Chapter 2

To the niggard lands were we driven; 'twixt desert and foe are we penned. To us was the Northland given, ours to stronghold and defend; Ours till the world be riven in the crash of the utter end.

Ours from the bleak beginning, through the æons of death-like sleep; Ours from the shock when the naked rock was hurled from the hissing deep; Ours through the twilight ages of weary glacier-creep.

Wind of the East, wind of the West, wandering to and fro, Chant your songs in our topmost boughs, that the sons of men may know The peerless pine was the first to come, and the pine will be last to go!

We pillar the halls of perfumed gloom; we plume where the eagles soar; The North-wind swoops from the brooding Pole, and our ancients crash and roar; But where one falls from the crumbling walls shoots up a hardy score.

We spring from the gloom of the canyon's womb; in the valley's lap we lie; From the white foam-fringe where the breakers cringe to the peaks that tusk the sky We climb, and we peer in the crag-locked mere that gleams like a golden eye,--

Gain to the verge of the hog-back ridge where the vision ranges free: Pines and pines and the shadow of pines as far as the eye can see; A steadfast legion of stalwart knights in dominant empery.

Sun, moon and stars, give answer; shall we not staunchly stand Even as now, forever, wards of the wilder strand, Sentinels of the stillness, lords of the last lone land!

THE HARPY

_There was a woman, and she was wise; woefully wise was she; She was old, so old, yet her years all told were but a score and three; And she knew by heart, from finish to start, the Book of Iniquity._

There is no hope for such as I, on earth nor yet in Heaven; Unloved I live, unloved I die, unpitied, unforgiven; A loathèd jade I ply my trade, unhallowed and unshriven.

I paint my cheeks, for they are white, and cheeks of chalk men hate; Mine eyes with wine I make to shine, that men may seek and sate; With overhead a lamp of red I sit me down and wait.

Until they come, the nightly scum, with drunken eyes aflame; Your sweethearts, sons, ye scornful ones--'tis I who know their shame; The gods ye see are brutes to me--and so I play my game.

For life is not the thing we thought, and not the thing we plan; And woman in a bitter world must do the best she can; Must yield the stroke, and bear the yoke, and serve the will of man;

Must serve his need and ever feed the flame of his desire; Though be she loved for love alone, or be she loved for hire; For every man since life began is tainted with the mire.

And though you know he love you so, and set you on love's throne, Yet let your eyes but mock his sighs, and let your heart be stone, Lest you be left (as I was left) attainted and alone.

From love's close kiss to hell's abyss is one sheer flight, I trow; And wedding-ring and bridal bell are will-o'-wisps of woe; And 'tis not wise to love too well, and this all women know.

Wherefore, the wolf-pack having gorged upon the lamb, their prey, With siren smile and serpent guile I make the wolf-pack pay; With velvet paws and flensing claws, a tigress roused to slay.

One who in youth sought truest truth, and found a devil's lies; A symbol of the sin of man, a human sacrifice: Yet shall I blame on man the shame? Could it be otherwise?

Was I not born to walk in scorn where others walk in pride? The Maker marred, and evil-starred I drift upon His tide; And He alone shall judge His own, so I His judgment bide.

_Fate has written a tragedy; its name is "The Human Heart." The theatre is the House of Life, Woman the mummer's part: The Devil enters the prompter's box and the play is ready to start._

THE LURE OF LITTLE VOICES

There's a cry from out the Loneliness--Oh, listen, Honey, listen! Do you hear it, do you fear it, you're a-holding of me so? You're a-sobbing in your sleep, dear, and your lashes, how they glisten-- Do you hear the Little Voices all a-begging me to go?

All a-begging me to leave you. Day and night they're pleading, praying, On the North-wind, on the West-wind, from the peak and from the plain; Night and day they never leave me--do you know what they are saying? "He was ours before you got him, and we want him once again."

Yes, they're wanting me, they're haunting me, the awful lonely places; They're whining and they're whimpering as if each had a soul; They're calling from the wilderness, the vast and god-like spaces, The stark and sullen solitudes that sentinel the Pole.

They miss my little camp-fires, ever brightly, bravely gleaming In the womb of desolation where was never man before; As comradeless I sought them, lion-hearted, loving, dreaming; And they hailed me as a comrade, and they loved me evermore.

And now they're all a-crying, and it's no use me denying: The spell of them is on me and I'm helpless as a child; My heart is aching, aching, but I hear them sleeping, waking; It's the Lure of Little Voices, it's the mandate of the Wild.

I'm afraid to tell you, Honey, I can take no bitter leaving; But softly in the sleep-time from your love I'll steal away. Oh, it's cruel, dearie, cruel, and it's God knows how I'm grieving; But His Loneliness is calling and He knows I must obey.

THE SONG OF THE WAGE-SLAVE

When the long, long day is over, and the Big Boss gives me my pay, I hope that it won't be hell-fire, as some of the parsons say. And I hope that it won't be heaven, with some of the parsons I've met-- All I want is just quiet, just to rest and forget. Look at my face, toil-furrowed; look at my calloused hands; Master, I've done Thy bidding, wrought in Thy many lands-- Wrought for the little masters, big-bellied they be, and rich; I've done their desire for a daily hire, and I die like a dog in a ditch. I have used the strength Thou hast given, Thou knowest I did not shirk; Threescore years of labour--Thine be the long day's work. And now, Big Master, I'm broken and bent and twisted and scarred, But I've held my job, and Thou knowest, and Thou wilt not judge me hard. Thou knowest my sins are many, and often I've played the fool-- Whiskey and cards and women, they made me the devil's tool. I was just like a child with money: I flung it away with a curse, Feasting a fawning parasite, or glutting a harlot's purse, Then back to the woods repentant, back to the mill or the mine, I, the worker of workers, everything in my line. Everything hard but headwork (I'd no more brains than a kid), A brute with brute strength to labour, doing as I was bid; Living in camps with men-folk, a lonely and loveless life; Never knew kiss of sweetheart, never caress of wife. A brute with brute strength to labour, and they were so far above-- Yet I'd gladly have gone to the gallows for one little look of Love. I with the strength of two men, savage and shy and wild-- Yet how I'd ha' treasured a woman, and the sweet, warm kiss of a child. Well, 'tis Thy world, and Thou knowest. I blaspheme and my ways be rude; But I've lived my life as I found it, and I've done my best to be good; I, the primitive toiler, half naked, and grimed to the eyes, Sweating it deep in their ditches, swining it stark in their styes, Hulling down forests before me, spanning tumultuous streams; Down in the ditch building o'er me palaces fairer than dreams; Boring the rock to the ore-bed, driving the road through the fen, Resolute, dumb, uncomplaining, a man in a world of men. Master, I've filled my contract, wrought in Thy many lands; Not by my sins wilt Thou judge me, but by the work of my hands. Master, I've done Thy bidding, and the light is low in the west, And the long, long shift is over ... Master, I've earned it--Rest.

GRIN

If you're up against a bruiser and you're getting knocked about-- Grin. If you're feeling pretty groggy, and you're licked beyond a doubt-- Grin. Don't let him see you're funking, let him know with every clout, Though your face is battered to a pulp, your blooming heart is stout; Just stand upon your pins until the beggar knocks you out-- And grin.

This life's a bally battle, and the same advice holds true, Of grin. If you're up against it badly, then it's only one on you, So grin. If the future's black as thunder, don't let people see you're blue; Just cultivate a cast-iron smile of joy the whole day through; If they call you "Little Sunshine," wish that _they'd_ no troubles, too-- You may--grin.

Rise up in the morning with the will that, smooth or rough, You'll grin. Sink to sleep at midnight, and although you're feeling tough, Yet grin. There's nothing gained by whining, and you're not that kind of stuff; You're a fighter from away back, and you _won't_ take a rebuff; Your trouble is that you don't know when you have had enough-- Don't give in. If Fate should down you, just get up and take another cuff; You may bank on it that there is no philosophy like bluff And grin.

THE SHOOTING OF DAN MCGREW

A bunch of the boys were whooping it up in the Malamute saloon; The kid that handles the music-box was hitting a jag-time tune; Back of the bar, in a solo game, sat Dangerous Dan McGrew, And watching his luck was his light-o'-love, the lady that's known as Lou.

When out of the night, which was fifty below, and into the din and the glare, There stumbled a miner fresh from the creeks, dog-dirty and loaded for bear. He looked like a man with a foot in the grave, and scarcely the strength of a louse, Yet he tilted a poke of dust on the bar, and he called for drinks for the house. There was none could place the stranger's face, though we searched ourselves for a clue; But we drank his health, and the last to drink was Dangerous Dan McGrew.

There's men that somehow just grip your eyes, and hold them hard like a spell; And such was he, and he looked to me like a man who had lived in hell; With a face most hair, and the dreary stare of a dog whose day is done, As he watered the green stuff in his glass, and the drops fell one by one. Then I got to figgering who he was, and wondering what he'd do, And I turned my head--and there watching him was the lady that's known as Lou.

His eyes went rubbering round the room, and he seemed in a kind of daze, Till at last that old piano fell in the way of his wandering gaze. The rag-time kid was having a drink; there was no one else on the stool, So the stranger stumbles across the room, and flops down there like a fool. In a buckskin shirt that was glazed with dirt he sat, and I saw him sway; Then he clutched the keys with his talon hands--my God! but that man could play!

Were you ever out in the Great Alone, when the moon was awful clear, And the icy mountains hemmed you in with a silence you most could _hear_; With only the howl of a timber wolf, and you camped there in the cold, A half-dead thing in a stark, dead world, clean mad for the muck called gold; While high overhead, green, yellow, and red, the North Lights swept in bars-- Then you've a haunch what the music meant ... hunger and night and the stars.

And hunger not of the belly kind, that's banished with bacon and beans; But the gnawing hunger of lonely men for a home and all that it means; For a fireside far from the cares that are, four walls and a roof above; But oh! so cramful of cosy joy, and crowned with a woman's love; A woman dearer than all the world, and true as Heaven is true-- (God! how ghastly she looks through her rouge,--the lady that's known as Lou.)

Then on a sudden the music changed, so soft that you scarce could hear; But you felt that your life had been looted clean of all that it once held dear; That some one had stolen the woman you loved; that her love was a devil's lie; That your guts were gone, and the best for you was to crawl away and die. 'Twas the crowning cry of a heart's despair, and it thrilled you through and through-- "I guess I'll make it a spread misere," said Dangerous Dan McGrew.

The music almost died away ... then it burst like a pent-up flood; And it seemed to say, "Repay, repay," and my eyes were blind with blood. The thought came back of an ancient wrong, and it stung like a frozen lash, And the lust awoke to kill, to kill ... then the music stopped with a crash,

And the stranger turned, and his eyes they burned in a most peculiar way; In a buckskin shirt that was glazed with dirt he sat, and I saw him sway; Then his lips went in in a kind of grin, and he spoke, and his voice was calm; And, "Boys," says he, "you don't know me, and none of you care a damn; But I want to state, and my words are straight, and I'll bet my poke they're true, That one of you is a hound of hell ... and that one is Dan McGrew."

Then I ducked my head, and the lights went out, and two guns blazed in the dark; And a woman screamed, and the lights went up, and two men lay stiff and stark; Pitched on his head, and pumped full of lead, was Dangerous Dan McGrew, While the man from the creeks lay clutched to the breast of the lady that's known as Lou.

These are the simple facts of the case, and I guess I ought to know; They say that the stranger was crazed with "hooch," and I'm not denying it's so. I'm not so wise as the lawyer guys, but strictly between us two-- The woman that kissed him and--pinched his poke--was the lady that's known as Lou.

THE CREMATION OF SAM MCGEE

_There are strange things done in the midnight sun By the men who moil for gold; The Arctic trails have their secret tales That would make your blood run cold; The Northern Lights have seen queer sights, But the queerest they ever did see Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge I cremated Sam McGee._

Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows. Why he left his home in the South to roam round the Pole God only knows. He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell; Though he'd often say in his homely way that he'd "sooner live in hell."

On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail. Talk of your cold! through the parka's fold it stabbed like a driven nail. If our eyes we'd close, then the lashes froze, till sometimes we couldn't see; It wasn't much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.

And that very night as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow, And the dogs were fed, and the stars o'erhead were dancing heel and toe, He turned to me, and, "Cap," says he, "I'll cash in this trip, I guess; And if I do, I'm asking that you won't refuse my last request."

Well, he seemed so low that I couldn't say no: then he says with a sort of moan: "It's the cursèd cold, and it's got right hold till I'm chilled clean through to the bone. Yet 'taint being dead, it's my awful dread of the icy grave that pains: So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you'll cremate my last remains."

A pal's last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail; And we started on at the streak of dawn, but God! he looked ghastly pale. He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee; And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.

There wasn't a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror driven, With a corpse half-hid that I couldn't get rid because of a promise given; It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say: "You may tax your brawn and brains, But you promised true, and it's up to you to cremate those last remains."

Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code. In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load. In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring, Howled out their woes to the homeless snows--O God! how I loathed the thing!

And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow; And on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low; The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in; And I'd often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.

Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay; It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the "Alice May." And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum: Then, "Here," said I, with a sudden cry, "is my cre-ma-tor-eum."

Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire; Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher; The flames just soared, and the furnace roared--such a blaze you seldom see; And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee.

Then I made a hike, for I didn't like to hear him sizzle so; And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow. It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don't know why; And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.

I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear; But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near; I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: "I'll just take a peep inside. I guess he's cooked, and it's time I looked," ... then the door I opened wide.

And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar; And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said: "Please close that door. It's fine in here, but I greatly fear you'll let in the cold and storm-- Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it's the first time I've been warm."

_There are strange things done in the midnight sun By the men who moil for gold; The Arctic trails have their secret tales That would make your blood run cold; The Northern Lights have seen queer sights, But the queerest they ever did see Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge I cremated Sam McGee._

MY MADONNA

I haled me a woman from the street, Shameless, but, oh, so fair! I bade her sit in the model's seat, And I painted her sitting there.

I hid all trace of her heart unclean; I painted a babe at her breast; I painted her as she might have been If the Worst had been the Best.

She laughed at my picture, and went away. Then came, with a knowing nod, A connoisseur, and I heard him say: "'Tis Mary, the Mother of God."

So I painted a halo round her hair, And I sold her, and took my fee, And she hangs in the church of Saint Hilaire, Where you and all may see.

UNFORGOTTEN

I know a garden where the lilies gleam, And one who lingers in the sunshine there; She is than white-stoled lily far more fair, And oh, her eyes are heaven-lit with dream.

I know a garret, cold and dark and drear, And one who toils and toils with tireless pen, Until his brave, sad eyes grow weary--then He seeks the stars, pale, silent as a seer.

And ah, it's strange, for desolate and dim Between these two there rolls an ocean wide; Yet he is in the garden by her side, And she is in the garret there with him.

THE RECKONING

It's fine to have a blow-out in a fancy restaurant, With terrapin and canvas-back and all the wine you want; To enjoy the flowers and music, watch the pretty women pass, Smoke a choice cigar, and sip the wealthy water in your glass; It's bully in a high-toned joint to eat and drink your fill, But it's quite another matter when you Pay the bill.

It's great to go out every night on fun or pleasure bent, To wear your glad rags always, and to never save a cent; To drift along regardless, have a good time every trip; To hit the high spots sometimes, and to let your chances slip; To know you're acting foolish, yet to go on fooling still, Till Nature calls a show-down, and you Pay the bill.

Time has got a little bill--get wise while yet you may, For the debit side's increasing in a most alarming way; The things you had no right to do, the things you should have done, They're all put down: it's up to you to pay for every one. So eat, drink, and be merry, have a good time if you will, But God help you when the time comes, and you Foot the bill.

QUATRAINS

One said: Thy life is thine to make or mar, To flicker feebly, or to soar, a star; It lies with thee--the choice is thine, is thine, To hit the ties or drive thy auto-car.

I answer Her: The choice is mine--ah, no! We all were made or marred long, long ago. The parts are written: hear the super wail: "Who is stage-managing this cosmic show?"

Blind fools of fate, and slaves of circumstance, Life is a fiddler, and we all must dance. From gloom where mocks that will-o'-wisp, Freewill, I heard a voice cry: "Say, give us a chance."

Chance! Oh, there is no chance. The scene is set. Up with the curtain! Man, the marionette, Resumes his part. The gods will work the wires. They've got it all down fine, you bet, you bet!

It's all decreed: the mighty earthquake crash; The countless constellations' wheel and flash; The rise and fall of empires, war's red tide, The composition of your dinner hash.

There's no haphazard in this world of ours: Cause and effect are grim, relentless powers. They rule the world. (A king was shot last night. Last night I held the joker and both bowers.)

From out the mesh of fate our heads we thrust. We can't do what we would, but what we must. Heredity has got us in a cinch. (Consoling thought, when you've been on a "bust.")