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DERBY DAY IN THE YUKON AND OTHER POEMS OF THE "NORTHLAND"

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?

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