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

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!

AN' IT'S "HI! YOU SKULKIN' HUSKY"! O'ER TH' WINTRY, WIND-SWEPT GROUND, THE DOG HIS LONE COMPANION-- AND THE SILENCE THAT IS SOUND!

Oh, the Arctic wilds are weary, and the Arctic nights are dreary; And Red-Jacket sometimes wonders why he's livin' th' wild life? Then he eyes th' British Flag; says: "GOD BLESS YOU, YOU OLD RAG! It's through courtin' YOU I've neither child nor wife"!

THEN A SHAMED AN' SILENT TEAR FALLS UPON THE ARCTIC SNOWS; AN' THE ANGUISH OF HIS HEART, GOD--AN' RED-JACKET, KNOWS!

Now, you folks, don't get hard thinkin' when Red-Jacket starts a-drinkin', An' he busts th' Ten Commandments into five-an'-twenty bits; When he hears th' bugles sound, ain't he fu'st upon th' ground? An' don't his "powders" cure 'em of the'r hell-damnation fits?

SO WE'LL DRINK T' YOU, RED-JACKET! GOD'S BLESSIN' ON Y'R HEAD; YOU'RE TH' BRITISH CON-STI-TOO-SHUN BOUND IN YELLA' STRIPES, AN' RED!

UP AGAINST IT

When y're up against it, don't get feelin' blue; Somewher' in this world of ours ther's a place f'r you. Y'r jes' a round peg in a squar', y' ain't th' proper fit; Keep turnin', twistin' every way--an' rise a little bit.

If we'd all we wanted in this whirlin' globe we're on, W'y we'd all begin t' grouch--then begin t' yawn; We'd get dead sick o' summer without a tech o' frost, An' Ex-pe-ri-ence we got t' hev' regardless of th' cost.

Oh, th' smell o' fightin' powder, that's th' perfume f'r th' nose; Without th' thorn in hidin' who'd care t' pluck th' Rose? An' th' tears that wet y'r pillo' at night when y' go t' bed, They'll wash away y'r troubles--an' y'r sins, tho' ruby red.

Boy, when y'r up against it, get y'r back agin' a fence An' swing that good ol' we'pon we used t' call "horse sense": Pitch off y'r coat--go at it jes' like a fightin' man; Throw up y'r head--glad y' ain't dead-- Then sluice y'r bench--an' pan!

Say, when y'r up against it, don't get feelin' blue; Ther's room t' spare, ther's plenty air; ain't that enough f'r you? Every bed-rock wash-up ain't all gold t' th' pan, But life CAN'T be a "failure" if y' play th' game a MAN!

HOW SLIPPERY PLAYED THE GAME

NO, TH' STORY AIN'T NEVER BIN TOLD AFORE, AS I'M TH' ON'Y MAN SEED TH' GAME PLAYED ON TH' DANCE-HALL FLOOR. I WAS THER' WHEN THE FUN BEGAN. AN' WHAT I SEE I TELL YOU STRAIGHT--TELL IT AS MAN TO MAN.

HOW SLIPPERY PLAYED THE GAME

"Lost ag'in!" yelled Slippery Jim, "Never a mo'sel o' luck in m' life! Yankee, you're on th' velvet agin!" Says Yankee: "Jim, let's play f'r a wife! There's Bonanza Pearl, she's sweet on you;-- Fairer 'card' no gambler ever drew!"

He had staked the dance-hall--staked the bar-- Then, reckless, staked the "Wonder" mine, Known on Bonanza near an' far As the lucky strike of Eighty-nine. Jim had played it all--an' lost! The sweat Come when he gasps: "It's my last--bet!"

Says Yank. "I stake my all 'gainst th' Girl." "An' if I win you, Bonanza Pearl, Your soul an' body no man denies B'longs t' me!" He stacked his gold, As a groan from Jim his agony told.

Now, Jim was a MAN. He funked no game;-- Says he: "I'll stake blood, bone an' life, But I'll put no woman to th' shame Of bein' played 'a chip' in tin-horn strife!" But Bonanza, she steps up t' him An' she says: "Y' COULDN'T LOSE ME, JIM!"

"Come," says Bonanza, "Turn up th' pack"; She skinned the bunch with a laughin' eye; I gets close up ahind Jim's back Ready t' let th' bullets fly. Th' two men playin' a round 'r so, An' the luck agin' Slippery seem'd t' go.

I felt like shootin' that gol-durn Jim, Losin' th' game with a stake like that; Wanted t' up an' lambaste him Chawin' of meat like a hungry cat: When, all at onct, sort o' swallerin' hard, I PERCEIVES JIM EATIN' THAT EXTRA CARD!

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!

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.

Then the pretty little crea'cher, boardin' 'round, th' country Teacher; 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' butter, 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 shin-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.

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 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' glassy eye; But says Pa, "Th' next election we'll bust th' damn 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 , "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 shins, F'r that sassy 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 worship 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! God'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 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

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