Derby Day in the Yukon Part 4

Billy Bird was know'd as a bar-room b.u.m; Be'n a trader out on th' plains; Be'n a timber rafter, a fourth-ward grafter, Hadn't no conshunce, hadn't no brains; But was well perserv'd in Rum.

He hailed frum Mi-sou-ri 'r Michi-gan; Was cook in a lumber camp; Run a Wild West show, then turn'd hobo, Was an all-roun' fu'st cla.s.s tramp;-- 'N y' couldn't call him a "man."

He'd b'en kicked an' cussed like a mongrel pup, An' a c.o.c.k-fight was his creed; An' eye out o' joint was another bad point, But with th' one left he see'd Far enough t' hit th' cup!

He'd th' wanderin' itch in his lazy heels (With th' luck that comes t' sich); F'r one day, dead drunk, that mis'ble skunk Struck a vein that made him rich.

Y' sh'd hear Billy Bird's squeals:--

"I'm richer'n Creesus!" (this he howled); "I've th' biggest strike aroun'; I'm a reg'lar gent!" (Here his bre'th was spent An' he tumbles upon th' groun'); B' his luck Billy Bird got fouled.

Clumb up on a kag t' make a speech.

Says he: "I'm th' Turrible Turk!

I'm a millionaire, an' I'll curl th' hair Of th' man says I need work!

Me? I'm a rainbow out of reach!

"I'm off t' Noo York t' get int' th' swirl; Tip them waiters ten-dollar bills; I'm a millionaire! Don't I wear th' air That goes with th' pace that kills?

An' I'm goin' t' pick my Girl!

"I'll buy her di'mon's t' blaze her front, An' th' best champagne we'll spill; An' I'll murder th' man as says what he can See I ain't no gent! Me, Bill!

An' I tell y' that's MY stunt!

"I'll buy a floor in th' big ho-tel; I'll dazzle th' chamber-maids; Fifth Avenoo style in my auto-mo-bile I'll speed her up with my jades; I'll show 'em a Yukon swell!

"I'll dine on snakes fried in burnin' oil, An' dance till th' cows come home; As an aftermath take a champagne bath An' shampoo with a curry-comb; All done up accordin' t' Hoyle.

"Then I'll hike t' bed with a great, big, head,-- Yellin': 'CALL WHEN THE CLOCK HITS FOUR!'

An' I'll wait with a grin till th' 'call' comes in, An' Bra.s.s b.u.t.tons knocks at th' door, An' he thinks I'm sleepin' dead!

"Bra.s.s b.u.t.tons 'tap, tap, tap' on th' door:-- 'Millionaire, it is four A. M.!'

An' I'll bust that door with a Yukon roar: Howlin: 'Say! d'ye know WHO I AM?'

An' I'll rouse 'em on every floor!

"W'en th' house comes runnin' up I'll yell:-- 'WOW! I'm a millionaire!

I DON'T HEV' T' GET UP, y' blankety Pup!'

An' the'r eyes stickin' out 'll stare, While I send 'em plumb t' h----ll!"

P. S.--BILLY BIRD, MILLIONAIRE, REACHED WINNIPEG, WHERE PEROXIDE BLONDES PULLED BILLY BIRD'S LEG.

YOU'LL FIND HIM TO-DAY IN A YUKON S'LOON SLUs.h.i.+N' BEER TO TH' SAME OLD PLAYED-OUT TUNE:-- "O! THEM GURLS THEY PULLED MY LAIG!"

INVITATION

I bring you a prairie greeting Crested with sunlight sheen, A picture of mountains rising To snow-capped heights of green; A call from the happy home-land Where human hearts beat warm, Where western corn-fields beckon And shelter from life's storm.

London, thy heart of riches Hath the pulse-beat of unrest, Where the many know no shelter, Where the babe weeps at the breast All bared to the winter s.h.i.+ver, Where the hearth-fire, cold and dead, Is darkened by the shadow And Shapes of the underfed.

Oh, the hopeless, heavy-burdened Bearers of woe and pain,-- Mere human stones in the highway Of London's greed and gain.

There weeps the child whom sadness And want have made their own; There weeps the old, whom gladness Is a stranger, and unknown.

Oh, come to the land of Plenty Where the gates swing open, wide; Where all mankind stand equal---- Where toil is a boast--a pride: Where the silken palm clasps the h.o.r.n.y hand When the long day's work is done, Where new life is born in the growing corn In the land of the Setting Sun.

NOTE.--Written in January, 1907, after seeing 700 men and women fed by Charity on the Thames embankment as "Big Ben" struck ONE A. M.

JIM

[Ill.u.s.tration: WHEN I MET WITH JIM ALONG THE DAWSON TRAIL]

JIM

'Twas th' days of th' stampede--I was of th' hobo breed---- When I met with Jim along th' Dawson trail; F'r Bonanza I was strikin'; an' Jim? well, he was hikin'

Along th' road t' Anywhere--Jerusalam or jail.

Seemed t' me how all th' people had got soured in his steeple, But for wimmin most of all he'd bitter thoughts; But we got on quite congenial, him a gen'leman--me menial, And I got t' kind of likin' Jim----in spots!

But he wouldn't stick t' minin'. He was always drunk an' whinin'; An' th' boys was glad the day he quit th' camp; Next I see him with th' crowd down at Dawson, an' I 'lowed I never see a bigger, low-down scamp.

Was he single? Was he marri'd? I dunno', but sure he carried A little bit of locket on his breast, And onct I see him open it--but that was in a dopin' fit---- An' I laugh'd t' see Jim's mouth ag'in it pressed!

But a fella' will act loony when he's full an' feelin' spoony, Howsumever, Jim an' me went differ'nt ways; Me an' th' boys with pans a-was.h.i.+n' cricks on old Bonanza, An' when I met with Jim ag'in 'twas after many days.

Bad hootch an' rotten food fetched th' scurvy quick an' good, An' tho' I'd made my millions it didn't help me out; I was side-tracked by th' fever, in th' hands of G.o.d's Receiver, An' th' s.e.xton he most had me b' th' snout!

But them dandy little Sisters, them as cooked us with the'r blisters, Made us swaller swill we hated "'cos th' Doctor said 'twas good"; One I liked called "Sister Mary"--she was tiny as a Fairy-- 'Twas a sin to hide her beauty anunder a black hood.

Her face, tho' never smilin', had a look that was beguilin'; Her blue eyes they would wander far away, Jes' as if her heart was crawlin' to some Voice as was a-callin': "MARY, LITTLE MARY!" night an' day.

This was my fool-brain a-ravin'; I couldn't be behavin'

For th' fever to my guts was eatin' in; But her hand upon th' pillo' was like foam upon th' billo', When she spoke t' us of One who pardon'd sin.

Lord, how th' fever got 'em! Lord, how th' Doctors fought 'em!

How them Sisters stood th' racket night an' day: Talk of Angils? Up in heaven don't believe as you'd find Seven Could beat them a-makin' plasters, or beat 'em on the Pray!

Well, one mornin' when I waken I see th' next bed taken By a feller, as was ravin' like a loon; Sich a face! All hair an' blotches (th' kind th' fever scotches)---- An' I says, says I: "His Nibs'll ketch you soon!"

If they'd fine-tooth-combed creation f'r my personal elation To rake in a friend an' leave him lyin' there, Why, they couldn't a-done better with a Dawson lawyer's letter, F'r'twas JIM beneath th' blotches an' th' hair!

He was ravin', he was mutterin'; he was swearin', he was stutterin'; Sister Mary trippin' round him like a little drift o' snow, An' she hovered as a dove might with flutterin' wings of white light, So softly that you'd wonder did she come or did she go?