Derby Day in the Yukon Part 2

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 pa.s.sed 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'sc.r.a.pin' (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' b.u.t.ter, 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 s.h.i.+n-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' gla.s.sy eye; But says Pa, "Th' next election we'll bust th' d.a.m.n 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 s.h.i.+ns, F'r that sa.s.sy 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 wors.h.i.+p 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! G.o.d'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 G.o.d 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

We called him the King of the Klondike; but He really was "Mac."

He walked int' Dawson in tatters an' rags, His frozen feet tied in a pair of ol' bags, An' perceeded t' go on a couple of jags; Pack on his back.

He worked empty-bellied f'r many a day, Pore old Mac!

Stuck tight t' his diggin as if it was play; With a good game of poker 'till daylight he'd stay---- An' a gun he could han'le. I also might say He would crack

A fine joke. But he never was known Wasn't Mac.

T' refuse man 'r dog a crust 'r a bone.