Chapter 4

Just think of how we've poled all day up this strange little stream; Since life began no eye of man has seen this place before; How fearless all the wild things are! the banks with goose-grass gleam, And there's a bronzy musk-rat sitting sniffing at his door. A mother duck with brood of ten comes squattering along; The tawny, white-winged ptarmigan are flying all about; And in that swirly, golden pool, a restless, gleaming throng, The trout are waiting till we condescend to take them out.

Ah, yes, it's good! I'll bet that there's no doctor like the Wild: (Just turn that bannock over there; it's getting nicely brown.) I might be in my grave by now, forgotten and reviled, Or rotting like a sickly cur in some far, foreign town. I might be that vile thing I was, -- it all seems like a dream; I owed a man a grudge one time that only life could pay; And yet it's half-forgotten now -- how petty these things seem! (But that's "another story", pal; I'll tell it you some day.)

How strange two "irresponsibles" should chum away up here! But round the Arctic Circle friends are few and far between. We've shared the same camp-fire and tent for nigh on seven year, And never had a word that wasn't cheering and serene. We've halved the toil and split the spoil, and borne each other's packs; By all the Wild's freemasonry we're brothers, tried and true; We've swept on danger side by side, and fought it back to back, And you would die for me, old pal, and I would die for you.

Now there was that time I got lost in Rory Bory Land, (How quick the blizzards sweep on one across that Polar sea!) You formed a rescue crew of One, and saw a frozen hand That stuck out of a drift of snow -- and, partner, it was Me. But I got even, did I not, that day the paddle broke? White water on the Coppermine -- a rock -- a split canoe -- Two fellows struggling in the foam (one couldn't swim a stroke): A half-drowned man I dragged ashore . . . and partner, it was You.

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In Rory Borealis Land the winter's long and black. The silence seems a solid thing, shot through with wolfish woe; And rowelled by the eager stars the skies vault vastly back, And man seems but a little mite on that weird-lit plateau. No thing to do but smoke and yarn of wild and misspent lives, Beside the camp-fire there we sat -- what tales you told to me Of love and hate, and chance and fate, and temporary wives! In Rory Borealis Land, beside the Arctic Sea.

One yarn you told me in those days I can remember still; It seemed as if I visioned it, so sharp you sketched it in; Bellona was the name, I think; a coast town in Brazil, Where nobody did anything but serenade and sin. I saw it all -- the jewelled sea, the golden scythe of sand, The stately pillars of the palms, the feathery bamboo, The red-roofed houses and the swart, sun-dominated land, The people ever children, and the heavens ever blue.

You told me of that girl of yours, that blossom of old Spain, All glamour, grace and witchery, all passion, verve and glow. How maddening she must have been! You made me see her plain, There by our little camp-fire, in the silence and the snow. You loved her and she loved you. She'd a husband, too, I think, A doctor chap, you told me, whom she treated like a dog, A white man living on the beach, a hopeless slave to drink -- (Just turn that bannock over there, that's propped against the log.)

That story seemed to strike me, pal -- it happens every day: You had to go away awhile, then somehow it befell The doctor chap discovered, gave her up, and disappeared; You came back, tired of her in time . . . there's nothing more to tell. Hist! see those willows silvering where swamp and river meet! Just reach me up my rifle quick; that's Mister Moose, I know -- There now, _I'VE GOT HIM DEAD TO RIGHTS_ . . . but hell! we've lots to eat I don't believe in taking life -- we'll let the beggar go.

Heigh ho! I'm tired; the bannock's cooked; it's time we both turned in. The morning mist is coral-kissed, the morning sky is gold. The camp-fire's a confessional -- what funny yarns we spin! It sort of made me think a bit, that story that you told. The fig-leaf belt and Rory Bory are such odd extremes, Yet after all how very small this old world seems to be . . . Yes, that was quite a yarn, old pal, and yet to me it seems You missed the point: the point is that the "doctor chap" . . . was _ME_. . . .

The Lost Master

"And when I come to die," he said, "Ye shall not lay me out in state, Nor leave your laurels at my head, Nor cause your men of speech orate; No monument your gift shall be, No column in the Hall of Fame; But just this line ye grave for me: 'He played the game.'"

So when his glorious task was done, It was not of his fame we thought; It was not of his battles won, But of the pride with which he fought; But of his zest, his ringing laugh, His trenchant scorn of praise or blame: And so we graved his epitaph, "He played the game."

And so we, too, in humbler ways Went forth to fight the fight anew, And heeding neither blame nor praise, We held the course he set us true. And we, too, find the fighting sweet; And we, too, fight for fighting's sake; And though we go down in defeat, And though our stormy hearts may break, We will not do our Master shame: We'll play the game, please God, We'll play the game.

Little Moccasins

Come out, O Little Moccasins, and frolic on the snow! Come out, O tiny beaded feet, and twinkle in the light! I'll play the old Red River reel, you used to love it so: Awake, O Little Moccasins, and dance for me to-night!

Your hair was all a gleamy gold, your eyes a corn-flower blue; Your cheeks were pink as tinted shells, you stepped light as a fawn; Your mouth was like a coral bud, with seed pearls peeping through; As gladdening as Spring you were, as radiant as dawn.

Come out, O Little Moccasins! I'll play so soft and low, The songs you loved, the old heart-songs that in my mem'ry ring; O child, I want to hear you now beside the campfire glow! With all your heart a-throbbing in the simple words you sing.

For there was only you and I, and you were all to me; And round us were the barren lands, but little did we fear; Of all God's happy, happy folks the happiest were we. . . . (Oh, call her, poor old fiddle mine, and maybe she will hear!)

Your mother was a half-breed Cree, but you were white all through; And I, your father was -- but well, that's neither here nor there; I only know, my little Queen, that all my world was you, And now that world can end to-night, and I will never care.

For there's a tiny wooden cross that pricks up through the snow: (Poor Little Moccasins! you're tired, and so you lie at rest.) And there's a grey-haired, weary man beside the campfire glow: (O fiddle mine! the tears to-night are drumming on your breast.)

The Wanderlust

The Wanderlust has lured me to the seven lonely seas, Has dumped me on the tailing-piles of dearth; The Wanderlust has haled me from the morris chairs of ease, Has hurled me to the ends of all the earth. How bitterly I've cursed it, oh, the Painted Desert knows, The wraithlike heights that hug the pallid plain, The all-but-fluid silence, -- yet the longing grows and grows, And I've got to glut the Wanderlust again.

_Soldier, sailor, in what a plight I've been! Tinker, tailor, oh what a sight I've seen! And I'm hitting the trail in the morning, boys, And you won't see my heels for dust; For it's "all day" with you When you answer the cue Of the Wan-der-lust._

The Wanderlust has got me . . . by the belly-aching fire, By the fever and the freezing and the pain; By the darkness that just drowns you, by the wail of home desire, I've tried to break the spell of it -- in vain. Life might have been a feast for me, now there are only crumbs; In rags and tatters, beggar-wise I sit; Yet there's no rest or peace for me, imperious it drums, The Wanderlust, and I must follow it.

_Highway, by-way, many a mile I've done; Rare way, fair way, many a height I've won; But I'm pulling my freight in the morning, boys, And it's over the hills or bust; For there's never a cure When you list to the lure Of the Wan-der-lust._

The Wanderlust has taught me . . . it has whispered to my heart Things all you stay-at-homes will never know. The white man and the savage are but three short days apart, Three days of cursing, crawling, doubt and woe. Then it's down to chewing muclucs, to the water you can _EAT_, To fish you bolt with nose held in your hand. When you get right down to cases, it's King's Grub that rules the races, And the Wanderlust will help you understand.

_Haunting, taunting, that is the spell of it; Mocking, baulking, that is the hell of it; But I'll shoulder my pack in the morning, boys, And I'm going because I must; For it's so-long to all When you answer the call Of the Wan-der-lust._

The Wanderlust has blest me . . . in a ragged blanket curled, I've watched the gulf of Heaven foam with stars; I've walked with eyes wide open to the wonder of the world, I've seen God's flood of glory burst its bars. I've seen the gold a-blinding in the riffles of the sky, Till I fancied me a bloated plutocrat; But I'm freedom's happy bond-slave, and I will be till I die, And I've got to thank the Wanderlust for that.

_Wild heart, child heart, all of the world your home. Glad heart, mad heart, what can you do but roam? Oh, I'll beat it once more in the morning, boys, With a pinch of tea and a crust; For you cannot deny When you hark to the cry Of the Wan-der-lust._

The Wanderlust will claim me at the finish for its own. I'll turn my back on men and face the Pole. Beyond the Arctic outposts I will venture all alone; Some Never-never Land will be my goal. Thank God! there's none will miss me, for I've been a bird of flight; And in my moccasins I'll take my call; For the Wanderlust has ruled me, And the Wanderlust has schooled me, And I'm ready for the darkest trail of all.

_Grim land, dim land, oh, how the vastness calls! Far land, star land, oh, how the stillness falls! For you never can tell if it's heaven or hell, And I'm taking the trail on trust; But I haven't a doubt That my soul will leap out On its Wan-der-lust._

The Trapper's Christmas Eve

It's mighty lonesome-like and drear. Above the Wild the moon rides high, And shows up sharp and needle-clear The emptiness of earth and sky; No happy homes with love a-glow; No Santa Claus to make believe: Just snow and snow, and then more snow; It's Christmas Eve, it's Christmas Eve.

And here am I where all things end, And Undesirables are hurled; A poor old man without a friend, Forgot and dead to all the world; Clean out of sight and out of mind . . . Well, maybe it is better so; We all in life our level find, And mine, I guess, is pretty low.

Yet as I sit with pipe alight Beside the cabin-fire, it's queer This mind of mine must take to-night The backward trail of fifty year. The school-house and the Christmas tree; The children with their cheeks a-glow; Two bright blue eyes that smile on me . . . Just half a century ago.

Again (it's maybe forty years), With faith and trust almost divine, These same blue eyes, abrim with tears, Through depths of love look into mine. A parting, tender, soft and low, With arms that cling and lips that cleave . . . Ah me! it's all so long ago, Yet seems so sweet this Christmas Eve.

Just thirty years ago, again . . . We say a bitter, _LAST_ good-bye; Our lips are white with wrath and pain; Our little children cling and cry. Whose was the fault? it matters not, For man and woman both deceive; It's buried now and all forgot, Forgiven, too, this Christmas Eve.

And she (God pity me) is dead; Our children men and women grown. I like to think that they are wed, With little children of their own, That crowd around their Christmas tree . . . I would not ever have them grieve, Or shed a single tear for me, To mar their joy this Christmas Eve.

Stripped to the buff and gaunt and still Lies all the land in grim distress. Like lost soul wailing, long and shrill, A wolf-howl cleaves the emptiness. Then hushed as Death is everything. The moon rides haggard and forlorn . . . "O hark the herald angels sing!" God bless all men -- it's Christmas morn.

The World's All Right

_Be honest, kindly, simple, true; Seek good in all, scorn but pretence; Whatever sorrow come to you, Believe in Life's Beneficence!_

The World's all right; serene I sit, And cease to puzzle over it. There's much that's mighty strange, no doubt; But Nature knows what she's about; And in a million years or so We'll know more than to-day we know. Old Evolution's under way -- What ho! the World's all right, I say.

Could things be other than they are? All's in its place, from mote to star. The thistledown that flits and flies Could drift no hair-breadth otherwise. What is, must be; with rhythmic laws All Nature chimes, Effect and Cause. The sand-grain and the sun obey -- What ho! the World's all right, I say.

Just try to get the Cosmic touch, The sense that "you" don't matter much. A million stars are in the sky; A million planets plunge and die; A million million men are sped; A million million wait ahead. Each plays his part and has his day -- What ho! the World's all right, I say.

Just try to get the Chemic view: A million million lives made "you". In lives a million you will be Immortal down Eternity; Immortal on this earth to range, With never death, but ever change. You always were, and will be aye -- What ho! the World's all right, I say.

Be glad! And do not blindly grope For Truth that lies beyond our scope: A sober plot informeth all Of Life's uproarious carnival. Your day is such a little one, A gnat that lives from sun to sun; Yet gnat and you have parts to play -- What ho! the World's all right, I say.

And though it's written from the start, Just act your best your little part. Just be as happy as you can, And serve your kind, and die -- a man. Just live the good that in you lies, And seek no guerdon of the skies; Just make your Heaven here, to-day -- What ho! the World's all right, I say.

Remember! in Creation's swing The Race and not the man's the thing. There's battle, murder, sudden death, And pestilence, with poisoned breath. Yet quick forgotten are such woes; On, on the stream of Being flows. Truth, Beauty, Love uphold their sway -- What ho! the World's all right, I say.

The World's all right; serene I sit, And joy that I am part of it; And put my trust in Nature's plan, And try to aid her all I can; Content to pass, if in my place I've served the uplift of the Race. Truth! Beauty! Love! O Radiant Day -- What ho! the World's all right, I say.

The Baldness of Chewed-Ear

When Chewed-ear Jenkins got hitched up to Guinneyveer McGee, His flowin' locks, ye recollect, wuz frivolous an' free; But in old Hymen's jack-pot, it's a most amazin' thing, Them flowin' locks jest disappeared like snow-balls in the Spring; Jest seemed to wilt an' fade away like dead leaves in the Fall, An' left old Chewed-ear balder than a white-washed cannon ball.

Now Missis Chewed-ear Jenkins, that wuz Guinneyveer McGee, Wuz jest about as fine a draw as ever made a pair; But when the boys got joshin' an' suggested it was she That must be inflooenshul for the old man's slump in hair -- Why! Missis Chewed-ear Jenkins jest went clean up in the air.

"To demonstrate," sez she that night, "the lovin' wife I am, I've bought a dozen bottles of Bink's Anty-Dandruff Balm. 'Twill make yer hair jest sprout an' curl like squash-vines in the sun, An' I'm propose to sling it on till every drop is done." That hit old Chewed-ear's funny side, so he lays back an' hollers: "The day you raise a hair, old girl, you'll git a thousand dollars."

Now, whether 'twas the prize or not 'tis mighty hard to say, But Chewed-ear didn't seem to have much comfort from that day. With bottles of that dandruff dope she followed at his heels, An' sprinkled an' massaged him even when he ate his meals. She waked him from his beauty sleep with tender, lovin' care, An' rubbed an' scrubbed assiduous, yet never sign of hair.

Well, naturally all the boys soon tumbled to the joke, An' at the Wow-wow's Social 'twas Cold-deck Davis spoke: "The little woman's working mighty hard on Chewed-ear's crown; Let's give her for a three-fifth's share a hundred dollars down. We stand to make five hundred clear -- boys, drink in whiskey straight: 'The Chewed-ear Jenkins Hirsute Propagation Syndicate'."

The boys wuz on, an' soon chipped in the necessary dust; They primed up a committy to negotiate the deal; Then Missis Jenkins yielded, bein' rather in disgust, An' all wuz signed an' witnessed, an' invested with a seal. They rounded up old Chewed-ear, an' they broke it what they'd done; Allowed they'd bought an interest in his chance of raisin' hair; They yanked his hat off anxiouslike, opinin' one by one Their magnifyin' glasses showed fine prospects everywhere. They bought Hairlene, an' Thatchem, an' Jay's Capillery Juice, An' Seven Something Sisters, an' Macassar an' Bay Rum, An' everyone insisted on his speshul right to sluice His speshul line of lotion onto Chewed-ear's cranium. They only got the merrier the more the old man roared, An' shares in "Jenkins Hirsute" went sky-highin' on the board.

The Syndicate wuz hopeful that they'd demonstrate the pay, An' Missis Jenkins laboured in her perseverin' way. The boys discussed on "surface rights", an' "out-crops" an' so on, An' planned to have it "crown" surveyed, an' blue prints of it drawn. They ran a base line, sluiced an' yelled, an' everyone wuz glad, Except the balance of the property, an' he wuz "mad". "It gives me pain," he interjects, "to squash yer glowin' dream, But you wuz fools when you got in on this here 'Hirsute' scheme. You'll never raise a hair on me," when lo! that very night, Preparin' to retire he got a most onpleasant fright: For on that shinin' dome of his, so prominently bare, He felt the baby outcrop of a second growth of hair.

A thousand dollars! Sufferin' Caesar! Well, it must be saved! He grabbed his razor recklesslike, an' shaved an' shaved an' shaved. An' when his head was smooth again he gives a mighty sigh, An' sneaks away, an' buys some Hair Destroyer on the sly. So there wuz Missis Jenkins with "Restorer" wagin' fight, An' Chewed-ear with "Destroyer" circumventin' her at night. The battle wuz a mighty one; his nerves wuz on the strain, An' yet in spite of all he did that hair began to gain.

The situation grew intense, so quietly one day, He gave his share-holders the slip, an' made his get-a-way. Jest like a criminal he skipped, an' aimed to defalcate The Chewed-ear Jenkins Hirsute Propagation Syndicate. His guilty secret burned him, an' he sought the city's din: "I've got to get a wig," sez he, "to cover up my sin. It's growin', growin' night an' day; it's most amazin' hair"; An' when he looked at it that night, he shuddered with despair. He shuddered an' suppressed a cry at what his optics seen -- For on my word of honour, boys, that hair wuz growin' _GREEN_.

At first he guessed he'd get some dye, an' try to dye it black; An' then he saw 'twas Nemmysis wuz layin' on his track. He must jest face the music, an' confess the thing he done, An' pay the boys an' Guinneyveer the money they had won. An' then there came a big idee -- it thrilled him like a shock: Why not control the Syndicate by buyin' up the Stock?

An' so next day he hurried back with smoothly shaven pate, An' for a hundred dollars he bought up the Syndicate. 'Twas mighty frenzied finance an' the boys set up a roar, But "Hirsutes" from the market wuz withdrawn for evermore. An' to this day in Nuggetsville they tell the tale how slick The Syndicate sold out too soon, and Chewed-ear turned the trick.

The Mother

There will be a singing in your heart, There will be a rapture in your eyes; You will be a woman set apart, You will be so wonderful and wise. You will sleep, and when from dreams you start, As of one that wakes in Paradise, There will be a singing in your heart, There will be a rapture in your eyes.

There will be a moaning in your heart, There will be an anguish in your eyes; You will see your dearest ones depart, You will hear their quivering good-byes. Yours will be the heart-ache and the smart, Tears that scald and lonely sacrifice; There will be a moaning in your heart, There will be an anguish in your eyes.

There will come a glory in your eyes, There will come a peace within your heart; Sitting 'neath the quiet evening skies, Time will dry the tear and dull the smart. You will know that you have played your part; Yours shall be the love that never dies: You, with Heaven's peace within your heart, You, with God's own glory in your eyes.

The Dreamer

The lone man gazed and gazed upon his gold, His sweat, his blood, the wage of weary days; But now how sweet, how doubly sweet to hold All gay and gleamy to the campfire blaze. The evening sky was sinister and cold; The willows shivered, wanly lay the snow; The uncommiserating land, so old, So worn, so grey, so niggard in its woe, Peered through its ragged shroud. The lone man sighed, Poured back the gaudy dust into its poke, Gazed at the seething river listless-eyed, Loaded his corn-cob pipe as if to smoke; Then crushed with weariness and hardship crept Into his ragged robe, and swiftly slept.

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Hour after hour went by; a shadow slipped From vasts of shadow to the camp-fire flame; Gripping a rifle with a deadly aim, A gaunt and hairy man with wolfish eyes . . .

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