Rhymes Of A Rolling Stone Part 6

Yet how good it is to come Home at last, home, home!

On the clover swings the bee, overhead's the hale tree; Sky of turquoise gleams through, yonder glints the lake's blue.

In a hammock let's swing, weary of wandering; Tired of wild, uncertain lands, strange faces, faint hands.

Has the wondrous world gone cold? Am I growing old, old?

Grey and weary . . . let me dream, glide on the tranquil stream.

Oh, what joyous days I've had, full, fervid, gay, glad!

Yet there comes a subtile change, let the stripling rove, range.

From sweet roving comes sweet rest, after all, home's best.

And if there's a little bit of woman-love with it, I will count my life content, G.o.d-blest and well spent. . . .

_Oh but it is good to be Foot-loose and heart-free!

Yet how good it is to come Home at last, home, home!_

Barb-Wire Bill

At dawn of day the white land lay all gruesome-like and grim, When Bill Mc'Gee he says to me: "We've _GOT_ to do it, Jim.

We've got to make Fort Liard quick. I know the river's bad, But, oh! the little woman's sick . . . why! don't you savvy, lad?"

And me! Well, yes, I must confess it wasn't hard to see Their little family group of two would soon be one of three.

And so I answered, careless-like: "Why, Bill! you don't suppose I'm scared of that there 'babbling brook'? Whatever you say -- goes."

A real live man was Barb-wire Bill, with insides copper-lined; For "barb-wire" was the brand of "hooch" to which he most inclined.

They knew him far; his igloos are on Kittiegazuit strand.

They knew him well, the tribes who dwell within the Barren Land.

From Koyokuk to Kuskoquim his fame was everywhere; And he did love, all life above, that little Julie Claire, The lithe, white slave-girl he had bought for seven hundred skins, And taken to his wickiup to make his moccasins.

We crawled down to the river bank and feeble folk were we, That Julie Claire from G.o.d-knows-where, and Barb-wire Bill and me.

From sh.o.r.e to sh.o.r.e we heard the roar the heaving ice-floes make, And loud we laughed, and launched our raft, and followed in their wake.

The river swept and seethed and leapt, and caught us in its stride; And on we hurled amid a world that crashed on every side.

With sullen din the banks caved in; the sh.o.r.e-ice lanced the stream; The naked floes like spooks arose, all jiggling and agleam.

Black anchor-ice of strange device shot upward from its bed, As night and day we cleft our way, and arrow-like we sped.

But "Faster still!" cried Barb-wire Bill, and looked the live-long day In dull despair at Julie Claire, as white like death she lay.

And sometimes he would seem to pray and sometimes seem to curse, And bent above, with eyes of love, yet ever she grew worse.

And as we plunged and leapt and lunged, her face was plucked with pain, And I could feel his nerves of steel a-quiver at the strain.

And in the night he gripped me tight as I lay fast asleep: "The river's kicking like a steer . . . run out the forward sweep!

That's h.e.l.l-gate Canyon right ahead; I know of old its roar, And . . . I'll be d.a.m.ned! _THE ICE IS JAMMED!_ We've _GOT_ to make the sh.o.r.e."

With one wild leap I gripped the sweep. The night was black as sin.

The float-ice crashed and ripped and smashed, and stunned us with its din.

And near and near, and clear and clear I heard the canyon boom; And swift and strong we swept along to meet our awful doom.

And as with dread I glimpsed ahead the death that waited there, My only thought was of the girl, the little Julie Claire; And so, like demon mad with fear, I panted at the oar, And foot by foot, and inch by inch, we worked the raft ash.o.r.e.

The bank was staked with grinding ice, and as we sc.r.a.ped and crashed, I only knew one thing to do, and through my mind it flashed: Yet while I groped to find the rope, I heard Bill's savage cry: "That's my job, lad! It's me that jumps. I'll snub this raft or die!"

I saw him leap, I saw him creep, I saw him gain the land; I saw him crawl, I saw him fall, then run with rope in hand.

And then the darkness gulped him up, and down we dashed once more, And nearer, nearer drew the jam, and thunder-like its roar.

Oh G.o.d! all's lost . . . from Julie Claire there came a wail of pain, And then -- the rope grew sudden taut, and quivered at the strain; It slacked and slipped, it whined and gripped, and oh, I held my breath!

And there we hung and there we swung right in the jaws of death.

A little strand of hempen rope, and how I watched it there, With all around a h.e.l.l of sound, and darkness and despair; A little strand of hempen rope, I watched it all alone, And somewhere in the dark behind I heard a woman moan; And somewhere in the dark ahead I heard a man cry out, Then silence, silence, silence fell, and mocked my hollow shout.

And yet once more from out the sh.o.r.e I heard that cry of pain, A moan of mortal agony, then all was still again.

That night was h.e.l.l with all the frills, and when the dawn broke dim, I saw a lean and level land, but never sign of him.

I saw a flat and frozen sh.o.r.e of hideous device, I saw a long-drawn strand of rope that vanished through the ice.

And on that treeless, rockless sh.o.r.e I found my partner -- dead.

No place was there to snub the raft, so -- _HE HAD SERVED INSTEAD_; And with the rope lashed round his waist, in last defiant fight, He'd thrown himself beneath the ice, that closed and gripped him tight; And there he'd held us back from death, as fast in death he lay. . . .

Say, boys! I'm not the pious brand, but -- I just tried to pray.

And then I looked to Julie Claire, and sore abashed was I, For from the robes that covered her, _I -- HEARD -- A -- BABY -- CRY_. . . .

Thus was Love conqueror of death, and life for life was given; And though no saint on earth, d'ye think -- Bill's squared hisself with Heaven?

If you had the choice of two women to wed, (Though of course the idea is quite absurd) And the first from her heels to her dainty head Was charming in every sense of the word: And yet in the past (I grieve to state), She never had been exactly "straight".

And the second -- she was beyond all cavil, A model of virtue, I must confess; And yet, alas! she was dull as the devil, And rather a dowd in the way of dress; Though what she was lacking in wit and beauty, She more than made up for in "sense of duty".

Now, suppose you must wed, and make no blunder, And either would love you, and let you win her -- Which of the two would you choose, I wonder, The stolid saint or the sparkling sinner?

Just Think!

Just think! some night the stars will gleam Upon a cold, grey stone, And trace a name with silver beam, And lo! 'twill be your own.

That night is speeding on to greet Your epitaphic rhyme.

Your life is but a little beat Within the heart of Time.

A little gain, a little pain, A laugh, lest you may moan; A little blame, a little fame, A star-gleam on a stone.

The Lunger