Read Ebook: Derby Day in the Yukon and Other Poems of the Northland by Hayes Kate Simpson

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Ebook has 175 lines and 16574 words, and 4 pages

Page

GREETING 11

DERBY DAY IN THE YUKON 17

THE MALAMUTE 23

RED-JACKET 29

UP AGAINST IT 35

HOW SLIPPERY PLAYED THE GAME 39

HEROES 47

LOWER-FLAT ANNALS 53

THE TRAIL 61

THE KING OF THE KLONDIKE 67

GHOSTS 75

AN ANGEL 81

BILLY BIRD'S CELEBRATION 87

INVITATION 93

JIM 97

TALE OF THE CHE-CHA-KO 107

ST. BONIFACE FIRE BRIGADE 113

WINDY 119

MY SONG 127

THE MALAMUTE Frontispiece

RED-JACKET, BULLY BOY HE IS facing p. 29

WHEN I MET WITH JIM ALONG THE DAWSON TRAIL 97

PRAY, SIR, HAVE YOU SEEN MR. MARMADUKE? 121

GREETING

TO ROBERT W. SERVICE

GREETING

I staked out Eldorado crick Long 'fore th' world was told Them hills from Hunker to St. Mick Groaned f'r th' drill an' f'r th' pick, The'r bellies achin' GOLD! Where many a night th' moon pale white saw me in blankets rolled.

Yes, yes--I failed! Yes, yes, a drink! An' then my pipe I'll fill. Boy, here's t' you--y'r picter's true Of them old sinners that I knew On old Che-cha-ko Hill; But say, old man, y' overlooked my friend, "Swiftwater Bill!"

DERBY DAY IN THE YUKON

Talk of England's Derby Race; of Kentucky's blue-grass chase; Epsom Downs an' Frisco "Tanforan" t' boot; I don't say they ain't done well, but I tell y' even h--ll Couldn't match th' Yukon racin' malamoot.

How them dogs they love th' Race! Y' kin see it in th' face Of th' starvin' scut that hangs aroun' th' claim; F'r he knows, like you an' me, that th' Derby Day'll be Th' big jag day--th' glad rag play, that brings th' Yukon fame.

It was Fool's Day f'r th' Race; every husky in his place; Wasky's dogs was runnin' Billy Brown of Nome; But at th' Starter's line ranged up Jake Berger's Nine, Ten t' one THEY'D bring th' Derby money home!

Oh, th' run was cruel hard--th' white frost how it scarred As they galloped down th' long, unending trail; The whip cut like th' wind, an' Carey's dog, snow-blind, Joined his howlin' t' th' screeches of th' gale.

Two-an'-eighty hours they raced--an' four hunderd-miles they paced, Them dogs never paused f'r frozen fish 'r drink; Hung with icicles of foam, the'r lithe bodies stretched whale-bone,-- BUT THEY BROKE THE RECORD MADE BY JIMMIE FINK!

Cursed, an' kicked, an' whipped ahead, th' dumb brutes, staggerin', bled Where th' whip cut cruel in; but comes th' feast When at Nome t'morrow night there'll be brawl an' drink, an' fight; An' no tellin' which is man an' which is beast.

Then th' dumb an' winded brute--th' blood-blinded malamoot, All frosted foam is gaspin' upon th' bar-room floor; He, the WINNER OF TH' RACE! in th' glory has no place; He's jes' a slinkin' malamoot when Derby Day is o'er!

THE MALAMUTE

Hi, there! Into your harness of thong! You get into your place; Give him the lash, Bill. Eh? What's wrong? See that look in the mal'mute's face:-- Is it devilish cunning o'ermastering pain? Some lost soul reincarnate again, Running Sin's last race.

Come skulkin' into the camp last June, A leprous, mangy cur; Reasty and rotten--bayed at th' Moon As if you'd a grudge 'gainst her. All fester and soil--corruption and boil; Your evil face like some carved gargoyle, And you refused to stir

Though I broke th' lash on your back, YOU subjugated me:-- You proved the master--I proved the hack, For, plainly I could see You'd been sent back to earth to work out y'r sin, And y' came straight t' me, a larrikin; An' why did you come to me?

What were you There? Unregenerate thief, A derelict from your birth? Were you a church-going pharisee, That Belial of this earth? Was your lecherous, lutish, animal mind Drawn to me as one of your kind? Your grin betrays your mirth.

Well, me an' you, Mal'mute, stand chums; We won't each other despise; The camp may call us a couple o' bums But we hold our own assize: We stand for Arbitration straight-- An' mebbe' some day, at St. Peter's Gate We'll look in each other's eyes.

Ah, you leprous devil! you taught me how To fumigate my soul From wanton ways and dicing days, And lush of the flowing bowl: I'm steeped in guilt right up to the hilt, Worshipped in temples of Shame I've built, And Pleasure's been my goal,

But here with you in th' hinter-world Where there's nothing pure but snow, Some words long dumb t' my lips have come, A prayer that I used to know:-- "OUR--FATHER!"--I wonder will HE refute A fellow that learns of a malamute T' take th' kick an' blow?

RED-JACKET

Where it's eighty below zero, there you'll find the Northland hero, Red-Jacket; bully Boy he is--sure thing he fills the bill! In that trackless waste of snow, where the Northern Lights hang low, He is doing deeds of daring that would make your pulses thrill:--

AN' WE'LL DRINK T' YOU, RED-JACKET; THE EQUATOR OF YOUR VEST BUNCHES ALL THE PRIDE AN' GLORY OF TH' WILD AN' WOOLLY WEST!

Red-Jacket does no askin', but he's ready for th' taskin' When they sling him out his orders, with a hunk o' pemmican; An' he'll travel day an' night after Red-man or bad white, An' he'll go through hell-an'-blazes, BUT HE'LL NEVER MISS HIS MAN!

HE LAUGHS AT DEATH AN' DANGER, FOR TH' CHIN-STRAP ON HIS JAW IS TH' LINK THAT BINDS CREATION:-- BRITISH FAIR-PLAY, AN' TH'--LAW!

The spur hitched to his heel--at his hip th' gleam of steel,-- With his belly-band strapped tighter his hunger to forget, He may drop upon th' track BUT YOU BET HE WON'T TURN BACK-- For it's duty, Duty, DUTY! That's Red-Jacket's am-u-let!

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