Part 2

Will ye take the hand that they offer? Or else will ye mock their pain? Will ye heed the wail from the silence? For, hark, 'tis the call again; In the land of ages and myst'ry, Your love they will e'er requite, And there shall ye find of my treasure, 'Midst Sentinels of the night.

THE BONNETS

It takes a lot to make a world, all classes and all kinds, But where the flag is flying now, a fellow always finds A figure that's familiar, and a work that's ever new, A little Army bonnet and a uniform of blue.

We've toughed it in the Yukon, and we've surveyed o'er the plain, And been where easy comfort is a thing you'd seek in vain, But ever where the hardest was, we'd see the worker true, A little Army bonnet and a uniform of blue.

'Way up on old Bonanza, ere we surveyed out the line, Where hell was throned in glory, ruby lights and devil's wine, There stood a sacred cottage, and a home it was for two, Two little Army bonnets and the uniforms of blue.

They didn't have a fancy church, with organ and a choir, And didn't always talk about the judgment and the fire, But, seeking out the worst that were, they started them anew To climb the ladder where they fell, those angels dressed in blue.

It wasn't long before we saw a change was taking place, And brutish looks were vanishing from many a hardened face, And seeds were planted deep in hell, which up to heaven grew, By little Army bonnets in Salvation Army blue.

We play the game and never tame, and never settle down, And on our many weaknesses our better brothers frown, Although we seldom read the Book, we know it must be true, For once we met its angels, _in a uniform of blue_.

THE ANSWER

Have you ever cursed at the Master's work, when life's been a sort of hell? If so, then perhaps you will understand the story I'm going to tell; There are chaps you know who have never seen the edge of a thing called life, And have never known of the challenge thrown in the darkness of the strife.

There's a land we knew in the days of old, when we trudged the wilderness, 'Twas the land of pain, with the brand of Cain, the home of the loneliness; We had cursed it oft with the blackest curse, a reckless and godless lot, And headed our letters for going home, "the country that God forgot."

We had all been out since the early Spring, and things had been going wrong, And it seemed misfortune had dogged our trail each day, as it dragged along; It appeared to be as an alien land, forsaken by God and man, Till we heard the voice of the one who gave it birth when the world began.

We had cursed that day more than e'er before, as fellows in anger do, And a storm that gathered above us broke, soaking us through and through; As we tramped it back to the lonely camp, it seemed that place was banned, And Brown with an awful curse had said "The devil controls the land."

Then the thunder rolled, and the lightning flashed, with its wondrous lurid glow, And we who had challenged the wilderness wandered the earth below. It seemed that a message was from above, the knowledge of endless things, The power that quickens the soul of man, and models the hearts of kings.

I remember as though 'twere yesterday, the lesson we learnt that night, The answer that broke on our startled ears, the voice from the riven height. The God we had challenged with angry words was guarding and watching yet, And loving the wilderness we had cursed, the God who could not forget.

He knew of the lonely location crew, away in the shadowed past, He knew of the road we had come to build, reserving it to the last. He knew we would say He had long forgot the arid and thirsty land, But spoke from the heavens that night to show 'twas even as He had planned.

RECALLED

Where the mountains rise in splendour, And the shadows darkly fall, And the torrent rushes o'er the silent glen, Where the coyote's bark is wailing With its never-ending call, How I miss my home among the lonely men.

Left it all because they called me, Left it all a year ago. Tried to think the things of home could satisfy. Changed the silence for the glitter Of a city's empty glow. Tried to crush my soul of things that never die.

Things that were and ever shall be, Things that never, never change. Things that men I see around can never know. Things I know and love for ever, Thro' my wand'ring vision range, Things that whisper in the silence "You must go."

You who've never heard them calling, Pleading voices in the night,-- You who've never known the challenge of the wild, Cannot know the aching longing For the freedom and the fight When the loneliness is calling for her child.

There's a trail that lies a-waiting In a dim and aged land. There are monuments unbuilded in the gloom. There are epitaphs unwritten, Sleeping men who understand, There's a challenge, there's a fight against the doom.

When the wild is closing on you, And defiance you have hurled, And the trail is fading dimly in the night, As the mystic lights are dancing On the frontier of the world You are fighting grim and silent for your life.

When you're staking on the limit With a hope that's nearly gone, Then you grit your teeth and bluff the wild again, Till you see the lights a-gleaming In the coulee thro' the storm, And you shout a mocking triumph thro' your pain.

There's an awful, awful stillness, There's a something, God knows what. There's a recklessness that, born, can never die. There's a voice you try to silence Of the thing that once you sought, There's a longing in your heart you can't deny.

Far away amid the shadows Of the future and the past, Where the Mother waits the breaking of the day When her lands shall rise in splendour And her love be known at last, She is calling, and I know I must obey.

WOODEN MIKE

(The Rhyme of the Old Cook)

There are things you dream, And they often seem To have happened real and true, And the story which I am going to pitch He told while he stirred the stew. He had got his name When at first he came To cook on a grading pike, He had just one leg And a lumber peg, So they called him Wooden Mike.

The things he had done With his traps and gun, Were wonderful to relate. But strangest of all Was once in the fall, This story I heard him state. He had gone that fall, At an urgent call, To cook for a lumber firm, Where he worked so quick That he had to lick His hands so they wouldn't burn.

When he fried the cakes, That a fellow makes For breakfast, the griddle style, To have worked the way That they do to-day Would have taken quite awhile. So he hired a man For to grease the pan, Its size would be hard to beat; And the guy would skate Right across the plate With bacon rinds on his feet.

Now I wondered much As I thought of such, And asked him about the fire; The amount it took For the stuff to cook, The fuel that it would require. So he scratched his head As he quietly said The amount he'd clean forgot, But he understood That he used more wood Than ever the comp'ny got.

When he made his pie He would never try To finish them one by one; With an oven large As a young garage, The baking was quickly done. With his pies all lined, And the man behind, They close to the oven drew, He would throw the pie To the other guy, Which baked as it travelled through.

He'd a cycle path That was made of lath Where the men at dinner sat, And the waiter rode With a ready load Of eatables on his back. He was soaked with grease, But he couldn't cease, For washing to think about, So he lined his bunk With some sandy junk To keep him from slipping out.

He had lost his leg, While at sea he said-- Got wrecked on a desert isle, Where the cannibals, And the animals Had given themselves the bile. They had tried to eat Some of Mike's own meat, And one of his legs prepared, But they found the stuff Was exceeding tough, So that's why his life was spared.

* * * * * * * *

Now I don't ask you. To believe it's true, For Mike was a bad old man. I with him agreed, For to get a feed, Believing it like a lamb.

THE SPECTRE

_They call it the Prairie Madness. Be-ware as you enter its lair, For many have started in gladness. But few can the loneliness bear._

* * * * * * * *

Desolate, lonely, forsaken, deserted for many a year, The joy of a soul in its building, with its hopes, lie buried here; For the grim old shack has a story that few but the winds ever know, The man who lived for its building, the man who was wrecked in its woe.

Bringing his logs from the mountain, toting them over the plain, Never a thought of his danger, smiling again and again, Thinking of her who would help him, watching his work as it grew, Speaking aloud in the silence the things that he meant to do.

Fretting alone through the winter, planning his plans all anew, Wondering why in the silence shapes in his memory grew. Trying to crush out the Spectre, still by his side it would lurk, Humming the snatch of a chorus, hymns he had sung in the Kirk.

Cooking his sol-a-try supper, dreaming of days that should come; Love that his soul could not utter held him unspeakably dumb, Trying to pierce through the shadows, oft that would darken his brain, Laughing because of the fancies, following on in their train.

Working alone for the future, thinking his waiting was o'er; Sending for her o'er the ocean, welcoming her at the door; Cursing the mists all around him, gleefully hemming him in; Sneaking his way round a corner, grinning the maniac's grin.

Taken one morn by the Sheriff, cursing and raving and wild, Songs he had sung in his schooldays, prayers he had learned as a child, Raving of her who awaited his message from over the sea, Living a death in the darkness, never again to be free.

_Far in the heart of a city, waiting a message in vain, Asking each day of the postman, lining her forehead with pain, Wondering why he had left her, drooping each day as it passed, Carried one morn to the churchyard, knowing the answer at last._

SUNNY LTD.

Funny a fellow always sees, wherever he may stray, The same old sun his people see, some thousand miles away. Pity a genius can't invent--the thing would surely pay-- A rapid transit vehicle attached to Solly's ray.

Many a plunger would be found who'd organize the scheme, For travelling would be quicker far than "twenty per" by steam. It's just a fancy, but to me it seems the missing link, To couple up the hemispheres, of which they never think.

Professors think of radium, and devil-wagon things, A washer that the clothing automatically wrings. I offer this suggestion, it's a winner barring none-- A thousand miles a minute _with a trailer on the Sun_.

UNFORGOTTEN

Dreamer of yesterday, sleep thy sleep; Rest, for thy stent is done! Sower of seed, though not thine to reap-- Harvest of years to come. Hear us from far in Rhodesia's hills, Echoing round Groote Schur. Treading to-day the united way, Briton beside the Boer.

Rhodes, thou art sleeping, but dost thou know Thine is a dream fulfilled? Briton and Boer to the end shall go, Brothers as thou hast willed. Thine was the strife, but the sun has set On mis'ry, hate and war; Ours to forget and as comrades trek, One nation for evermore.

THE COMING OF THE LINE

'Twas only the land when we saw it, Unfettered, unharnessed and free, Awaiting the will of the Master, Who the future alone could see. Long before ere the cold Egyptian Had fashioned the Sphinx in the East, Growing old ere the death of Adam, And the flood on the Earth had ceased.

Which survived through Jehovah's vengeance, When the glaciers crashed and roared. The chosen of earth in their dwelling High over the mountain soared. It welcomed the dove with an olive, The herald of peace in the land, And succored the few as a parent, God's few from a dissolute band.

Knowing nought of the fall of kingdoms And palaces razed to the dust, But awaiting through endless ages The future with infinite trust. Well knowing afar in the future Were men who its beauty should see; The men who would honor its waiting, The men who as brothers would be.

And knew when the Pole was a comrade, Instead of a luring den That guarded its mighty secret Away from the eyes of men; Which beckoned the brave when they sought it, Alluring them on to their doom; To mock them, their quest unaccomplished, Deserting them far in the gloom.

But welcomed the few when it saw us, And glad that its waiting had passed. By yielding itself to our moulding; The first of the lands and the last. And broke, with the song of its freedom, The silence that long held it dumb: "I've waited and waited and waited! The men I awaited have come!"

It told us of those who before us Had sought it, abusing its trust. But knowing the Maker's decision, Had levelled them, dust to the dust. And knew through the ages of dreaming, The day we its silence should end. Give us, as a bride to her husband, Her honor to love and defend.

It knew we would shatter its secret, Forever its beauty would blight; But knew that the promise was given, "At evening it shall be light." And after the ages of waiting, Surrendered itself to our hands To fall as a child in the making, To rise as a king in the lands.

Accepting the trust that it gave us, And doing our best to fulfill The plans that were laid in Creation, Obeying the Master's will. We gave it the child of its fancy, Instructions we took at its hand. The line we surveyed in location, The track that we built in the land.

Some say that the end is approaching, The desert shall bloom as the rose; And back it with sundry quotations, Selected from Biblical prose. So we further Creation's purpose, The eve of Eternity's dawn When the Master shall say "It is finished," And Gabriel blows his horn.

MY PAL

The Rhyme of the Old Pioneer

You're old and you're dirty, I know. You've laid in the mud and the snow. Were you ever so old, And whatever the cold, Your dirt had a treasure below.

When grub and the water was low, You'd ever your faithfulness show. And you'd never complain, When again and again The blizzards would over us blow.

We've travelled together, I've said; You've followed wherever I've led. And you never have failed, On the path we have trailed, My dirty old comf'table bed.

THE UNASKED QUESTION

We ask them "When?" and "Where?" but never "Why?"

In the land of new beginnings, there's a question never asked, There are reasons into which we never pry. Silent men who seek our friendship with a page forever passed, They have come, we never seek to ask them "Why?"

They have come, and why, no matter, they have come, 'tis all we ask, Where the fences fade from view we take their hand. Vessels marred within the moulding, men we turn them out at last, Hard and daring, sealed forever with the brand.

Some have drunk the dregs of pleasure, some have stroked a winning eight-- Drifting derelicts, they seek the lonely way. One by one they swell the number, one by one, the toys of fate One by one ye knew them once--'twas yesterday.

We are men of many nations, but what matter blood or creed When you're packing o'er a wilderness of snow? Brothers e'en as God has made us, wanderers, 'twas so decreed, Brothers, builders, in the lands of long ago.

Some have spent the long vacation, some have come to ne'er return; Saint and sinner, fool and felon, rich or poor, Seek the world's deserted places and the lessons there to learn, In the land of new beginnings evermore.

Hard as hell, yet sweet as heaven, cursed by those who love it best, Grim, unyielding in its law, the law of man, Some have said good-bye forever, shrinking e'en before the test, Others stay and learn to love and understand.

We are parted for a season--in that season one has gone For to sit beneath the upper chamber's dome. Why he came is still his secret, but the man in him was born As he sought and trailed with us the great alone.

He's the goal of seeking mammas, he's the idol of the fair, With his past transgressions buried out of sight. He's forgot his beans and bacon in a theatre supper's glare, And his days he's mostly living in the night.

Still we took him as a comrade, asking nothing, judging less, One of many whom you send us o'er the foam. O'er the singing sands of Egypt, to the Northland's icy breast, In the lonely lands the past to e'en atone.

So we never ask them questions, for the story's e'er the same, But before the dying campfire's dusky glow In the silence they have told us how they played and lost the game; Why remember? E'en forget, 'twas long ago.

THE PRICE OF THE LINE

Only three and a starving dog, surveying, my God! my God! And all the rest who had started were lying beneath the sod. All gone but three, the three of us, it couldn't be very long Before the wild would sing again its cursedly mocking song.

It seemed as though we once had dreamed of the careless survey crew Who started in the summertime with cares that are ever few-- The reckless men who tame the wild, encamping around its throne; We tried to think, but gave it up and waited the end alone.

We struggled when at first it came, the foe that had dogged our trail; But struggling turned to weariness; we knew that we soon must fail. The very atmosphere seemed full of death in its every form, And one by one the fellows to Eternity's rest were borne.

A teamster started back for help; we wondered it never came. Found frozen in the wilderness, his horses had fallen lame. The wolves or devil's imps from hell had scented him in his plight; Watching him far in the silence, fighting his desperate fight.

Young Johnson was the first to go; we buried him by the hill, Farewelling to endless silence, the boy lying quiet and still. The first, I said! God in Heaven, how many have gone since then! An axeman made the number nine, the transitman made it ten.

With caches burned and water bad, and fever upon our trail, We tried to return ere winter would grip us within the veil. Wondering who was selected, soon to have yielded the price, The price of a nation's comfort, a deal with the loaded dice.

At last 'twas only Joe and me with Cromarty and the pup, With faces soft as putty and a hope we had given up. I thought of Green whom we'd never seen since starting away for help, And wondered if our bones they'd find in Spring when the snow should melt.

When at last we could fight no more, blinded and fevered and ill, Envying little Johnson, who was sleeping beside the hill, We stretched our hands and tried to speak; forever good-bye we said, Surrendering to the wilderness, and praying we'd soon be dead.

Looking back over all the years, it seemed that I died that night, Leaving the silence and anguish, the moon that was shining bright. Found by an Indian trapper, cared for by hearts that were true, Wresting us far from the shadow, nursed by the squaws of the Sioux.

Sitting to-day in a smoker, viewing the oldest survey, Don't feel inclined to discredit things I have tried to portray. God only knows of the hardness, blizzards that robbed us of sight, Stumbling on with an effort, turning the day into night.

This is the story of fellows lying afar in the gloom, The fellows who never faltered, e'en on the edge of the doom. Trying to smile through the fever, knowing the finish had come; Giving their lives in the service, losing the fight they had won.

THE HOME TRAIL

_When you've tired of trails and treasure, Drunk the dregs of pain and pleasure, And you're camped beside the firelight all alone. Have you heard the voices murm'ring Things that set your soul a-yearning, Looked a-slantways at the trail and dreamed of home? Have you seemed to see the faces, Midst the awful lonely places, Of the ones you love the best grow sad and old, Who have waited, prayed and trusted, While you've sought and fought and lusted For the tinselled, luring treasure men call gold?_

Gold you've sought, and gold you've squandered, As the world your feet have wandered, While your folks in nightly rev'rence breathed your name. Now you seem to hear them speaking, "Father, safe into Thy keeping, Take our boy, and bring him safely home again." As you dream, the vision's alt'ring, And you see a figure falt'ring To the rustic gate where last you said goodbye. Patient eyes the years are dimming, Through your soul her cry is ringing, "Oh, my boy, just once again before I die!"

Through the mist of mem'ry's waking Things you've long forgot are breaking, Scenes reflected in the campfire's lonely glow. As you curse the lonely places, Long for old familiar faces, In the world you left a wand'rer long ago. Calling: "Leave it all behind you, Snap the lonely thongs that bind you, They are waiting in the village o'er the foam."-- Ghostly voices softly murm'ring, As from wilderness you're turning, And your snowshoes print the backward trail for home.

'Twas a dream, but now you're speeding, For you've heard the whispered pleading, And all else is fading far into the gloom. With your pulses madly throbbing, "Mother, don't, ah, don't be sobbing, I've remembered, and I'm coming to you soon." Trail by day, far in the twilight, Camping, still, beneath the starlight, Leaving far behind a dim and lonely land, Till you see the white cliffs gleaming, Where it's home, and past the dreaming, As you watch the wavelets breaking on the sand.

As you see the ivy clinging, Hear the robin-redbreast singing, And the land you left is still the same to-day; Midst the scenes you've dreamed of often, As the whisp'ring breezes soften, For a moment desp'rate years are rolled away. While the crimson sun is setting, Trails and hardness you're forgetting, For beside the rose-wreathed cottage on the hill, 'Neath the locks that years are whit'ning Loving eyes are softly bright'ning, In the home land there's a welcome for you still.

_P'r'aps you know that back you'll wander, To the lone land over yonder, In the birth of nations still a part you'll play. And perhaps be glad to listen, When the voice demands submission, Turn again and wander exiled on your way. But you catch a whispered murm'ring, "Dad, thank God our boy's returning," Closely clasp the feeble figures to your breast. God, it's all that really matters, And her voice the fancy shatters, For the trail has led you home, a-while to rest._

YESTERDAY