br /></span> +<span class="i2">An' ther' was a sort o' respectable tone<br /></span> +<span class="i4">'Bout his shack.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">He said of them "girls" that defied Law an' ban,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">(Humpin' his back):<br /></span> +<span class="i2">"Pore kids! fetched low b' some skunk of a man——<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Boys, give 'em a hand-up wheniver y' can;"<br /></span> +<span class="i2">(On the'r 'count Soapy Smith out of Dawson he ran<br /></span> +<span class="i4">With Black Jack!)<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">He lived like a prince and he spent like a king,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Did old Mac.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Whatever he said 'r he did had th' ring<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Of pure gold; but one day in th' spring<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Struck a vein in th' rock that made us all sing,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">"'Rah f'r Mac!"<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</a></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But th' fortin' he made was th' fortin' he spent<br /></span> +<span class="i4">In a crack.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Paid all he owed t' th' very las' cent——<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Then, off on a h—— of a spree we all went——<br /></span> +<span class="i2">An' th' gold? why, he wasted it, gev' it an' lent<br /></span> +<span class="i4">B' th' sack.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Nex' mornin' he woke up as pore as a mouse,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Boozer Mac.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Another chap, who had th' heart of a louse,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Would a-blow'd off his head 'r burnt down th' house,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">'R int' th' river a-taken a souse,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Things goin' slack.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But he stuck t' th' diggin' like hound t' th' trail,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Worn ol' Mac.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Jes' like an ol' farmer a-swingin' his flail,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Jes' like ol' Abe Linco'n a-splittin' his rail;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">D'ye think a MAN like him c'd ever spell f-a-i-l,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">'R fall back?<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</a></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">No, Sir! He worked till he struck a new vein,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Brave ol' Mac!<br /></span> +<span class="i2">This time he held tight th' "millionaire" rein;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Swore as he'd never be foolish again;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Then he got drunk. I tell it with pain,—<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Scooted back<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">East. An' I read in them Papers one day,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Klondike Mac<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Had gone t' them "diggin's" anunder th' clay;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">An' he was a pauper ag'in! Talk of Play——<br /></span> +<span class="i2">"Life's jes' a stage!" as Spokshare mought say;<br /></span> +<span class="i4">That's a fac'!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Most of 'em Kings as I've heer'd on went bust,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Jes' like Mac.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">None of 'em carries the'r crowns int' dust;—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">They sport 'roun' a while, but die they all must;—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">An' I don't know as one of th' king-bunch I'd trust,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Lookin' back,<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</a></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Like th' King of th' Klon! Him we knew<br /></span> +<span class="i4">As ol' Mac.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Rulers like him y'll find ther's d——n few;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Ther's lots of 'em sportin' a Crown ain't true blue.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">But Mac? he was royal—a King through an' through,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">An' no "Jack"!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Up No'th they'll 'member him an' things he done<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Way back.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">We won't give his Crown t' no Son-of-a-gun;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Ther's no entail on Kings t'other side of th' sun,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">An' pre-ce-dence ther' will go, ten t' one,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">T' King Mac!<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</a></span></p> +<h2>GHOSTS</h2> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Deep lies the snow on the white, white plain,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And frosted the fretwork on window-pane.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The Storm King has laid his icy clasp<br /></span> +<span class="i2">On th' lock o' th' Year: 'tis an iron hasp.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The camp fire gleams, and its ruddy glow<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Throws shadows quaint on the drifting snow;<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">My heart leaps up, for I see a form<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That makes the blood in my veins run warm:<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</a></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">A woman is standing beside my bed,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And these are the words, I swear, she said:—<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"<span class="smcap">You may wander afar; but, go where you will</span>,<br /></span> +<span class="i2"><span class="smcap">The ghosts of the Past will follow you still!</span>"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Another comes—a girl-face, worn,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And of every good resolution shorn,—<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">She utters no word; but her eyes of blue<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Are burning, piercing me through and through!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Yet another comes and takes Her place——<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I close my eyes lest I see <span class="smcap">her</span> face——<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">For the flush of youth on the girlish brow<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Is lost in the wanton woman now—<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</a></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And I was to blame! God, let me forget!<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And I wipe away the beads of sweat<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">That lie on my brow like blood-red rain——<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And I try to pray—but words are vain;—<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">For I know that the ghosts of my sins are here<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To mock me at this, the end o' th' Year!<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</a></span></p> +<h2>AN ANGEL</h2> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Th' angils ain't all up in Heaven.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Not by a long shot. Say,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ther's angils a-livin' an' breathin'<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Right here in th' camp to-day.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">An' th' crown of one, I kin tell ye<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Is on'y a tangle of hair,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But the halo that lingers around it<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Is brighter than any up There.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">One of her laigs goes a-limpin',<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Her langwige ain't grammar of books,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">An' she ain't airned th' title "A Angil"<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Along of her beauty of looks;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Nless y' saw her as I did——<br /></span> +<span class="i2">'Nless y' saw her, like me,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Le'p int' hell-flame f'r t' rescue<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Th' baby of drunken Magee.<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</a></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Magee in th' cellar was hootchin';<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Th' gal was a-sloppin' at chores,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Washin' bottles an' kegs f'r th' bar-man,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Slingin' cocktails ahind th' baize-doors.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of a suddent a wild cry of "F-i-r-e," come<br /></span> +<span class="i2">With a lick o' th' flame, left an' right;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The boozers they scooted f'r safety<br /></span> +<span class="i2">An' th' baby was left in th' fright.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">One wild cry above th' fierce cracklin'——<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A yell of despair in the din:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"My BABY! <span class="smcap">O, God, send an angel!</span>"<br /></span> +<span class="i2">He did. And the Angel went in<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While us men stood a-shakin' an' shame-faced;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The manhood in us not quite dead——<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We was drunk—dazed with horror an' whisky<br /></span> +<span class="i2">'R we'd foller'd th' gal where she led<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Into that hell-gate of red flame——<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Int' th' whirl of th' fire;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And we all held our bre'th, knowin' well it was death<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Come a-nigher an' nigher.<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</a></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But no! What we all saw a-comin'<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Was th' Angil of Life:—at her breast<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That damn kid of Magee's snug an' snorin',<br /></span> +<span class="i2">As if in th' cradle at rest.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But th' gal? Her face out of resemblance<br /></span> +<span class="i2">T' anythin' human, you'd say,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She come staggerin', gaspin' an' blinded——<br /></span> +<span class="i2">(Us men turned our faces away);<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then, "Lame Mary!" we busted a-shoutin',<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Goin' mad f'r a minit with joy;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Magee, he was dancin' a hornpipe<br /></span> +<span class="i2">An' his Missis was huggin' th' Boy.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But the gal as I christen'd "A Angil"<br /></span> +<span class="i2">We was shoutin' her name somethin' wild——<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Swings 'roun' on her game foot,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Says: "Shet up, y' galoot,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">An' don't be f'r wakin' th' child!"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">You bet she was game, was th' Angil:——<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Tho' she wasn't f'r playin' no harps,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sittin' on a damp cloud a-slingin' th' crowd,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A-thumpin' th' flats an' th' sharps;<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</a></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">She was straight on her job</span>, was th' angil;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Wantin' nothin' down here but her share;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">An' my biler 'ud bust if I thought any "Trust"<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Side-tracked my Angil up—There!<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</a></span></p> +<h2>BILLY BIRD'S CELEBRATION</h2> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Billy Bird was know'd as a bar-room bum;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Be'n a trader out on th' plains;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Be'n a timber rafter, a fourth-ward grafter,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Hadn't no conshunce, hadn't no brains;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But was well perserv'd in Rum.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">He hailed frum Mi-sou-ri 'r Michi-gan;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Was cook in a lumber camp;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Run a Wild West show, then turn'd hobo,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Was an all-roun' fu'st class tramp;—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'N y' couldn't call him a "man."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">He'd b'en kicked an' cussed like a mongrel pup,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">An' a cock-fight was his creed;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">An' eye out o' joint was another bad point,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">But with th' one left he see'd<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Far enough t' hit th' cup!<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</a></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">He'd th' wanderin' itch in his lazy heels<br /></span> +<span class="i2">(With th' luck that comes t' sich);<br /></span> +<span class="i0">F'r one day, dead drunk, that mis'ble skunk<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Struck a vein that made him rich.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Y' sh'd hear Billy Bird's squeals:—<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"I'm richer'n Creesus!" (this he howled);<br /></span> +<span class="i2">"I've th' biggest strike aroun';<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I'm a reg'lar gent!" (Here his bre'th was spent<br /></span> +<span class="i2">An' he tumbles upon th' groun');<br /></span> +<span class="i0">B' his luck Billy Bird got fouled.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Clumb up on a kag t' make a speech.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Says he: "I'm th' Turrible Turk!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I'm a millionaire, an' I'll curl th' hair<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Of th' man says I need work!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Me? I'm a rainbow out of reach!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"I'm off t' Noo York t' get int' th' swirl;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Tip them waiters ten-dollar bills;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I'm a millionaire! Don't I wear th' air<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That goes with th' pace that kills?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">An' I'm goin' t' pick my Girl!<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</a></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"I'll buy her di'mon's t' blaze her front,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">An' th' best champagne we'll spill;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">An' I'll murder th' man as says what he can<br /></span> +<span class="i2">See I ain't no gent! Me, Bill!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">An' I tell y' that's <span class="smcap">my</span> stunt!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"I'll buy a floor in th' big ho-tel;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I'll dazzle th' chamber-maids;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fifth Avenoo style in my auto-mo-bile<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I'll speed her up with my jades;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I'll show 'em a Yukon swell!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"I'll dine on snakes fried in burnin' oil,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">An' dance till th' cows come home;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As an aftermath take a champagne bath<br /></span> +<span class="i2">An' shampoo with a curry-comb;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">All done up accordin' t' Hoyle.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Then I'll hike t' bed with a great, big, head,—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Yellin': '<span class="smcap">call when the clock hits four!</span>'<br /></span> +<span class="i0">An' I'll wait with a grin till th' 'call' comes in,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">An' Brass Buttons knocks at th' door,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">An' he thinks I'm sleepin' dead!<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</a></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Brass buttons 'tap, tap, tap' on th' door:—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">'Millionaire, it is four A. M.!'<br /></span> +<span class="i0">An' I'll bust that door with a Yukon roar:<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Howlin: 'Say! d'ye know WHO I AM?'<br /></span> +<span class="i0">An' I'll rouse 'em on every floor!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"W'en th' house comes runnin' up I'll yell:—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">'WOW! I'm a millionaire!<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">I don't hev' t' get up</span>, y' blankety Pup!'<br /></span> +<span class="i2">An' the'r eyes stickin' out 'll stare,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While I send 'em plumb t' h——ll!"<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">P. S.—<span class="smcap">Billy Bird, millionaire, reached Winnipeg</span>,<br /></span> +<span class="i2"><span class="smcap">Where peroxide blondes pulled Billy Bird's leg</span>.<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">You'll find him to-day in a Yukon s'loon</span><br /></span> +<span class="i2"><span class="smcap">Slushin' beer to th' same old played-out tune</span>:—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"<span class="smcap">O! them gurls they pulled my laig!</span>"<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</a></span></p> +<h2>INVITATION</h2> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I bring you a prairie greeting<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Crested with sunlight sheen,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A picture of mountains rising<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To snow-capped heights of green;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A call from the happy home-land<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Where human hearts beat warm,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where western corn-fields beckon<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And shelter from life's storm.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">London, thy heart of riches<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Hath the pulse-beat of unrest,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where the many know no shelter,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Where the babe weeps at the breast<br /></span> +<span class="i0">All bared to the winter shiver,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Where the hearth-fire, cold and dead,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Is darkened by the shadow<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And Shapes of the underfed.<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</a></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Oh, the hopeless, heavy-burdened<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Bearers of woe and pain,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Mere human stones in the highway<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Of London's greed and gain.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">There weeps the child whom sadness<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And want have made their own;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">There weeps the old, whom gladness<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Is a stranger, and unknown.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Oh, come to the land of Plenty<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Where the gates swing open, wide;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where all mankind stand equal——<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Where toil is a boast—a pride:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where the silken palm clasps the horny hand<br /></span> +<span class="i2">When the long day's work is done,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where new life is born in the growing corn<br /></span> +<span class="i2">In the land of the Setting Sun.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p><span class="smcap">note.</span>—Written in January, 1907, after seeing 700 men and women fed by +Charity on the Thames embankment as "Big Ben" struck ONE A. M.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</a></span></p> +<h2>JIM</h2> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 401px;"> +<img src="images/fig_002.jpg" width="401" height="650" alt="WHEN I MET WITH JIM ALONG THE DAWSON TRAIL" title="" /> +<span class="caption">WHEN I MET WITH JIM ALONG THE DAWSON TRAIL</span> +</div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</a></span></p> +<h2>JIM</h2> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">'Twas th' days of th' stampede—I was of th' hobo breed——<br /></span> +<span class="i2">When I met with Jim along th' Dawson trail;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">F'r Bonanza I was strikin'; an' Jim? well, he was hikin'<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Along th' road t' Anywhere—Jerusalam or jail.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Seemed t' me how all th' people had got soured in his steeple,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">But for wimmin most of all he'd bitter thoughts;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But we got on quite congenial, him a gen'leman—me menial,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And I got t' kind of likin' Jim——in spots!<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</a></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But he wouldn't stick t' minin'. He was always drunk an' whinin';<br /></span> +<span class="i2">An' th' boys was glad the day he quit th' camp;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Next I see him with th' crowd down at Dawson, an' I 'lowed<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I never see a bigger, low-down scamp.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Was he single? Was he marri'd? I dunno', but sure he carried<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A little bit of locket on his breast,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And onct I see him open it—but that was in a dopin' fit——<br /></span> +<span class="i2">An' I laugh'd t' see Jim's mouth ag'in it pressed!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But a fella' will act loony when he's full an' feelin' spoony,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Howsumever, Jim an' me went differ'nt ways;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Me an' th' boys with pans a-washin' cricks on old Bonanza,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">An' when I met with Jim ag'in 'twas after many days.<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</a></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Bad hootch an' rotten food fetched th' scurvy quick an' good,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">An' tho' I'd made my millions it didn't help me out;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I was side-tracked by th' fever, in th' hands of God's Receiver,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">An' th' sexton he most had me b' th' snout!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But them dandy little Sisters, them as cooked us with the'r blisters,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Made us swaller swill we hated "'cos th' Doctor said 'twas good";<br /></span> +<span class="i0">One I liked called "Sister Mary"—she was tiny as a Fairy—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">'Twas a sin to hide her beauty anunder a black hood.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Her face, tho' never smilin', had a look that was beguilin';<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Her blue eyes they would wander far away,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Jes' as if her heart was crawlin' to some Voice as was a-callin':<br /></span> +<span class="i2">"<span class="smcap">Mary, little Mary!</span>" night an' day.<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</a></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">This was my fool-brain a-ravin'; I couldn't be behavin'<br /></span> +<span class="i2">For th' fever to my guts was eatin' in;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But her hand upon th' pillo' was like foam upon th' billo',<br /></span> +<span class="i2">When she spoke t' us of One who pardon'd sin.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Lord, how th' fever got 'em! Lord, how th' Doctors fought 'em!<br /></span> +<span class="i2">How them Sisters stood th' racket night an' day:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Talk of Angils? Up in heaven don't believe as you'd find Seven<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Could beat them a-makin' plasters, or beat 'em on the Pray!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Well, one mornin' when I waken I see th' next bed taken<br /></span> +<span class="i2">By a feller, as was ravin' like a loon;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sich a face! All hair an' blotches (th' kind th' fever scotches)——<br /></span> +<span class="i2">An' I says, says I: "His Nibs'll ketch you soon!"<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</a></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">If they'd fine-tooth-combed creation f'r my personal elation<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To rake in a friend an' leave him lyin' there,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Why, they couldn't a-done better with a Dawson lawyer's letter,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">F'r'twas JIM beneath th' blotches an' th' hair!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">He was ravin', he was mutterin'; he was swearin', he was stutterin';<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Sister Mary trippin' round him like a little drift o' snow,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">An' she hovered as a dove might with flutterin' wings of white light,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">So softly that you'd wonder did she come or did she go?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">One night, I wasn't sleepin'—Sister Mary night watch keepin',<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Jim, weak as a babby, lyin' there upon th' bed,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Says: "Sister,—you remind me—of a—Girl—I left behind me"——<br /></span> +<span class="i2">She gev' a little shiver, sayin': "<span class="smcap">Hsh! that—Girl is—dead!</span>"<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</a></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Then I he'erd old Jim a-gaspin'—her han's his han's was claspin',<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Callin' "<span class="smcap">Mary</span>, Oh, God, <span class="smcap">Mary</span>!" eyes a-bulgin' in his head;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She was lookin' down at him, but she on'y whisper'd "J—im!"<br /></span> +<span class="i2">But her face was like the face of some one dead.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The'r han's was locked a minute—ther' wasn't no wrong in it——<br /></span> +<span class="i2">They spoke no words, but eyes looked into eyes——<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then, without a word of talkin' she went, like one sleep-walkin',<br /></span> +<span class="i2">An' I he'erd Jim groanin' tur'ble 'twixt his sighs.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But nex' mornin' little Sister hikes along with a big blister,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Jest as dinky an' as smilin' as before;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But Jim? he lay there blinkin', I guess <span class="smcap">he</span> was a-thinkin'<br /></span> +<span class="i2">How them little fingers trimbled takin' down his fever score.<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</a></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Doc. said old Jim was dyin'. That night I he'erd him sighin',<br /></span> +<span class="i2">An' he up an' says: "Say, Pard, when I'm—at rest——<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Will you see this—little locket—goes with me—in the pocket<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Of the heart that's lyin' broken—in my breast?"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And if you're no doubtin' Thomas you'll believe I kep' that promise;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And the Face inside the locket, <span class="smcap">human eye shall never see</span>;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">P'raps it was, or wasn't Sister, her we called "Saint Mustard Blister,"<br /></span> +<span class="i2">When she pumped th' pills an' quinine int' pore old Jim an' me!<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</a></span></p> +<h2>TALE OF THE CHE-CHA-KO</h2> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Che-cha-ko arrived from London Town<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Wearing a sort of superior frown;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Registered, "Bellingham-Bolingbroke-Browyne"<br /></span> +<span class="i2">(Hyphenating himself in the middle).<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He carried of "boxes" just twenty-four,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Voted the country "A beastly boah";<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Laughed at the "shops," which he roundly swore<br /></span> +<span class="i2">"Weren't worth a Ta-ra-diddle!"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">He purchased of farm lands some sections six,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Said: "With those common fawmahs I shan't mix!"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then he started in with his La-de-dah tricks<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And built him a "Countwy Seat."<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Now, a "country seat" in this western land<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Is top rail of a fence, or a pile of sand,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But Che-cha-ko's daily, diurnal demand<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Was, "The best people I must meet."<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</a></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">They met him half way, for they cleaned him out,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Drank his "extra dry" every ball and rout;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His poor working-man neighbour he called "a lout,"<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And laughed at the "countwy daunce."<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His amazement was great to learn we "digged wells";<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Said, "We don't do it around Bow Bells";<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And, describing the life of the London swells,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Sighed: "Pore devils! you haven't a chaunce!"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">He played "Gentleman Fawmah" a year or two,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His cash was all spent (his friends went too)<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And then he wanted to "borrow a few<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Pounds" from his own hired man.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But the rough fellow said, "My London Cock,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When you learn to work, quit your bally talk,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You'll float your Ship-of-State off th' rock!"<br /></span> +<span class="i2">(And he winked, did the hired man.)<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</a></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">He considered the matter, did B. B. Browyne,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Quit every reference to "Deah London Town,"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And his neighbour, "the Lout," why, he came right down<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And did what we all expected:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Lent B. B. seed-grain for his season's crop;—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Said: "Hang on, m' Boy, y'll come out on top."<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He did. The Che-cha-ko never cried "stop"<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Till for parliament he was elected!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">So down at Ottawa now he sits<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Where he spits and smokes, and smokes and spits;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In government circles he splendidly fits,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And he's known as "Bully Boy Brown"!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For he was a man that took his chance——<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He got right down to his Song-and-Dance——<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Let out "London Pride" with his workman's lance,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Tried the smile instead of the frown.<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</a></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">For the "Browyne" who would win out in the west<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Is the Brown with common sense that's blest;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Leaves "Grandpa" at home with the Family crest,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Puts hand to the plow; and then——<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Follows the furrow as straight as a die,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Stout heart, steady hand, with a watchful eye;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He'll come to his own, and I'll tell you why:——<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The west is calling for MEN!<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</a></span></p> +<h2>ST. BONIFACE FIRE BRIGADE</h2> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">W'en you come wes' from de oder place<br /></span> +<span class="i2">An' you want sometings for see;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Jus' come an' see St. Boniface<br /></span> +<span class="i2">An' I show you sometings, me:—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Dar's de Mission Church dat W'ittier sing——<br /></span> +<span class="i2">"Turrets twain," wher' de peoples prayed;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But dar's sometings we got better still——<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Da's St. Boniface Fire Brigade!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Da's a g-rea-t Brigade;—has mans tree, four——<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Married mans wit be-eg fam-i-lee;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Champeau, Dorien, petite Lafleur,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">An' Jean Perriault (da's ME).<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Us mans we work like h—ll all day<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Wit de saw, de hammer an' de spade,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But by gar, w'en de fire-bell she goes "ring,"<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Da's de t'am we don't was 'fraid.<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</a></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">You hear dat ting 'bout d' beeg oil-house;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Tree hundre' bar'ls cotch de fire?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">De smoke, mon Dieu! wit de flame go hup<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To de top of de be-eg church-spire;—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Lafleur's femme, she take de fit hon de floor——<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Ma femme, she scre-ee-ch, "Saint Marie!"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hevery one yell—dat place look like he—ll,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Ontil Dorien, Champeau, an' ME——<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">We fill hup de tank in de Red Rivaire——<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Sacre! how de mans per—s—pire;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">De peoples go cra—ss—y; Winnipeg despaire;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">An' de bells dey ring, "F-i-r-e!—F-i-r-e."<br /></span> +<span class="i0">W'at you t'ink happens? You nevaire don't guess——<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Notings like dat happens sence;—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">De horse runs away—de hose it go burs'——<br /></span> +<span class="i2">But we save de dog-poun' fence!<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</a></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">You hear w'at 'appens once in de place?<br /></span> +<span class="i2">W'en d' King's son he come Wes',<br /></span> +<span class="i0">All d' womans dress hup, wash d' baby face;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">An' d' mans put hon he's bes'.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Winni-peg bow down t' George d' Prince;—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Put d' soldier-mans hon parade;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But de Prince, he sick of d' whole dam' show,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Hask: "<span class="smcap">Wher' St. Boniface Fire Brigade?</span>"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Y—as, an' w'en d' heartquake shake Frisco,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">"Hend of d' worl'!" some sa-aid;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I send telegraff (cos' me tree dollaire),<br /></span> +<span class="i2">"You like have my Fire Brigade?"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hon d' las' Election, in d' Town-Hall<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Laurier sp'ik; He sa—aid:—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Gentilhomme! if—you—want—put—dat—bad—Tory—hout,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Get St. Boniface Fire BRIGADE!"<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</a></span></p> +<h2>"WINDY"</h2> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Lady Marmaduke Montague-Marlinford-Dunne<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Came out to the Yukon in search of her son;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Heir to vast estates and to lands long entailed,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Handed down by great grandpapa's fist (which was mailed).<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The young man had mushed in by the lone Chilcoot Pass<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And was known to the boys as "That titled young Ass."<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</a></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">For the stuff he wrote home took Belgravian breath:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Dear Monty with savages!"—"mushing!"—"to death"!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They were shocked at the mention "pay-dirt"; and "the pan,"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They fully explained, was "held by Monty's man!"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">At St. James, The Carlton, The Ritz, it was told<br /></span> +<span class="i0">How "Monty owns mountains and canyons of—Gold!"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Came a lapse in the years and the letters. Despair<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Seized the hearts in Belgravia—no word from the heir;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For the lure of the Northland—the life of the camp,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Had Monty the Beau transformed into a—tramp<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who had drifted, like jetsam, the breakers among,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And had almost forgotten his own mother-tongue.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 387px;"> +<img src="images/fig_003.jpg" width="387" height="650" alt="PRAY, SIR, HAVE YOU SEEN MR. MARMADUKE" title="" /> +<span class="caption">PRAY, SIR, HAVE YOU SEEN MR. MARMADUKE</span> +</div><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</a></span></p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">In the year ninety-eight arrived per Dawson stage<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In December, a lady, a maid, and a page;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">One clearly of rank. With the air of a queen<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She stepped up to the desk, asking: "Pray, have you seen<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Mr. Marmaduke Montague-Marlinford-Dunne?"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Adding proudly,—"The gentleman, Sir, is my son."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The clerk at the desk stared and stammered, then said:—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"No gent be that name in this shack has his bed;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But mebbe' th' Boys"—Here he calls to a bunch,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Say, has any o' youse seed a kid with a hunch<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That sounds like—Ma'am, wot was th' name o' y'r son?"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She faltered, "Sir! Montague-Marlinford-Dunne!"<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</a></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Nobody knew him—worse, nobody cared—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But the bar-keep speaks up (while his quid he prepared),<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Say, w'ot was th' kid like?"—one stared at the other——<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Warn't he a pardner of Billy Bird's brother?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">An' had he a bench-claim know'd as 'Bloody Jim'?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Cos if he had ther's a warn't out f'r <span class="smcap">him</span>!"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"I'll describe him, good sirs," said the lady in tears:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"He left home just of age, namely twenty-one-years.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His hair, sunny gold, is inclined to up-curl——<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His complexion is peach-like—he's fair as a girl.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He has large, soulful eyes, they are beaming and kind,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A soft, bird-like voice—and an artistic mind.<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</a></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Military in bearing—broad-shouldered and tall;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Speaks languages seven—a 'linguist,' you'd call.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Paints, sings, rides to hounds; he dresses with care;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A de-lightful manner, with most restful air:—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Oh! prithee, good gentlemen, find me my son,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whom all London once knew as '<span class="smcap">The dashing Beau-Dunne</span>!'"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The lady was weeping in 'kerchief of lace<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And she saw not the smile on the rough miner's face,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who said: "Ma'am, y' won't find y'r angel up here,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Them pertickler brands—with 'wings'—disappear!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But here's 'Windy' comin'—he knows, th' ol' tramp,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Every Jack on th' trail, every Jill in th' camp!"<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</a></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Bing-bang!" The door opens and "Windy" appears,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A be-whiskered, a pimple-pocked tough to his ears:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His jeans all in tatters, his muck-a-lucks worn;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His parka was dirty, and mud-splashed and torn.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His greeting: "<span class="smcap">Wow! hand out a hootch! durn my gizzard<br /></span> +<span class="i0">If I warn't cotched in a Hunker Crick blizzard!"</span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The lady turns pale. Then the bar-keep behind<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hollers: "Windy, ol' cock! can YOU call t' y'r mind<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A chump 'round this camp——Ma'am, wot was th' same<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Double-decker y' called b' th' telescope name?"——<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But the lady, eyes staring, was shrieking, "<span class="smcap">My son!</span>"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Lo! "Windy" be-whiskered was "<span class="smcap">dashing Beau-Dunne</span>!"<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</a></span></p> +<h2>MY SONG</h2> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I could not sing unless my song<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Had in its symphony one broken string;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I could not say the thoughts that in me rise<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Unless my heart had been a broken thing.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Why is it that the voice of Song so yields<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Mute music till the heart hath bled?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Why should we find most fair and far-off fields<br /></span> +<span class="i2">By thorny by-paths led?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But if this little weakling song of mine<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Might carry cheer to one, lone, grieving soul,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Most gladly would I offer Hope's bright wine<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And, smiling, drink the lees left in the bowl:<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</a></span> +<span class="i0">For I have in the darkness found some light,—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Some sunshine seen in shadowed evening hours,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And I have found throughout the lonely night<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Some perfumed breathings from wild garden bowers.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And I were ingrate not to send it on,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Such echo of what music in me lies,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For it may bring to some o'er darkened dawn<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The brightening glow that comes with morning skies.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So, go you, little broken Song,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And carry to some heart in bitter pain<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Only my lute's light laughter. Make thou strong<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The weak of heart and bid them smile again.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<hr class="full" /> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DERBY DAY IN THE YUKON***</p> +<p>******* This file should be named 33758-h.txt or 33758-h.zip *******</p> +<p>This and all associated files of various formats will be found in:<br /> +<a href="http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/3/3/7/5/33758">http://www.gutenberg.org/3/3/7/5/33758</a></p> +<p>Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed.</p> + +<p>Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: Derby Day in the Yukon + and Other Poems of the "Northland" + + +Author: Yukon Bill + + + +Release Date: September 19, 2010 [eBook #33758] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DERBY DAY IN THE YUKON*** + + +E-text prepared by Bryan Ness, Josephine Paolucci, and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from images generously +made available by Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries +(http://www.archive.org/details/toronto) + + + +Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this + file which includes the original illustrations. + See 33758-h.htm or 33758-h.zip: + (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/33758/33758-h/33758-h.htm) + or + (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/33758/33758-h.zip) + + + Images of the original pages are available through + Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries. See + http://www.archive.org/details/derbydayinyukono00yukouoft + + + + + +DERBY DAY IN THE YUKON AND OTHER POEMS OF THE "NORTHLAND" + + +[Illustration: THE MALAMUTE] + + +DERBY DAY IN THE YUKON + +and other Poems of the "Northland" + +by + +YUKON BILL + + + + + + + +Toronto +The Musson Book Company +Limited + +Copyright, 1910, by +George H. Doran Co. + + + So, go you, little broken Song, + And carry to some heart in bitter pain + Only my lute's light laughter; make thou strong + The weak of heart, and bid them smile again! + + THESE RHYMES +OF THE NORTHLAND ARE AFFECTIONATELY + INSCRIBED TO MY PARDS, B. AND B., + WHO HELPED ME TO CARRY MY + PACK OVER LIFE'S TRAIL. + + Y. B. + +On the Trail, 1910. + + + + +CONTENTS + + + Page + +GREETING 11 + +DERBY DAY IN THE YUKON 17 + +THE MALAMUTE 23 + +RED-JACKET 29 + +UP AGAINST IT 35 + +HOW SLIPPERY PLAYED THE GAME 39 + +HEROES 47 + +LOWER-FLAT ANNALS 53 + +THE TRAIL 61 + +THE KING OF THE KLONDIKE 67 + +GHOSTS 75 + +AN ANGEL 81 + +BILLY BIRD'S CELEBRATION 87 + +INVITATION 93 + +JIM 97 + +TALE OF THE CHE-CHA-KO 107 + +ST. BONIFACE FIRE BRIGADE 113 + +WINDY 119 + +MY SONG 127 + + + + +LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS + + +THE MALAMUTE Frontispiece + +RED-JACKET, BULLY BOY HE IS facing p. 29 + +WHEN I MET WITH JIM ALONG THE DAWSON TRAIL 97 + +PRAY, SIR, HAVE YOU SEEN MR. MARMADUKE? 121 + + + + +GREETING + +TO ROBERT W. SERVICE + + + + +GREETING + + + Shake, Pard! I'm mighty proud o' you! + (I'm know'd as "Yukon Bill"); + You blazed th' trail an' blazed it true;---- + Some o' my friends I see y' knew + On old Che-cha-ko Hill; + But say, old man, y' clean forgot my friend, "Swiftwater Bill!" + + You was a kid in pettic'uts + When I went in, a man; + Grub-stakin' with two other goats---- + We sow'd th' last of our wild oats + An' th' new, clean life began; + We was th' fu'st (an' p'raps th' wu'st) Five Fingers' Rapids ran. + + I staked out Eldorado crick + Long 'fore th' world was told + Them hills from Hunker to St. Mick + Groaned f'r th' drill an' f'r th' pick, + The'r bellies achin' GOLD! + Where many a night th' moon pale white saw me in blankets rolled. + + At Magnet Gulch I lit my pipe---- + Got drunk upon Gold Hill; + I hoofed it cle'r t' Kokusqum---- + 'Twas ther' I lost my Siwash chum + (She drownded in a spill), + An' Love an' Luck together went from pore old Yukon Bill! + + Big Skookum claim might a-bin mine, + But fortune ther' I missed; + For all I got a-though I sought---- + I starved an' thirsted, dug an' fought, + Was d---- plumbago schist! + Ten years of toil, of muck an' spoil; then on th' "Failure list." + + Labarge; th' Canyon; I was there; + I clumb th' Glacier mound. + I might a-bin a millionaire---- + God! think of it, and see me--WHERE? + A bum on Puget Sound!---- + At night my roof th' open sky--my pillow th' cold ground. + + Me for th' trail at seventy! + I'm longin' f'r th' track: + I'll try again--no, I'll not fail---- + I hear them "Little Voices" wail: + "Come back! come back! come back!" + O, God! how Mem'ry knifes me now an' puts me on th' rack. + + Yes, yes--I failed! Yes, yes, a drink! + An' then my pipe I'll fill. + Boy, here's t' you--y'r picter's true + Of them old sinners that I knew + On old Che-cha-ko Hill; + But say, old man, y' overlooked my friend, "Swiftwater Bill!" + + + + +DERBY DAY IN THE YUKON + + Talk of England's Derby Race; of Kentucky's blue-grass chase; + Epsom Downs an' Frisco "Tanforan" t' boot; + I don't say they ain't done well, but I tell y' even h--ll + Couldn't match th' Yukon racin' malamoot. + + How them dogs they love th' Race! Y' kin see it in th' face + Of th' starvin' scut that hangs aroun' th' claim; + F'r he knows, like you an' me, that th' Derby Day'll be + Th' big jag day--th' glad rag play, that brings th' Yukon fame. + + It was Fool's Day f'r th' Race; every husky in his place; + Wasky's dogs was runnin' Billy Brown of Nome; + But at th' Starter's line ranged up Jake Berger's Nine, + Ten t' one THEY'D bring th' Derby money home! + + Thousands hit th' trail that night; we was out t' see th' sight; + Th' stakes, eleven-thousand-plunks in gold! + Th' thermometer on strike--every bench-claim on th' hike---- + An' them leaders b' th' leash y' couldn't hold. + + Oh, th' run was cruel hard--th' white frost how it scarred + As they galloped down th' long, unending trail; + The whip cut like th' wind, an' Carey's dog, snow-blind, + Joined his howlin' t' th' screeches of th' gale. + + Down where Candle's bonfires glow see th' racin' huskies go, + All keen t' win--McCarthy's purp drops dead---- + He's thrown out upon th' track f'r th' lean an' hungry pack + Of grey wolves follerin' th' flyin' sled. + + Two-an'-eighty hours they raced--an' four hunderd-miles they paced, + Them dogs never paused f'r frozen fish 'r drink; + Hung with icicles of foam, the'r lithe bodies stretched whale-bone,-- + BUT THEY BROKE THE RECORD MADE BY JIMMIE FINK! + + Cursed, an' kicked, an' whipped ahead, th' dumb brutes, staggerin', bled + Where th' whip cut cruel in; but comes th' feast + When at Nome t'morrow night there'll be brawl an' drink, an' fight; + An' no tellin' which is man an' which is beast. + + Then th' dumb an' winded brute--th' blood-blinded malamoot, + All frosted foam is gaspin' upon th' bar-room floor; + He, the WINNER OF TH' RACE! in th' glory has no place; + He's jes' a slinkin' malamoot when Derby Day is o'er! + + + + +THE MALAMUTE + + + Hi, there! Into your harness of thong! + (Whip.) You get into your place; + Give him the lash, Bill. Eh? What's wrong? + See that look in the mal'mute's face:-- + Is it devilish cunning o'ermastering pain? + Some lost soul reincarnate again, + Running Sin's last race. + + Come skulkin' into the camp last June, + A leprous, mangy cur; + Reasty and rotten--bayed at th' Moon + As if you'd a grudge 'gainst her. + All fester and soil--corruption and boil; + Your evil face like some carved gargoyle, + And you refused to stir + + Though I broke th' lash on your back, + YOU subjugated me:-- + You proved the master--I proved the hack, + For, plainly I could see + You'd been sent back to earth to work out y'r sin, + And y' came straight t' me, a larrikin; + An' why did you come to me? + + What were you There? Unregenerate thief, + A derelict from your birth? + Were you a church-going pharisee, + That Belial of this earth? + Was your lecherous, lutish, animal mind + Drawn to me as one of your kind? + Your grin betrays your mirth. + + Well, me an' you, Mal'mute, stand chums; + We won't each other despise; + The camp may call us a couple o' bums + But we hold our own assize: + We stand for Arbitration straight-- + An' mebbe' some day, at St. Peter's Gate + We'll look in each other's eyes. + + Ah, you leprous devil! you taught me how + To fumigate my soul + From wanton ways and dicing days, + And lush of the flowing bowl: + I'm steeped in guilt right up to the hilt, + Worshipped in temples of Shame I've built, + And Pleasure's been my goal, + + But here with you in th' hinter-world + Where there's nothing pure but snow, + Some words long dumb t' my lips have come, + A prayer that I used to know:-- + "OUR--FATHER!"--I wonder will HE refute + A fellow that learns of a malamute + T' take th' kick an' blow? + + Oh, down here below we may go th' pace, + Loot, gut, palter, prey, maraud; + But here or There comes settling day, + For y' can't bamboozle God---- + He'll send us back, like you, mal'mute, + Mangy an' whining--black with hell-soot---- + Say, Bill, did y' see him nod? + +[Illustration: RED JACKET, BULLY BOY HE IS] + + + + +RED-JACKET + + + Where it's eighty below zero, there you'll find the Northland hero, + Red-Jacket; bully Boy he is--sure thing he fills the bill! + In that trackless waste of snow, where the Northern Lights hang low, + He is doing deeds of daring that would make your pulses thrill:-- + + AN' WE'LL DRINK T' YOU, RED-JACKET; + THE EQUATOR OF YOUR VEST + BUNCHES ALL THE PRIDE AN' GLORY + OF TH' WILD AN' WOOLLY WEST! + + Red-Jacket does no askin', but he's ready for th' taskin' + When they sling him out his orders, with a hunk o' pemmican; + An' he'll travel day an' night after Red-man or bad white, + An' he'll go through hell-an'-blazes, BUT HE'LL NEVER MISS HIS MAN! + + HE LAUGHS AT DEATH AN' DANGER, + FOR TH' CHIN-STRAP ON HIS JAW + IS TH' LINK THAT BINDS CREATION:-- + BRITISH FAIR-PLAY, AN' TH'--LAW! + + The spur hitched to his heel--at his hip th' gleam of steel,-- + With his belly-band strapped tighter his hunger to forget, + He may drop upon th' track BUT YOU BET HE WON'T TURN BACK-- + For it's duty, Duty, DUTY! That's Red-Jacket's am-u-let! + + AN' IT'S "HI! YOU SKULKIN' HUSKY"! + O'ER TH' WINTRY, WIND-SWEPT GROUND, + THE DOG HIS LONE COMPANION-- + AND THE SILENCE THAT IS SOUND! + + Oh, the Arctic wilds are weary, and the Arctic nights are dreary; + And Red-Jacket sometimes wonders why he's livin' th' wild life? + Then he eyes th' British Flag; says: "GOD BLESS YOU, YOU OLD RAG! + It's through courtin' YOU I've neither child nor wife"! + + THEN A SHAMED AN' SILENT TEAR + FALLS UPON THE ARCTIC SNOWS; + AN' THE ANGUISH OF HIS HEART, + GOD--AN' RED-JACKET, KNOWS! + + Now, you folks, don't get hard thinkin' when Red-Jacket starts a-drinkin', + An' he busts th' Ten Commandments into five-an'-twenty bits; + When he hears th' bugles sound, ain't he fu'st upon th' ground? + An' don't his "powders" cure 'em of the'r hell-damnation fits? + + SO WE'LL DRINK T' YOU, RED-JACKET! + GOD'S BLESSIN' ON Y'R HEAD; + YOU'RE TH' BRITISH CON-STI-TOO-SHUN + BOUND IN YELLA' STRIPES, AN' RED! + + + + +UP AGAINST IT + + + When y're up against it, don't get feelin' blue; + Somewher' in this world of ours ther's a place f'r you. + Y'r jes' a round peg in a squar', y' ain't th' proper fit; + Keep turnin', twistin' every way--an' rise a little bit. + + If we'd all we wanted in this whirlin' globe we're on, + W'y we'd all begin t' grouch--then begin t' yawn; + We'd get dead sick o' summer without a tech o' frost, + An' Ex-pe-ri-ence we got t' hev' regardless of th' cost. + + Oh, th' smell o' fightin' powder, that's th' perfume f'r th' nose; + Without th' thorn in hidin' who'd care t' pluck th' Rose? + An' th' tears that wet y'r pillo' at night when y' go t' bed, + They'll wash away y'r troubles--an' y'r sins, tho' ruby red. + + Boy, when y'r up against it, get y'r back agin' a fence + An' swing that good ol' we'pon we used t' call "horse sense": + Pitch off y'r coat--go at it jes' like a fightin' man; + Throw up y'r head--glad y' ain't dead-- + Then sluice y'r bench--an' pan! + + Say, when y'r up against it, don't get feelin' blue; + Ther's room t' spare, ther's plenty air; ain't that enough f'r you? + Every bed-rock wash-up ain't all gold t' th' pan, + But life CAN'T be a "failure" if y' play th' game a MAN! + + + + +HOW SLIPPERY PLAYED THE GAME + +NO, TH' STORY AIN'T NEVER BIN TOLD AFORE, AS I'M TH' ON'Y MAN SEED TH' +GAME PLAYED ON TH' DANCE-HALL FLOOR. I WAS THER' WHEN THE FUN BEGAN. AN' +WHAT I SEE I TELL YOU STRAIGHT--TELL IT AS MAN TO MAN. + + + + +HOW SLIPPERY PLAYED THE GAME + + + "Lost ag'in!" yelled Slippery Jim, + "Never a mo'sel o' luck in m' life! + Yankee, you're on th' velvet agin!" + Says Yankee: "Jim, let's play f'r a wife! + There's Bonanza Pearl, she's sweet on you;-- + Fairer 'card' no gambler ever drew!" + + Slippery Jim staked high that night, + The game was poker,--rake-in keeps---- + Yankee Pete hilarious, ready t' fight---- + Rakin' th' gold-dust up in heaps. + Jim's last poke throw'd on th' table, so; + "It's my last ounce, boys! Well, let 'er go!" + + He had staked the dance-hall--staked the bar-- + Then, reckless, staked the "Wonder" mine, + Known on Bonanza near an' far + As the lucky strike of Eighty-nine. + Jim had played it all--an' lost! The sweat + Come when he gasps: "It's my last--bet!" + + "You've got Pearl left," grins Yankee Pete, + "Don't funk now, Jim: make her th' stake." + With a howl of hate Jim was on his feet---- + But a voice rings out: "THAT BET WE'LL TAKE!" + And Bonanza Pearl steps up t' me, + "You'll see this game played square!" says she. + + Says Yank. "I stake my all 'gainst th' Girl." + (Then I see th' flame le'p in his eyes) + "An' if I win you, Bonanza Pearl, + Your soul an' body no man denies + B'longs t' me!" He stacked his gold, + As a groan from Jim his agony told. + + Now, Jim was a MAN. He funked no game;-- + Says he: "I'll stake blood, bone an' life, + But I'll put no woman to th' shame + Of bein' played 'a chip' in tin-horn strife!" + But Bonanza, she steps up t' him + An' she says: "Y' COULDN'T LOSE ME, JIM!" + + "Come," says Bonanza, "Turn up th' pack"; + She skinned the bunch with a laughin' eye; + I gets close up ahind Jim's back + Ready t' let th' bullets fly. + Th' two men playin' a round 'r so, + An' the luck agin' Slippery seem'd t' go. + + "Straight flush o' di'monds--Ace at th' head;" + In a whirlwind play Yank takes the pot. + Slippery's eyes was now blood-red---- + His lips crack'd dry--his breath comin' hot; + The last deal ended the game, I saw + 'Twas Yankee Pete's first play--an' draw. + + Jim's hand? cripes! 'Twas a reg'lar prize; + Luck had turned--he had aces t' burn! + But he sot there starin' with bloodshot eyes, + An' what I saw then gev' ME quite a turn---- + F'r th' divil's own luck was at his heel, + He'd an EXTRA CARD--'twas a clear MISDEAL! + + I let my hand t' th' trigger go---- + Jim's throat gev' a sickish kind o' laugh; + An' he says: "I'm dry as h--ll, so, + W'ot d'ye say to a shandy-gaff? + An'," says Jim, "I'll hev' a bite t' eat; + Pearl, fetch me a sangwich o' bread an' meat"! + + I felt like shootin' that gol-durn Jim, + Losin' th' game with a stake like that; + Wanted t' up an' lambaste him + Chawin' of meat like a hungry cat: + When, all at onct, sort o' swallerin' hard, + I PERCEIVES JIM EATIN' THAT EXTRA CARD! + + "Locoed!" yelled Yankee, quittin' th' game, + Handin' over th' stakes. But Slippery Jim + Hunchin' up of his powerful frame + Giv' a kind of a grin o' hate at him. + "D----n y'r gold!" he says, "Slippery Jim to-night + Will begin t' live like a man born white!" + + Now, perhaps you'd say the game warn't square---- + An' some might call it a bunko trick; + But if you loved a ga'l an' she stood there, + Wouldn't y' swap souls with old Nick + Rather'n let her go t' Yankee Pete + An' play her game on Bonanza street? + +NO, TH' STORY AIN'T NEVER BIN TOLD AFORE. I SAW IT FINISHED--SAW IT +BEGAN. SAW IT PLAY'D OUT ON TH' DANCE-HALL FLOOR. IT'S BETWIXT US, MAN +T' MAN! + + + + +HEROES + + + If ye run up ag'in Carnegie, I'd kind o' thankful be + If he gets a-talkin' of heroes, you'd ring in Sandy McPhee. + + Now, Mac don't want no medals--he ain't th' braggin' set; + But what he done back in eighty-one, he's livin' t' tell; you bet! + + We was trekin' th' trail t' Forty-Mile; sleepin' in snow-b'ilt caves, + An' the great White Trail we hoofed it on was milestoned jest by graves. + + Mac shot on ahead with his dog--itchin' t' make his pile; + Carried his grub-stake on his back. Got there? I should smile! + + But th' blizzard struck him; th'r he was, him an' his dog alone---- + A week passed by--then his grub give out; but he never made no moan. + + His husky died an' he e't his guts; tho't his brain 'ud go---- + Then he 'member'd his wife an' kids at home. Who'd hoe their row? + + Both feet fruz cle'r int' th' bone! Says he "Fac's is fac's";-- + Gangrene sot in--black t' th' knees. Then he ups an' eyes his axe:-- + + "I ain't," says he, "no great M.D., but I kinder calcalate + To meet this here e-mergency as was sent b' a unkind Fate." + + So he humped hisself up ag'in a rock in a little bunch o' trees, + A couple o' hacks with that there axe, an' off went his laigs at + th' knees! + + And he stumped it int' Forty-Mile! What's that? It ain't true? + It's hard t' b'leeve, I kin onderstand, b' a white-livered skunk + like YOU! + + But, if old Skibo is huntin' a hero, ther's somethin' in my mind + Says that, if he don't see McPhee, HE MUST BE GOL-DURN'D BLIND! + + + + +LOWER-FLAT ANNALS + + + When we lived in Lower-Flat us folks know'd where we was at; + But them Eastern folks come, puttin' on great style: + Us Old-Timers, we all said we was better we was dead, + F'r th' way they talked an' acted, raised our bile. + + They interduced new dances--thing-a-me-bobs called--"Lance's"---- + Where they traipsed up an' down upon th' floor, + A-bowin' and a'scrapin' (lords an' ladies they was apin'), + Th' Red River Jig? 'Twa'n't never danced no more! + + Sniffed at bannock--sniffed at bacon; then, dried apples, they was taken; + An' that good old dish "plum-duff" went out th' door; + Then "part singin'" in th' church--"A Choir" up in a perch---- + And a "Tenner" frum th' city. Say, y' should a-heard HIM roar! + + Then the pretty little crea'cher, boardin' 'round, th' country Teacher; + (Her we fought about f'r dances in th' barn) + SHE went out o' date; a "perfesser" come t' prate + About ologies an' colleges; things childern COULDN'T larn. + + Then they started "makin' calls," ketched Pa in his over-alls; + But he met 'em with a "How'dy!" at th' door; + The place was in a clutter--Ma, she was churnin' butter, + An' Pa fetch'd 'em in th' kitchen, an' they didn't "call" no more. + + That was Mrs. Mumble-Mumps. Say, she DID put on humps; + Took her daughter Gwendolina t' furrin lan's, + An' they say paid out shin-plasters t' one o' them Old Masters + F'r t' make a bust of Gwendolina's hands! + + Gone was th' good old days, and gone th' good old ways + When an invitation meant th' fambly all; + When th' little an' th' big would crowd into th' rig, + An' th' fiddle livened up th' Chris'mus Ball. + + It was "Welkim, welkim, Boys!" Lots of laughin', lots of noise; + With the babies piled like cordwood on th' floor; + Boys an' girls all dancin'--old folks too got prancin'---- + An' th' supper? Say, we'd eat ontil we couldn't hold no more. + + But them Eastern folks fetched "Style"; changed all that in a while; + Printed tickets told th' folks they was "to-home"; + Served the supper frum "a buffey," an' they acted kind o' huffy + When our childern round the parler used t' roam. + + House was full of bricky-brack; china tea-pot with a crack,-- + An' they sort o' boasted of it; set it out t' common view; + Talked about the'r "Fambly Tree"--good land! why, they know'd that we + Had ninety acres of 'em--scrub-oak bluff--an' poplars too! + + Then Miss Mary Ellen Jones (her that come from Pile-o'-Bones) + Lived in nothin' but a mud-shack all her life, + She got puttin' on some airs, an' her nose jes' said, "Who cares?" + And th' District Member picked HER f'r a wife. + + She did cut a silly caper: had her envelopes an' paper + Painted with a little brand in blue sot up on top; + When th' Flat laugh'd, I'll be blest! she said, "It's Poppa's crest"! + Well! Providence, that year, hailed out their crop. + + But Mary Ellen's fall come when they gave th' weddin'-ball; + Invited all th' stylish folks--gave us th' glassy eye; + But says Pa, "Th' next election we'll bust th' damn connection, + F'r th' District Member goes out on th' fly!" + + He he'er'd that. He wanted votes. So them stylish printed notes + Come trailin' in t' us who'd been rejected; + But Mary Ellen said (underlined in ink bright red), + "PLEASE UNDERSTAND NO CHILDREN IS EXPECTED"! + + That joke went far an' wide, us folks laugh'd ontil we cried; + But Retribution it was on th' District Member's shins, + F'r that sassy little bride who behaved so very snide, + Inside a year perduced a pair of TWINS! + + Since that time we get on better. Mary Ellen wrote a letter + T' th' weekly paper, statin' "District Member liked our ways"; + Yes, Lower Flat's grow'd quite a place, runnin' other towns a race; + But ther' ain't th' fun we had them good old days! + + + + +THE TRAIL + + + It measures the boundless distance, + Led by wild ways that run + Hither and thither in chase of the Winds + That worship the Northern Sun: + The Trail! which, never ending, was never yet begun. + + In the dip of the far horizon + Trembles the Morning Star; + To the heights of the fathomless ether + Nor lock, nor bolt, nor bar; + The Trail! God's finger beckoning to the new Home afar. + + No sound in that void of Silence + Save call of bird to its mate, + Or cry of the lone coyote + At the bars of hunger's gate; + And the heart is drawn by the wond'rous dawn, or some mysterious Fate. + + The Trail hath a storied splendor: + Tepee and Indian Mound; + Where the glory of God is chanted + By no sacrilegious sound; + Where the dumb brute bays HIS praise through Nights profound! + + Here the haunts of men are bounden + By the links of Custom's chain; + There you find embosomed freedom + In the heart's exquisite pain, + And thereafter will be heard the cry, "O, give me the wilds again!" + + The Trail hath no languorous longing; + It leads to no Lotus land; + On its way dead Hopes come thronging + To take you by the hand; + He who treads the Trail undaunted, thereafter shall command! + + + + +THE KING OF THE KLONDIKE + + + We called him the King of the Klondike; but + He really was "Mac." + He walked int' Dawson in tatters an' rags, + His frozen feet tied in a pair of ol' bags, + An' perceeded t' go on a couple of jags; + Pack on his back. + + He worked empty-bellied f'r many a day, + Pore old Mac! + Stuck tight t' his diggin as if it was play; + With a good game of poker 'till daylight he'd stay---- + An' a gun he could han'le. I also might say + He would crack + + A fine joke. But he never was known + Wasn't Mac. + T' refuse man 'r dog a crust 'r a bone. + He kep' t' hisself; perferred livin' alone---- + An' ther' was a sort o' respectable tone + 'Bout his shack. + + He said of them "girls" that defied Law an' ban, + (Humpin' his back): + "Pore kids! fetched low b' some skunk of a man---- + Boys, give 'em a hand-up wheniver y' can;" + (On the'r 'count Soapy Smith out of Dawson he ran + With Black Jack!) + + He lived like a prince and he spent like a king, + Did old Mac. + Whatever he said 'r he did had th' ring + Of pure gold; but one day in th' spring + Struck a vein in th' rock that made us all sing, + "'Rah f'r Mac!" + + But th' fortin' he made was th' fortin' he spent + In a crack. + Paid all he owed t' th' very las' cent---- + Then, off on a h---- of a spree we all went---- + An' th' gold? why, he wasted it, gev' it an' lent + B' th' sack. + + Nex' mornin' he woke up as pore as a mouse, + Boozer Mac. + Another chap, who had th' heart of a louse, + Would a-blow'd off his head 'r burnt down th' house, + 'R int' th' river a-taken a souse, + Things goin' slack. + + But he stuck t' th' diggin' like hound t' th' trail, + Worn ol' Mac. + Jes' like an ol' farmer a-swingin' his flail, + Jes' like ol' Abe Linco'n a-splittin' his rail; + D'ye think a MAN like him c'd ever spell f-a-i-l, + 'R fall back? + + No, Sir! He worked till he struck a new vein, + Brave ol' Mac! + This time he held tight th' "millionaire" rein; + Swore as he'd never be foolish again; + Then he got drunk. I tell it with pain,-- + Scooted back + + East. An' I read in them Papers one day, + Klondike Mac + Had gone t' them "diggin's" anunder th' clay; + An' he was a pauper ag'in! Talk of Play---- + "Life's jes' a stage!" as Spokshare mought say; + That's a fac'! + + Most of 'em Kings as I've heer'd on went bust, + Jes' like Mac. + None of 'em carries the'r crowns int' dust;-- + They sport 'roun' a while, but die they all must;-- + An' I don't know as one of th' king-bunch I'd trust, + Lookin' back, + + Like th' King of th' Klon! Him we knew + As ol' Mac. + Rulers like him y'll find ther's d----n few; + Ther's lots of 'em sportin' a Crown ain't true blue. + But Mac? he was royal--a King through an' through, + An' no "Jack"! + + Up No'th they'll 'member him an' things he done + Way back. + We won't give his Crown t' no Son-of-a-gun; + Ther's no entail on Kings t'other side of th' sun, + An' pre-ce-dence ther' will go, ten t' one, + T' King Mac! + + + + +GHOSTS + + + Deep lies the snow on the white, white plain, + And frosted the fretwork on window-pane. + + The Storm King has laid his icy clasp + On th' lock o' th' Year: 'tis an iron hasp. + + The camp fire gleams, and its ruddy glow + Throws shadows quaint on the drifting snow; + + My heart leaps up, for I see a form + That makes the blood in my veins run warm: + + A woman is standing beside my bed, + And these are the words, I swear, she said:-- + + "YOU MAY WANDER AFAR; BUT, GO WHERE YOU WILL, + THE GHOSTS OF THE PAST WILL FOLLOW YOU STILL!" + + Another comes--a girl-face, worn, + And of every good resolution shorn,-- + + She utters no word; but her eyes of blue + Are burning, piercing me through and through! + + Yet another comes and takes Her place---- + I close my eyes lest I see HER face---- + + For the flush of youth on the girlish brow + Is lost in the wanton woman now-- + + And I was to blame! God, let me forget! + And I wipe away the beads of sweat + + That lie on my brow like blood-red rain---- + And I try to pray--but words are vain;-- + + For I know that the ghosts of my sins are here + To mock me at this, the end o' th' Year! + + + + +AN ANGEL + + + Th' angils ain't all up in Heaven. + Not by a long shot. Say, + Ther's angils a-livin' an' breathin' + Right here in th' camp to-day. + An' th' crown of one, I kin tell ye + Is on'y a tangle of hair, + But the halo that lingers around it + Is brighter than any up There. + One of her laigs goes a-limpin', + Her langwige ain't grammar of books, + An' she ain't airned th' title "A Angil" + Along of her beauty of looks; + 'Nless y' saw her as I did---- + 'Nless y' saw her, like me, + Le'p int' hell-flame f'r t' rescue + Th' baby of drunken Magee. + + Magee in th' cellar was hootchin'; + Th' gal was a-sloppin' at chores, + Washin' bottles an' kegs f'r th' bar-man, + Slingin' cocktails ahind th' baize-doors. + Of a suddent a wild cry of "F-i-r-e," come + With a lick o' th' flame, left an' right; + The boozers they scooted f'r safety + An' th' baby was left in th' fright. + One wild cry above th' fierce cracklin'---- + A yell of despair in the din: + "My BABY! O, GOD, SEND AN ANGEL!" + He did. And the Angel went in + While us men stood a-shakin' an' shame-faced; + The manhood in us not quite dead---- + We was drunk--dazed with horror an' whisky + 'R we'd foller'd th' gal where she led + Into that hell-gate of red flame---- + Int' th' whirl of th' fire; + And we all held our bre'th, knowin' well it was death + Come a-nigher an' nigher. + + But no! What we all saw a-comin' + Was th' Angil of Life:--at her breast + That damn kid of Magee's snug an' snorin', + As if in th' cradle at rest. + But th' gal? Her face out of resemblance + T' anythin' human, you'd say, + She come staggerin', gaspin' an' blinded---- + (Us men turned our faces away); + Then, "Lame Mary!" we busted a-shoutin', + Goin' mad f'r a minit with joy; + Magee, he was dancin' a hornpipe + An' his Missis was huggin' th' Boy. + But the gal as I christen'd "A Angil" + We was shoutin' her name somethin' wild---- + Swings 'roun' on her game foot, + Says: "Shet up, y' galoot, + An' don't be f'r wakin' th' child!" + + You bet she was game, was th' Angil:---- + Tho' she wasn't f'r playin' no harps, + Sittin' on a damp cloud a-slingin' th' crowd, + A-thumpin' th' flats an' th' sharps; + + SHE WAS STRAIGHT ON HER JOB, was th' angil; + Wantin' nothin' down here but her share; + An' my biler 'ud bust if I thought any "Trust" + Side-tracked my Angil up--There! + + + + +BILLY BIRD'S CELEBRATION + + + Billy Bird was know'd as a bar-room bum; + Be'n a trader out on th' plains; + Be'n a timber rafter, a fourth-ward grafter, + Hadn't no conshunce, hadn't no brains; + But was well perserv'd in Rum. + + He hailed frum Mi-sou-ri 'r Michi-gan; + Was cook in a lumber camp; + Run a Wild West show, then turn'd hobo, + Was an all-roun' fu'st class tramp;-- + 'N y' couldn't call him a "man." + + He'd b'en kicked an' cussed like a mongrel pup, + An' a cock-fight was his creed; + An' eye out o' joint was another bad point, + But with th' one left he see'd + Far enough t' hit th' cup! + + He'd th' wanderin' itch in his lazy heels + (With th' luck that comes t' sich); + F'r one day, dead drunk, that mis'ble skunk + Struck a vein that made him rich. + Y' sh'd hear Billy Bird's squeals:-- + + "I'm richer'n Creesus!" (this he howled); + "I've th' biggest strike aroun'; + I'm a reg'lar gent!" (Here his bre'th was spent + An' he tumbles upon th' groun'); + B' his luck Billy Bird got fouled. + + Clumb up on a kag t' make a speech. + Says he: "I'm th' Turrible Turk! + I'm a millionaire, an' I'll curl th' hair + Of th' man says I need work! + Me? I'm a rainbow out of reach! + + "I'm off t' Noo York t' get int' th' swirl; + Tip them waiters ten-dollar bills; + I'm a millionaire! Don't I wear th' air + That goes with th' pace that kills? + An' I'm goin' t' pick my Girl! + + "I'll buy her di'mon's t' blaze her front, + An' th' best champagne we'll spill; + An' I'll murder th' man as says what he can + See I ain't no gent! Me, Bill! + An' I tell y' that's MY stunt! + + "I'll buy a floor in th' big ho-tel; + I'll dazzle th' chamber-maids; + Fifth Avenoo style in my auto-mo-bile + I'll speed her up with my jades; + I'll show 'em a Yukon swell! + + "I'll dine on snakes fried in burnin' oil, + An' dance till th' cows come home; + As an aftermath take a champagne bath + An' shampoo with a curry-comb; + All done up accordin' t' Hoyle. + + "Then I'll hike t' bed with a great, big, head,-- + Yellin': 'CALL WHEN THE CLOCK HITS FOUR!' + An' I'll wait with a grin till th' 'call' comes in, + An' Brass Buttons knocks at th' door, + An' he thinks I'm sleepin' dead! + + "Brass buttons 'tap, tap, tap' on th' door:-- + 'Millionaire, it is four A. M.!' + An' I'll bust that door with a Yukon roar: + Howlin: 'Say! d'ye know WHO I AM?' + An' I'll rouse 'em on every floor! + + "W'en th' house comes runnin' up I'll yell:-- + 'WOW! I'm a millionaire! + I DON'T HEV' T' GET UP, y' blankety Pup!' + An' the'r eyes stickin' out 'll stare, + While I send 'em plumb t' h----ll!" + + * * * * * + + P. S.--BILLY BIRD, MILLIONAIRE, REACHED WINNIPEG, + WHERE PEROXIDE BLONDES PULLED BILLY BIRD'S LEG. + YOU'LL FIND HIM TO-DAY IN A YUKON S'LOON + SLUSHIN' BEER TO TH' SAME OLD PLAYED-OUT TUNE:-- + "O! THEM GURLS THEY PULLED MY LAIG!" + + + + +INVITATION + + + I bring you a prairie greeting + Crested with sunlight sheen, + A picture of mountains rising + To snow-capped heights of green; + A call from the happy home-land + Where human hearts beat warm, + Where western corn-fields beckon + And shelter from life's storm. + + London, thy heart of riches + Hath the pulse-beat of unrest, + Where the many know no shelter, + Where the babe weeps at the breast + All bared to the winter shiver, + Where the hearth-fire, cold and dead, + Is darkened by the shadow + And Shapes of the underfed. + + Oh, the hopeless, heavy-burdened + Bearers of woe and pain,-- + Mere human stones in the highway + Of London's greed and gain. + There weeps the child whom sadness + And want have made their own; + There weeps the old, whom gladness + Is a stranger, and unknown. + + Oh, come to the land of Plenty + Where the gates swing open, wide; + Where all mankind stand equal---- + Where toil is a boast--a pride: + Where the silken palm clasps the horny hand + When the long day's work is done, + Where new life is born in the growing corn + In the land of the Setting Sun. + +NOTE.--Written in January, 1907, after seeing 700 men and women fed by +Charity on the Thames embankment as "Big Ben" struck ONE A. M. + + + + +JIM + +[Illustration: WHEN I MET WITH JIM ALONG THE DAWSON TRAIL] + + + + +JIM + + + 'Twas th' days of th' stampede--I was of th' hobo breed---- + When I met with Jim along th' Dawson trail; + F'r Bonanza I was strikin'; an' Jim? well, he was hikin' + Along th' road t' Anywhere--Jerusalam or jail. + + Seemed t' me how all th' people had got soured in his steeple, + But for wimmin most of all he'd bitter thoughts; + But we got on quite congenial, him a gen'leman--me menial, + And I got t' kind of likin' Jim----in spots! + + But he wouldn't stick t' minin'. He was always drunk an' whinin'; + An' th' boys was glad the day he quit th' camp; + Next I see him with th' crowd down at Dawson, an' I 'lowed + I never see a bigger, low-down scamp. + + Was he single? Was he marri'd? I dunno', but sure he carried + A little bit of locket on his breast, + And onct I see him open it--but that was in a dopin' fit---- + An' I laugh'd t' see Jim's mouth ag'in it pressed! + + But a fella' will act loony when he's full an' feelin' spoony, + Howsumever, Jim an' me went differ'nt ways; + Me an' th' boys with pans a-washin' cricks on old Bonanza, + An' when I met with Jim ag'in 'twas after many days. + + Bad hootch an' rotten food fetched th' scurvy quick an' good, + An' tho' I'd made my millions it didn't help me out; + I was side-tracked by th' fever, in th' hands of God's Receiver, + An' th' sexton he most had me b' th' snout! + + But them dandy little Sisters, them as cooked us with the'r blisters, + Made us swaller swill we hated "'cos th' Doctor said 'twas good"; + One I liked called "Sister Mary"--she was tiny as a Fairy-- + 'Twas a sin to hide her beauty anunder a black hood. + + Her face, tho' never smilin', had a look that was beguilin'; + Her blue eyes they would wander far away, + Jes' as if her heart was crawlin' to some Voice as was a-callin': + "MARY, LITTLE MARY!" night an' day. + + This was my fool-brain a-ravin'; I couldn't be behavin' + For th' fever to my guts was eatin' in; + But her hand upon th' pillo' was like foam upon th' billo', + When she spoke t' us of One who pardon'd sin. + + Lord, how th' fever got 'em! Lord, how th' Doctors fought 'em! + How them Sisters stood th' racket night an' day: + Talk of Angils? Up in heaven don't believe as you'd find Seven + Could beat them a-makin' plasters, or beat 'em on the Pray! + + Well, one mornin' when I waken I see th' next bed taken + By a feller, as was ravin' like a loon; + Sich a face! All hair an' blotches (th' kind th' fever scotches)---- + An' I says, says I: "His Nibs'll ketch you soon!" + + If they'd fine-tooth-combed creation f'r my personal elation + To rake in a friend an' leave him lyin' there, + Why, they couldn't a-done better with a Dawson lawyer's letter, + F'r'twas JIM beneath th' blotches an' th' hair! + + He was ravin', he was mutterin'; he was swearin', he was stutterin'; + Sister Mary trippin' round him like a little drift o' snow, + An' she hovered as a dove might with flutterin' wings of white light, + So softly that you'd wonder did she come or did she go? + + One night, I wasn't sleepin'--Sister Mary night watch keepin', + Jim, weak as a babby, lyin' there upon th' bed, + Says: "Sister,--you remind me--of a--Girl--I left behind me"---- + She gev' a little shiver, sayin': "HSH! THAT--GIRL IS--DEAD!" + + Then I he'erd old Jim a-gaspin'--her han's his han's was claspin', + Callin' "MARY, Oh, God, MARY!" eyes a-bulgin' in his head; + She was lookin' down at him, but she on'y whisper'd "J--im!" + But her face was like the face of some one dead. + + The'r han's was locked a minute--ther' wasn't no wrong in it---- + They spoke no words, but eyes looked into eyes---- + Then, without a word of talkin' she went, like one sleep-walkin', + An' I he'erd Jim groanin' tur'ble 'twixt his sighs. + + But nex' mornin' little Sister hikes along with a big blister, + Jest as dinky an' as smilin' as before; + But Jim? he lay there blinkin', I guess HE was a-thinkin' + How them little fingers trimbled takin' down his fever score. + + Doc. said old Jim was dyin'. That night I he'erd him sighin', + An' he up an' says: "Say, Pard, when I'm--at rest---- + Will you see this--little locket--goes with me--in the pocket + Of the heart that's lyin' broken--in my breast?" + + And if you're no doubtin' Thomas you'll believe I kep' that promise; + And the Face inside the locket, HUMAN EYE SHALL NEVER SEE; + P'raps it was, or wasn't Sister, her we called "Saint Mustard Blister," + When she pumped th' pills an' quinine int' pore old Jim an' me! + + + + +TALE OF THE CHE-CHA-KO + + + Che-cha-ko arrived from London Town + Wearing a sort of superior frown; + Registered, "Bellingham-Bolingbroke-Browyne" + (Hyphenating himself in the middle). + He carried of "boxes" just twenty-four, + Voted the country "A beastly boah"; + Laughed at the "shops," which he roundly swore + "Weren't worth a Ta-ra-diddle!" + + He purchased of farm lands some sections six, + Said: "With those common fawmahs I shan't mix!" + Then he started in with his La-de-dah tricks + And built him a "Countwy Seat." + Now, a "country seat" in this western land + Is top rail of a fence, or a pile of sand, + But Che-cha-ko's daily, diurnal demand + Was, "The best people I must meet." + + They met him half way, for they cleaned him out, + Drank his "extra dry" every ball and rout; + His poor working-man neighbour he called "a lout," + And laughed at the "countwy daunce." + His amazement was great to learn we "digged wells"; + Said, "We don't do it around Bow Bells"; + And, describing the life of the London swells, + Sighed: "Pore devils! you haven't a chaunce!" + + He played "Gentleman Fawmah" a year or two, + His cash was all spent (his friends went too) + And then he wanted to "borrow a few + Pounds" from his own hired man. + But the rough fellow said, "My London Cock, + When you learn to work, quit your bally talk, + You'll float your Ship-of-State off th' rock!" + (And he winked, did the hired man.) + + He considered the matter, did B. B. Browyne, + Quit every reference to "Deah London Town," + And his neighbour, "the Lout," why, he came right down + And did what we all expected: + Lent B. B. seed-grain for his season's crop;-- + Said: "Hang on, m' Boy, y'll come out on top." + He did. The Che-cha-ko never cried "stop" + Till for parliament he was elected! + + So down at Ottawa now he sits + Where he spits and smokes, and smokes and spits; + In government circles he splendidly fits, + And he's known as "Bully Boy Brown"! + For he was a man that took his chance---- + He got right down to his Song-and-Dance---- + Let out "London Pride" with his workman's lance, + Tried the smile instead of the frown. + + For the "Browyne" who would win out in the west + Is the Brown with common sense that's blest; + Leaves "Grandpa" at home with the Family crest, + Puts hand to the plow; and then---- + Follows the furrow as straight as a die, + Stout heart, steady hand, with a watchful eye; + He'll come to his own, and I'll tell you why:---- + The west is calling for MEN! + + + + +ST. BONIFACE FIRE BRIGADE + + + W'en you come wes' from de oder place + An' you want sometings for see; + Jus' come an' see St. Boniface + An' I show you sometings, me:-- + Dar's de Mission Church dat W'ittier sing---- + "Turrets twain," wher' de peoples prayed; + But dar's sometings we got better still---- + Da's St. Boniface Fire Brigade! + + Da's a g-rea-t Brigade;--has mans tree, four---- + Married mans wit be-eg fam-i-lee; + Champeau, Dorien, petite Lafleur, + An' Jean Perriault (da's ME). + Us mans we work like h--ll all day + Wit de saw, de hammer an' de spade, + But by gar, w'en de fire-bell she goes "ring," + Da's de t'am we don't was 'fraid. + + You hear dat ting 'bout d' beeg oil-house; + Tree hundre' bar'ls cotch de fire? + De smoke, mon Dieu! wit de flame go hup + To de top of de be-eg church-spire;-- + Lafleur's femme, she take de fit hon de floor---- + Ma femme, she scre-ee-ch, "Saint Marie!" + Hevery one yell--dat place look like he--ll, + Ontil Dorien, Champeau, an' ME---- + + We fill hup de tank in de Red Rivaire---- + Sacre! how de mans per--s--pire; + De peoples go cra--ss--y; Winnipeg despaire; + An' de bells dey ring, "F-i-r-e!--F-i-r-e." + W'at you t'ink happens? You nevaire don't guess---- + Notings like dat happens sence;-- + De horse runs away--de hose it go burs'---- + But we save de dog-poun' fence! + + You hear w'at 'appens once in de place? + W'en d' King's son he come Wes', + All d' womans dress hup, wash d' baby face; + An' d' mans put hon he's bes'. + Winni-peg bow down t' George d' Prince;-- + Put d' soldier-mans hon parade; + But de Prince, he sick of d' whole dam' show, + Hask: "WHER' ST. BONIFACE FIRE BRIGADE?" + + Y--as, an' w'en d' heartquake shake Frisco, + "Hend of d' worl'!" some sa-aid; + I send telegraff (cos' me tree dollaire), + "You like have my Fire Brigade?" + Hon d' las' Election, in d' Town-Hall + Laurier sp'ik; He sa--aid:-- + "Gentilhomme! if--you--want--put--dat--bad--Tory--hout, + Get St. Boniface Fire BRIGADE!" + + + + +"WINDY" + + + Lady Marmaduke Montague-Marlinford-Dunne + Came out to the Yukon in search of her son; + Heir to vast estates and to lands long entailed, + Handed down by great grandpapa's fist (which was mailed). + The young man had mushed in by the lone Chilcoot Pass + And was known to the boys as "That titled young Ass." + + For the stuff he wrote home took Belgravian breath: + "Dear Monty with savages!"--"mushing!"--"to death"! + They were shocked at the mention "pay-dirt"; and "the pan," + They fully explained, was "held by Monty's man!" + At St. James, The Carlton, The Ritz, it was told + How "Monty owns mountains and canyons of--Gold!" + + Came a lapse in the years and the letters. Despair + Seized the hearts in Belgravia--no word from the heir; + For the lure of the Northland--the life of the camp, + Had Monty the Beau transformed into a--tramp + Who had drifted, like jetsam, the breakers among, + And had almost forgotten his own mother-tongue. + + * * * * * + +[Illustration: PRAY, SIR, HAVE YOU SEEN MR. MARMADUKE] + + In the year ninety-eight arrived per Dawson stage + In December, a lady, a maid, and a page; + One clearly of rank. With the air of a queen + She stepped up to the desk, asking: "Pray, have you seen + Mr. Marmaduke Montague-Marlinford-Dunne?" + Adding proudly,--"The gentleman, Sir, is my son." + + The clerk at the desk stared and stammered, then said:-- + "No gent be that name in this shack has his bed; + But mebbe' th' Boys"--Here he calls to a bunch, + "Say, has any o' youse seed a kid with a hunch + That sounds like--Ma'am, wot was th' name o' y'r son?" + She faltered, "Sir! Montague-Marlinford-Dunne!" + + Nobody knew him--worse, nobody cared-- + But the bar-keep speaks up (while his quid he prepared), + "Say, w'ot was th' kid like?"--one stared at the other---- + "Warn't he a pardner of Billy Bird's brother? + An' had he a bench-claim know'd as 'Bloody Jim'? + 'Cos if he had ther's a warn't out f'r HIM!" + + "I'll describe him, good sirs," said the lady in tears: + "He left home just of age, namely twenty-one-years. + His hair, sunny gold, is inclined to up-curl---- + His complexion is peach-like--he's fair as a girl. + He has large, soulful eyes, they are beaming and kind,-- + A soft, bird-like voice--and an artistic mind. + + "Military in bearing--broad-shouldered and tall; + Speaks languages seven--a 'linguist,' you'd call. + Paints, sings, rides to hounds; he dresses with care; + A de-lightful manner, with most restful air:-- + Oh! prithee, good gentlemen, find me my son, + Whom all London once knew as 'THE DASHING BEAU-DUNNE!'" + + The lady was weeping in 'kerchief of lace + And she saw not the smile on the rough miner's face,-- + Who said: "Ma'am, y' won't find y'r angel up here,-- + Them pertickler brands--with 'wings'--disappear! + But here's 'Windy' comin'--he knows, th' ol' tramp, + Every Jack on th' trail, every Jill in th' camp!" + + "Bing-bang!" The door opens and "Windy" appears, + A be-whiskered, a pimple-pocked tough to his ears: + His jeans all in tatters, his muck-a-lucks worn; + His parka was dirty, and mud-splashed and torn. + His greeting: "WOW! HAND OUT A HOOTCH! DURN MY GIZZARD + IF I WARN'T COTCHED IN A HUNKER CRICK BLIZZARD!" + + The lady turns pale. Then the bar-keep behind + Hollers: "Windy, ol' cock! can YOU call t' y'r mind + A chump 'round this camp----Ma'am, wot was th' same + Double-decker y' called b' th' telescope name?"---- + But the lady, eyes staring, was shrieking, "MY SON!" + Lo! "Windy" be-whiskered was "DASHING BEAU-DUNNE!" + + + + +MY SONG + + + I could not sing unless my song + Had in its symphony one broken string; + I could not say the thoughts that in me rise + Unless my heart had been a broken thing. + Why is it that the voice of Song so yields + Mute music till the heart hath bled? + Why should we find most fair and far-off fields + By thorny by-paths led? + + But if this little weakling song of mine + Might carry cheer to one, lone, grieving soul, + Most gladly would I offer Hope's bright wine + And, smiling, drink the lees left in the bowl: + For I have in the darkness found some light,-- + Some sunshine seen in shadowed evening hours, + And I have found throughout the lonely night + Some perfumed breathings from wild garden bowers. + + And I were ingrate not to send it on, + Such echo of what music in me lies, + For it may bring to some o'er darkened dawn + The brightening glow that comes with morning skies. + So, go you, little broken Song, + And carry to some heart in bitter pain + Only my lute's light laughter. 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