صفحة 1
The Project Gutenberg eBook, Derby Day in the Yukon, by Yukon Bill
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-8859-1
***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: Images of the original pages are available through Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries. See http://www.archive.org/details/derbydayinyukono00yukouoft
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!
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,
(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,
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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.
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.
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!
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."
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.
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.
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!"
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.
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.
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!
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.
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.
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.
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!
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.
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!
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.
(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
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
You subjugated
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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?
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.
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.
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,
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?
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?
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?
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:—
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!
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!
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!
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!
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!
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"!
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!
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?
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!
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.
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'
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'
صفحة 4
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.
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!
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!
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!"
"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!"
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!"
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.
"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.
(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!"
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.
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.
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!
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"!
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!
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!"
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?
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.
صفحة 5
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.
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!
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.
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!
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.
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?
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:—
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."
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!
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!
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!
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.
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!
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!
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.
(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.
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!
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.
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.
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.
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!
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.
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.
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!"
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
صفحة 6
class="i2">Come trailin' in t' us who'd been rejected;
But Mary Ellen said (underlined in ink bright red),
"please understand no children is expected"!
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!
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!
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.
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.
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.
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!
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!"
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!
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 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
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.
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!)
(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!"
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.
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.
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?
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
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'!
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
Jes' like Mac.
None of 'em carries the'r crowns int' dust;—
They
صفحة 7
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,
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"!
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!
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!