We called him the King of the Klondike; butHe 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 sayHe would crackA fine joke. But he never was knownWasn'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 ranWith Black Jack!)He lived like a prince and he spent like a king,Did old Mac.Whatever he said 'r he did had th' ringOf pure gold; but one day in th' springStruck a vein in th' rock that made us all sing,"'Rah f'r Mac!"But th' fortin' he made was th' fortin' he spentIn 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' lentB' 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 backEast. An' I read in them Papers one day,Klondike MacHad 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 knewAs 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 doneWay 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!
We called him the King of the Klondike; butHe 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 sayHe would crack
A fine joke. But he never was knownWasn'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 ranWith Black Jack!)
He lived like a prince and he spent like a king,Did old Mac.Whatever he said 'r he did had th' ringOf pure gold; but one day in th' springStruck a vein in th' rock that made us all sing,"'Rah f'r Mac!"
But th' fortin' he made was th' fortin' he spentIn 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' lentB' 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 MacHad 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 knewAs 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 doneWay 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!
Deep lies the snow on the white, white plain,And frosted the fretwork on window-pane.The Storm King has laid his icy claspOn th' lock o' th' Year: 'tis an iron hasp.The camp fire gleams, and its ruddy glowThrows shadows quaint on the drifting snow;My heart leaps up, for I see a formThat 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 blueAre burning, piercing me through and through!Yet another comes and takes Her place——I close my eyes lest I seeherface——For the flush of youth on the girlish browIs lost in the wanton woman now—And I was to blame! God, let me forget!And I wipe away the beads of sweatThat 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 hereTo mock me at this, the end o' th' Year!
Deep lies the snow on the white, white plain,And frosted the fretwork on window-pane.
The Storm King has laid his icy claspOn th' lock o' th' Year: 'tis an iron hasp.
The camp fire gleams, and its ruddy glowThrows shadows quaint on the drifting snow;
My heart leaps up, for I see a formThat 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 blueAre burning, piercing me through and through!
Yet another comes and takes Her place——I close my eyes lest I seeherface——
For the flush of youth on the girlish browIs 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 hereTo mock me at this, the end o' th' Year!
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 yeIs on'y a tangle of hair,But the halo that lingers around itIs 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' rescueTh' 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," comeWith a lick o' th' flame, left an' right;The boozers they scooted f'r safetyAn' 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 inWhile 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 ledInto that hell-gate of red flame——Int' th' whirl of th' fire;And we all held our bre'th, knowin' well it was deathCome a-nigher an' nigher.But no! What we all saw a-comin'Was th' Angil of Life:—at her breastThat damn kid of Magee's snug an' snorin',As if in th' cradle at rest.But th' gal? Her face out of resemblanceT' 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 hornpipeAn' 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!
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 yeIs on'y a tangle of hair,But the halo that lingers around itIs 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' rescueTh' 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," comeWith a lick o' th' flame, left an' right;The boozers they scooted f'r safetyAn' 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 inWhile 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 ledInto that hell-gate of red flame——Int' th' whirl of th' fire;And we all held our bre'th, knowin' well it was deathCome a-nigher an' nigher.
But no! What we all saw a-comin'Was th' Angil of Life:—at her breastThat damn kid of Magee's snug an' snorin',As if in th' cradle at rest.But th' gal? Her face out of resemblanceT' 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 hornpipeAn' 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 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'dFar 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 skunkStruck 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 spentAn' 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' hairOf 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' airThat 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 canSee I ain't no gent! Me, Bill!An' I tell y' that'smystunt!"I'll buy a floor in th' big ho-tel;I'll dazzle th' chamber-maids;Fifth Avenoo style in my auto-mo-bileI'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 bathAn' 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!"
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'dFar 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 skunkStruck 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 spentAn' 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' hairOf 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' airThat 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 canSee I ain't no gent! Me, Bill!An' I tell y' that'smystunt!
"I'll buy a floor in th' big ho-tel;I'll dazzle th' chamber-maids;Fifth Avenoo style in my auto-mo-bileI'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 bathAn' 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'loonSlushin' beer to th' same old played-out tune:—"O! them gurls they pulled my laig!"
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'loonSlushin' beer to th' same old played-out tune:—"O! them gurls they pulled my laig!"
I bring you a prairie greetingCrested with sunlight sheen,A picture of mountains risingTo snow-capped heights of green;A call from the happy home-landWhere human hearts beat warm,Where western corn-fields beckonAnd shelter from life's storm.London, thy heart of richesHath the pulse-beat of unrest,Where the many know no shelter,Where the babe weeps at the breastAll bared to the winter shiver,Where the hearth-fire, cold and dead,Is darkened by the shadowAnd Shapes of the underfed.Oh, the hopeless, heavy-burdenedBearers of woe and pain,—Mere human stones in the highwayOf London's greed and gain.There weeps the child whom sadnessAnd want have made their own;There weeps the old, whom gladnessIs a stranger, and unknown.Oh, come to the land of PlentyWhere the gates swing open, wide;Where all mankind stand equal——Where toil is a boast—a pride:Where the silken palm clasps the horny handWhen the long day's work is done,Where new life is born in the growing cornIn the land of the Setting Sun.
I bring you a prairie greetingCrested with sunlight sheen,A picture of mountains risingTo snow-capped heights of green;A call from the happy home-landWhere human hearts beat warm,Where western corn-fields beckonAnd shelter from life's storm.
London, thy heart of richesHath the pulse-beat of unrest,Where the many know no shelter,Where the babe weeps at the breastAll bared to the winter shiver,Where the hearth-fire, cold and dead,Is darkened by the shadowAnd Shapes of the underfed.
Oh, the hopeless, heavy-burdenedBearers of woe and pain,—Mere human stones in the highwayOf London's greed and gain.There weeps the child whom sadnessAnd want have made their own;There weeps the old, whom gladnessIs a stranger, and unknown.
Oh, come to the land of PlentyWhere the gates swing open, wide;Where all mankind stand equal——Where toil is a boast—a pride:Where the silken palm clasps the horny handWhen the long day's work is done,Where new life is born in the growing cornIn 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.
WHEN I MET WITH JIM ALONG THE DAWSON TRAILWHEN I MET WITH JIM ALONG THE DAWSON TRAIL
'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 'lowedI never see a bigger, low-down scamp.Was he single? Was he marri'd? I dunno', but sure he carriedA 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 SevenCould beat them a-makin' plasters, or beat 'em on the Pray!Well, one mornin' when I waken I see th' next bed takenBy 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 elationTo 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 guesshewas 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 pocketOf 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!
'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 'lowedI never see a bigger, low-down scamp.
Was he single? Was he marri'd? I dunno', but sure he carriedA 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 SevenCould beat them a-makin' plasters, or beat 'em on the Pray!
Well, one mornin' when I waken I see th' next bed takenBy 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 elationTo 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 guesshewas 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 pocketOf 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!
Che-cha-ko arrived from London TownWearing 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 tricksAnd built him a "Countwy Seat."Now, a "country seat" in this western landIs top rail of a fence, or a pile of sand,But Che-cha-ko's daily, diurnal demandWas, "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 fewPounds" 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 downAnd 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 sitsWhere 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 westIs 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!
Che-cha-ko arrived from London TownWearing 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 tricksAnd built him a "Countwy Seat."Now, a "country seat" in this western landIs top rail of a fence, or a pile of sand,But Che-cha-ko's daily, diurnal demandWas, "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 fewPounds" 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 downAnd 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 sitsWhere 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 westIs 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!
W'en you come wes' from de oder placeAn' you want sometings for see;Jus' come an' see St. BonifaceAn' 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 dayWit 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 hupTo 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-HallLaurier sp'ik; He sa—aid:—"Gentilhomme! if—you—want—put—dat—bad—Tory—hout,Get St. Boniface Fire BRIGADE!"
W'en you come wes' from de oder placeAn' you want sometings for see;Jus' come an' see St. BonifaceAn' 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 dayWit 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 hupTo 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-HallLaurier sp'ik; He sa—aid:—"Gentilhomme! if—you—want—put—dat—bad—Tory—hout,Get St. Boniface Fire BRIGADE!"
Lady Marmaduke Montague-Marlinford-DunneCame 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 PassAnd 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 toldHow "Monty owns mountains and canyons of—Gold!"Came a lapse in the years and the letters. DespairSeized 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—trampWho had drifted, like jetsam, the breakers among,And had almost forgotten his own mother-tongue.
Lady Marmaduke Montague-Marlinford-DunneCame 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 PassAnd 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 toldHow "Monty owns mountains and canyons of—Gold!"
Came a lapse in the years and the letters. DespairSeized 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—trampWho had drifted, like jetsam, the breakers among,And had almost forgotten his own mother-tongue.
PRAY, SIR, HAVE YOU SEEN MR. MARMADUKEPRAY, SIR, HAVE YOU SEEN MR. MARMADUKE
In the year ninety-eight arrived per Dawson stageIn December, a lady, a maid, and a page;One clearly of rank. With the air of a queenShe stepped up to the desk, asking: "Pray, have you seenMr. 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 hunchThat 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'rhim!""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 laceAnd 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 gizzardIf I warn't cotched in a Hunker Crick blizzard!"The lady turns pale. Then the bar-keep behindHollers: "Windy, ol' cock! can YOU call t' y'r mindA chump 'round this camp——Ma'am, wot was th' sameDouble-decker y' called b' th' telescope name?"——But the lady, eyes staring, was shrieking, "My son!"Lo! "Windy" be-whiskered was "dashing Beau-Dunne!"
In the year ninety-eight arrived per Dawson stageIn December, a lady, a maid, and a page;One clearly of rank. With the air of a queenShe stepped up to the desk, asking: "Pray, have you seenMr. 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 hunchThat 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'rhim!"
"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 laceAnd 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 gizzardIf I warn't cotched in a Hunker Crick blizzard!"
The lady turns pale. Then the bar-keep behindHollers: "Windy, ol' cock! can YOU call t' y'r mindA chump 'round this camp——Ma'am, wot was th' sameDouble-decker y' called b' th' telescope name?"——But the lady, eyes staring, was shrieking, "My son!"Lo! "Windy" be-whiskered was "dashing Beau-Dunne!"
I could not sing unless my songHad in its symphony one broken string;I could not say the thoughts that in me riseUnless my heart had been a broken thing.Why is it that the voice of Song so yieldsMute music till the heart hath bled?Why should we find most fair and far-off fieldsBy thorny by-paths led?But if this little weakling song of mineMight carry cheer to one, lone, grieving soul,Most gladly would I offer Hope's bright wineAnd, 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 nightSome 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 dawnThe brightening glow that comes with morning skies.So, go you, little broken Song,And carry to some heart in bitter painOnly my lute's light laughter. Make thou strongThe weak of heart and bid them smile again.
I could not sing unless my songHad in its symphony one broken string;I could not say the thoughts that in me riseUnless my heart had been a broken thing.Why is it that the voice of Song so yieldsMute music till the heart hath bled?Why should we find most fair and far-off fieldsBy thorny by-paths led?
But if this little weakling song of mineMight carry cheer to one, lone, grieving soul,Most gladly would I offer Hope's bright wineAnd, 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 nightSome 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 dawnThe brightening glow that comes with morning skies.So, go you, little broken Song,And carry to some heart in bitter painOnly my lute's light laughter. Make thou strongThe weak of heart and bid them smile again.