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 GOLDSMITH 
 
 OF 
 
 V NO ME 
 
 AND OTHER VERSE 
 
 SAM C DUNHAM 
 
 COVER DESIGN 
 BY THE AUTHOR. 
 
 WASHINGTON. D. C. 
 
 The Neale Publishing Company 
 
 431 ELEVENTH STREET 
 
 MCMI 
 
THE LIBRARY OF 
 
 CONGRESS, 
 Two Copies Received 
 
 MAR. 29 1901 
 
 Copyright entry 
 
 CLASSd XXc. N». 
 
 COPY B. 
 
 f'S 
 
 <0 ^ 
 
 Copyrighted, 1901. 
 By Samuel C. Dunham. 
 
To the workers on the Yukon, who 
 through the long, cold winter of nation- 
 al neglect have been patiently working 
 while watching and waiting for the ice 
 to melt. 
 
 iii 
 
PREFACE 
 
 These verses were written while the author was 
 under assignment to Northern Alaska in 1897-1898 aa 
 a Statistical Expert of the Department of Labor, and 
 in 1899-1900 as a Special Agent of the Twelfth Cen- 
 sus. They are the free expression of some sentiments 
 which "Official Courtesy" quite properly excluded 
 from his formal reports to the Commissioner of 
 Labor and the Director of the Census. Most of them 
 have appeared in various newspapers — The New 
 York Sim, The San Francisco Examiner, The Wash- 
 ington Post, The Illustrated London News, and 
 others. They are presented as an appeal from the 
 tax-burdened and unrepresented people of Alaska to 
 tae Government at Washington for relief from the 
 wrongs which they have Dorne too patiently for 
 twenty years. 
 
 In 1900 Alaska paid into the Treasury of the 
 United States revenues averaging $1,207.43 for every 
 day in the year. For what? 
 
 SAM C. DUNHAM. 
 
 Washington, D. C, March l, 1901. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 The Men Who Blaze the Trail 9 
 
 Comrades of the Klondike 11 
 
 A Reply 13 
 
 Why the Devil Never Visits the Yukon 15 
 
 Arctic Lightning 19 
 
 Just Back from Dawson 20 
 
 Sence I Come Back from Dawson 25 
 
 I'm Goin' Back to Dawson 30 
 
 To Joaquin Miller 36 
 
 Alaska to Uncle Sam 37 
 
 Thoughts Suggested by My Forty-fifth Birthday 42 
 
 The Lament of the Old Sour Dough 44 
 
 The Goldsmith of Nome 48 
 
 Since the Judge Left Here for Nome 59 
 
 To the Yukon Order of Pioneers 64 
 
 A Greeting to the Swedes 68 
 
 The Poor Swede 71 
 
 Starving Once, Receiving Now 72 
 
 Homeward Bound 74 
 
 To the Yukon Sour Doughs 77 
 
 vll 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 Let others sing of those who've won 
 
 Full hoard of virgin gold! 
 I strike the lyre for those who've none. 
 
 But yet are strong and bold, — 
 Who've blazed the trails through a pathless waste 
 And on the world's new chart have traced 
 The lines which lead where the treasure's placed, 
 
 And all their secrets told. 
 
 They search the streams and hillsides rend, 
 
 The hidden truth to learn; 
 They trudge where land and sky-line blend. 
 
 And gaze till eyeballs burn; 
 They scale bleak heights whence vast plains sweep, 
 And sow for those who come to reap. 
 While wives and sweethearts in homeland weep 
 
 And pray for their return. 
 
lO THE MEN WHO BI,AZE THE TRAII, 
 
 Afar in regions of night-gloomed day 
 
 Their slender shadows leap; 
 O'er snow-crowned peaks they fight their way 
 
 To where the Gold-gods sleep; 
 Where the congelations of the ages lie, 
 And athwart the dome of the midnight sky 
 Aurora's moon-drenched splendors fly. 
 
 Onward their footsteps creep. 
 
 Out where Deathland, reft of bush or tree. 
 
 Spreads like a sun-browned lawn; 
 To the verge of the rigid, ice-locked sea, 
 
 Where twilight greets the dawn; 
 Where a sheenless moon sails the sunlit night, 
 Where inert and dim bides the Mystic Light, 
 And the white swan ends his vernal flight. 
 They still are pressing on. 
 
 So while others sing of the chosen few 
 
 Who o'er the Pates prevail, 
 I will sing of the many, staunch and true. 
 
 Whose brave hearts never quail, — 
 Who with dauntless spirit of pioneers 
 A state are building for the coming years. 
 Their sole reward their loved ones' tears, — 
 
 The men who blaze the trail! 
 
 Circle City, Jan. 1, 1898. 
 
COMRADES OF THE KLONDIKE 
 
 I 
 
 Have you, too, banged at the Chilkoot, 
 That storm-locked gate to the golden door? 
 Those thunder-built steeps have words built to suit, 
 And whether you prayed or whether you swore, 
 'Twere one, where it seemed that an oath were a 
 
 prayer, — 
 Seemed that God couldn't care. 
 Seemed that God wasn't there! 
 
 II 
 
 Have you, too, climbed to the Klondike? 
 
 Hast talked as a friend to the five-horned stars? 
 
 With muckluc shoon and with talspike 
 
 Hast bared gray head to the golden bars. 
 
 Those heaven-built bars where Morning is born? 
 
 Hast drunk with Maiden Morn 
 
 From Klondike's golden horn? 
 
 11 
 
COMRADES OF THE KI^ONDIKE 
 
 III 
 
 Hast read, low-voiced, by the Northliglits 
 
 Such sermons as never men say? 
 
 Hast sat and sat with the Midnights, 
 
 That sit and that sit all day? 
 
 Hast heard the iceberg's boom on boom? 
 
 Hast heard the silence, the room? 
 
 The glory of God, the gloom? 
 
 IV 
 
 Then come to my sunland, my soldier, — 
 Aye, come to my heart, and to stay! 
 For better crusader or bolder 
 Bared never his breast to the fray, 
 And whether you prayed or you cursed. 
 You dared the best — and the worst — 
 That ever brave man durst. 
 
 Joaquin Miller. 
 
 Ctrclb City, Oct. 19, 1897. 
 
A REPLY 
 
 I, too, have banged at the Chilkoot; 
 
 I have scaled her storm-torn height 
 
 And slid down her trail with dizzy shoot 
 
 That produced a Northern Light; 
 
 And I uttered a curse-laden prayer, — 
 
 Of course God didn't care. 
 
 For only the Devil was there. 
 
 II 
 
 I, too, have climbed to the Klondike, 
 
 Through bog and muck and roots. 
 
 Till my legs were as stiff as thy talspike 
 
 And the water filled both of my boots; 
 
 Have drunk from golden horn 
 
 With maidens, night to morn, — 
 
 I acknowledge the corn. 
 
 18 
 
14 A REPI^Y 
 
 III 
 
 Have heard, loud-voiced, by the Northlighta 
 
 Such oaths as only men say; 
 
 Have lain awake through the midnights 
 
 And fought mosquitoes all day; 
 
 Cursed Klondike's— not the iceberg's— boom, 
 
 And paid an ounce for a room. 
 
 Which filled my soul with gloom. 
 
 IV 
 
 My friend, I'll come to thy sunland 
 
 As soon as this long winter's o'er, 
 
 And I'll drink to thy health in the one land 
 
 Whither thy thoughts ever soar; 
 
 And though this drought be the worst 
 
 That ever humanity cursed, 
 
 At last we'll banish our thirst. 
 
 Circle City, Oct. 21, 1897. 
 
WHY THE DEVIL NEVER VISITS THE YUKON 
 
 The Devil one day, so the sagas say, 
 
 Taking his Christmas vacation. 
 On outstretched pinions sailed this war, 
 
 In search of souls for damnation. 
 
 With malice prepense, the cold was intense 
 
 (It always is in this section), 
 And our unclad friend, in his innocence, 
 Came without proper protection. 
 
 (There are others, I'm told, who, equally hold, 
 Come here from a warmer climate, 
 
 To find that they're a soft snap for the cold, 
 Just like hell's thin-hlooded primate). 
 
 In the pathless wood a lone wigwam stood. 
 Not far from the ice-hound river. 
 
 And in hope of finding there warmth and food, 
 Nick shook the flap with a shiver. 
 
 15 
 
l6 WHY THK DEVIIv NEVKR VISITS THE YUKON 
 
 No strangers to sin, they quick took him in, 
 And he stood with back to the fire 
 
 While the host prepared a big moose-skin 
 And "night-cap" on which to retire. 
 
 He cursed the weather, and asked them whether 
 There was any hope for a change; 
 
 He switched his tail like a thong of leather 
 And said that its fork felt strange. 
 
 A maiden half-fair, with raven-black hair 
 And a beautiful bear-tooth brooch, 
 
 Handed our friend, without offering a chair, 
 A cup of the stuff they call "hootch." 
 
 Now I wasn't there, but the sagas declare 
 
 The draught he quaffed was a rank one, — 
 
 A fact to which it is needless to swear 
 Before a man who has drank one. 
 
 Our cold friend from hell gave a fiendish yell. 
 And soon ail his limbs were jerkin'. 
 
 And flat on the ground convulsive he fell. 
 For the hootch had got its work in. 
 
WHY THK DEVI I, NEVER VISITS THE YUKON 1 7 
 
 He opened his eyes, now looking crosswise. 
 And asked who it was that slugged him, 
 
 And opened them wider, in wild surprise. 
 
 When he learned they had only drugged him. 
 
 When ahle to walk and freely to talk. 
 
 He asked them what was in it. 
 And the chief concoctor, without a balk. 
 
 Told him in less than a minute: 
 
 "With most cunning skill we concoct the swill 
 
 Of sugar, sour dough and berries. 
 And sell it to white men by quart or gill 
 
 In spite of the missionaries. 
 
 "But while it is bad, I am very glad 
 
 To say that high-wines are worse; 
 The white chiefs import them, which makes us sad 
 
 And puts a big kink in our purse. 
 
 "That unrectified sin the whites smuggle in 
 
 Will kill if you don't dilute it,— 
 A thing which they do, large profits to win; 
 
 No one will dare to dispute it." 
 
l8 WHY THE DEVII, NKVKR VISITS THK YUKON 
 
 As pale as grim Death and with quickened breath, 
 Old Nick gasped, "I'll hie me southward, 
 
 And prone on the sulphurous marge of Lethe, 
 I'll dash its sweet waters mouthward. 
 
 "That infernal stuff is quite strong enough 
 
 To run a small hell without me; 
 I firmly believe I'll carry its rough 
 
 Effects for a year about me." 
 
 He then climbed the sky, and with curdling cry 
 Soared off through the azure, sinwards, 
 
 In the well-stocked sideboards of hell to try 
 To find something to soothe his inwards. 
 
 And up to this day, so the sagas say. 
 The Devil files shy of this region, 
 
 Contented, aye! glad, to resign his sway 
 To Hootch and his High-wine Legion. 
 
 Circle City, Jan. 8, 1898. 
 
ARCTIC UGHTNKSG 
 
 Far out where the sullen darkness 
 
 Palls the silent, ice-chained sea, 
 Spring, low-arched, the fragile Northlights 
 
 O'er the realm of mystery; 
 From their haunts beneath the crescent. 
 
 Where the murky shadows lie, 
 Come Aurora's pale magicians. 
 
 With their festoons for the sky. 
 And while the Color Sergeant musters 
 
 His Immortal Seven 
 To hang their banners from the dome 
 
 And drape the walls of heaven. 
 Straight he hurls his shafts of silver 
 
 High up in the star-gemmed blue, 
 Where the wraiths of light, soft-tinted 
 
 And of swiftly-changing hue. 
 Through the long and ghostly vigils 
 
 Of the voiceless Arctic night 
 Weirdly gleam and faintly whisper 
 
 As they tremble out of sight. 
 Circle City, Feb. 22, 1898. 
 
 19 
 
JUST BACK FROM DAWSON 
 
 I've just got back from Dawson, where the Arctic 
 
 rainbow ends, 
 An' the swiftly-rushin' Klondike with the mighty 
 
 Yukon blends; 
 Where the sun on Christmas mornin' in the act of 
 
 risin' sets, 
 So that just a minit's sunshine is all that region 
 
 gets; 
 An' the rimplin' midnight glories through the moon- 
 tranced heavens fly, 
 While the guileless sour-dough miners set around 
 
 the stove and lie 
 'Bout the good old times at Circle, 'fore the smooth 
 
 promoters came 
 An' set the country boomin' in a way that is a 
 
 shame. 
 
 '20 
 
JUST BACK FROM DAWSON 
 
 I've just got back from Dawson, where the large mos- 
 quitoes sing. 
 
 An' soon as they forsake the camp, their small suc- 
 cessors sting; 
 
 Where 'long about the last of June the sun again 
 surprises 
 
 The new-arrived inhabitants, an' while it's settin' 
 rises ; 
 
 Where the price of pay-streak bacon is two dollars 
 for a pound. 
 
 An' to treat your friends at Spencer's costs an ounce 
 or two a round, 
 
 An' they sell Seattle cider, in the guise of dry cham- 
 pagne. 
 
 Which institoots a lingerin' drunk that's very far 
 from plain. 
 
 I've just returned from Dawson, where the charge 
 
 for anteek eggs 
 Makes considerable difference in length of buyers' 
 
 legs; 
 Where our helpful friends in Washington, misled by 
 
 bad advice. 
 Concluded they could operate steam enjines on th« 
 
 ice, 
 An' are tryin' now the reindeer, a-feedin' them on 
 
 moss, 
 But wherever they've been tried eo far there's been 
 
 a heavy loss. 
 
JUST BACK FROM DAWSON 
 
 While all the old trail-breakers to their pet traditions 
 
 cling 
 An' still maintain with vehemence — "the dog's the 
 
 proper thing." 
 
 I've just reached here from Dawson, where I seen 
 
 Frank Slavin spar. 
 An' also seen his victim a-revivin' at the bar 
 While Frank shook hands with all his friends an' 
 
 loudly did declare 
 That he could lick Fitzsimmons, too, if he was only 
 
 there; 
 An' seen Oklahoma Wilson attempt to instigate 
 A coop de Colt, but ere his gun became articulate 
 They yanked him to the barracks in a way he won't 
 
 forget, 
 An' to cultivate his harmlessness they're boardin' 
 
 him there yet. 
 
 I've just come out from Dawson, where everybody's 
 
 health 
 Is bein' undermined an' ruined in a wild-eyed rush 
 
 for wealth. 
 An' a score or so of schemers, on evil projects bent, 
 Are robbin* the community to a terrible extent; 
 Where the men who dig the treasure are strong an' 
 
 brave an' bold. 
 
JUST BACK FROM DAWSON 23 
 
 Wrenchin' from the glacier's bowels stockin's full 
 
 of yellow gold, 
 While the transportation pirates slyly syndicate their 
 
 gall 
 With the criminal intention of absorbin' of it all. 
 
 I've just escaped from Dawson, where the ice grows 
 
 ten feet thick. 
 An' doods who like their baths served cold don't take 
 
 'em in a crick; 
 Where no one, be he rich or poor, is ever dubbed a 
 
 "hero" 
 Till he has done his hundred miles at 60 less than 
 
 zero; 
 Where men chop water out in chunks an' pile it on 
 
 the banks, 
 An' make their hot-air heaters out of empty coal-oil 
 
 tanks. 
 An' read back-number papers by the unobtrusive rays 
 Of tallow-dips an' davy lamps — dim lights of other 
 
 days. 
 
 I've just emerged from Dawson, a bad financial 
 
 wreck. 
 For instead of gettin' dust galore, I got it in the 
 
 neck, 
 Where Adam got the apple in tnat episode with 
 
 Eve» 
 
24 JUST BACK ^ROM DAWSON 
 
 Which led to woe an' stern decree that they would 
 
 have to leave, 
 Like thirty thousand other jays, by golden visions 
 
 lured, 
 Who climbed the trails, through hardships to which 
 
 they weren't inured, 
 To find that them Dominion knaves, by dastardly 
 
 deceits, 
 Had concessioned everything in sight an' even leased 
 
 the streets. 
 
 Washington, D. C, Nov. 25, 1898. 
 
8ENCE I COME BACK FROM DAWSOfJ 
 
 Sence I come back from Dawson to these old famil- 
 iar scenes, 
 
 I've read the yaller journals an' the 10-cent maga- 
 zines, 
 
 An' to sort o' classify events an' find out what oc- 
 curred 
 
 While I was hihernatin' where the light of God was 
 blurred, 
 
 I've been searchin' through the columns of the daily 
 picture-press, 
 
 To see if I could ascertain, or formulate a guess. 
 
 Why the scribblers who last autumn so artistically 
 lied 
 
 *Bout the riches of the Klondike concluded to sub- 
 side. 
 
 25 
 
26 SENCE I COMK BACK FROM DAWSON 
 
 Then every trail was occupied by journalistic beats 
 Who represented (with slim cards) all saffron-tinted 
 
 sheets 
 From Seattle to Savannah an' from Bangor to Du- 
 
 luth, 
 But nary one of them was there to represent the 
 
 truth. 
 They stumbled up the Chilkoot an' they loafed along 
 
 the lakes. 
 An' when not a-photographin' things or writin' up 
 
 their fakes, 
 Imbibed raw rum from Hudson Bay, an' dressed in 
 
 goffin' suits. 
 Stood 'round an' told old-timers 'bout the shortest 
 
 Klondike roots. 
 
 Now I've gathered from my readin' that the reason 
 
 why they quit 
 Writin' lies about the Klondike was, as lawyers say, 
 
 to-wit: 
 Havin' placed us in cold storage an' done all the 
 
 harm they could. 
 They felt a awful cravin' for a brand of booze that's 
 
 good. 
 An* left at once to sponge it, an' unable to refrain 
 From causin' people trouble, they arranged a war 
 
 with Spain, 
 
S^NCE I COMK BACK FROM DAWSON 27 
 
 An' to properly conduct the same, rushed bravely to 
 
 the front 
 An' led all the gallant charges an' bore the battle's 
 
 brunt. 
 
 Now, while us Klondike refugees most greevusly de- 
 plore 
 
 The mournful fact so few of them passed to the other 
 shore, 
 
 Our grief is curtailed by the thought which punctu- 
 ates our sobs. 
 
 That some of them who were not killed have lately 
 lost their jobs. 
 
 An' sence my feelin's is aroused, some words I've got 
 to say 
 
 About the highly lucrative an' lowly sinful way 
 
 The experts an' perfessers told the things they didn't 
 know 
 
 (A-settin' in warm rooms at home) about the realm 
 of snow. 
 
 Of all their stories I have read, the worst about that 
 far land 
 
 Was written by a man whose brow has long worn 
 Fiction's garland, 
 
 Who in the "Klondike Number" of a well-known mag- 
 azine 
 
 Told of the sylvan beauties of some trails he'd never 
 
28 SKNCE I COMi; BACK I^ROM DAWSON 
 
 With purlin' brooks an' wild delights an' picnics 
 
 everywhere 
 (Things that exist in poets' dreams, but don't exist 
 
 up there) ; 
 Then followed in the steps of them he'd so cruelly 
 
 misled, 
 To write about the scenery an' enumerate the dead. 
 
 Perhaps 't will seem that I've assumed a gay an' flip- 
 pant air. 
 
 But while I'm settin' here to-night a ghost stands by 
 my chair. 
 
 Again I see a famished form stretched 'neath a som- 
 bre sky; 
 
 Again I fold the shriveled hands an' close the death- 
 glazed eye; 
 
 I see the horrors Falsehood wrought, an' hear again 
 the wail 
 
 Of its victim as he perished on a panoramic trail, 
 
 Where his bleached an' badly-scattered bones is all 
 that's left to tell 
 
 How he battled with the terrors of a thousand miles 
 of hell. 
 
 Now, as I ain't no stateS>j(ii?,nt I can't figger what 
 
 we'll gain 
 Through this unexpected legacy of trouble from old 
 
 Spain; 
 
SENCE I COME BACK FROM DAWSON 29 
 
 But as a unkissed hero from the barren Yukon Plats, 
 I modestly petition our distinguished diplomats: 
 In your God-directed efforts to emancipate mankind, 
 Don't forget your helpless brothers in your Arctic 
 
 wilds confined. 
 But in your swoop for liberty, to right an' justice 
 
 true. 
 Extend a helpin' hand to them, — annex Alaska, too. 
 
 Washington, D. C, Jan. 1, 1899. 
 
•M GOIN' BACK TO DAWSON 
 
 Tm goin' back to Dawson, an' suppose I must ex- 
 plain 
 
 How I generated nerve enough to hit that trail again. 
 
 I've tramped this land from east to west an' tried Jt 
 north an' south. 
 
 An' found the people short on heart but very long on 
 mouth; 
 
 I've wandered through the byways an' I've mingled 
 with the crowds, 
 
 An' felt a dam sight lonesomer than when above the 
 cloud? 
 
 I stood alone 'mid ghostly isles that pierced a spec- 
 tral sea 
 
 An' cried in vain to far-off stars that couldn't answer 
 me. 
 
I'm coin' back to dawson 31 
 
 I met a great philantliropist, whose wealth they say 
 
 was ground 
 From the labor of a thousand serfs, — whose fame's 
 
 a-spreadin' round 
 Because he built a edifice an' filled it full of books 
 To learn the poor submission to incorporated crooks, 
 An' seen him stop a barefoot kid with papers in the 
 
 street 
 An' hand to him a nickel for a flamin' one-cent sheet, 
 Then sneak behind him for a block, a-keepin' him in 
 
 range, 
 To nab the limpin' little cuss if he tried to swipe tho 
 
 change. 
 
 An' I rambled through the alleys of a big depart- 
 ment store, 
 
 Admirin' of the handsome gents which walk along 
 the floor 
 
 A-tellin' ladies where to go to get the cheapest 
 things, — 
 
 Where "Cash!" appears to be the song that every- 
 body sings. 
 
 An' somethin' like five hundred girls that ought to 
 be at school 
 
 Lean wearily against the shelves because there's nary 
 a stool, — 
 
 An' I'm told the chap who owns the claim has the 
 immortal nerve 
 
 To pay but half a case a day to them that stand an' 
 serve. 
 
32 I'm goin' back to dawson 
 
 I'm also told that this here man exists in princely 
 
 style 
 In marble halls set on a hill that slopes away a 
 
 mile, 
 An' to stupefy his conscience he's donated from his 
 
 wad 
 Some money to the heathens an' has built a house 
 
 for God; 
 An' drowsin' in his temple on a recent Sabbath 
 
 morn, 
 I seen again the faces of them girls so pale an* lorn. 
 An' wondered if the cuss was bankin' on the heath- 
 ens he had saved 
 For a discount up in heaven 'gainst the white folks 
 
 he'd enslaved. 
 
 Then I roused up from my dreamin' that the orgaa 
 had produced 
 
 An' thought about the Yukon boys I've so shame- 
 fully traduced, 
 
 An' seen again quite clearly, in no music-painted 
 dream. 
 
 Two snow-blind men a-stumblin' 'hind a limpin' 
 Siwash team, — 
 
 Old Cooley an' his pardner Jo, who never go to 
 church, 
 
 A-strugglin' back to Circle from their long trip out 
 on Birch 
 
I'M coin' back to DAWSON 33 
 
 To feed the starvin' Tananas, — ^a service so high- 
 priced 
 
 They'll not collect their wages till they hand their 
 time to Christ. 
 
 In trampin' through this high-toned land I'm pain- 
 fully surprised 
 
 To learn that butchers so refined an' highly civilized 
 
 That they'd disdain to occupy a mansion built of 
 logs 
 
 Provide our soldiers beef an' things I wouldn't feed 
 my dogs; 
 
 Which makes me want to get back where the canned 
 goods ain't so bad 
 
 An' the girls you meet on every hand ain't pale- 
 faced, thin, an' sad, — 
 
 Where the milk of human kindness ain't so rigidly 
 congealed 
 
 That we'd let 'em wander from the trail because 
 they wasn't heeled. 
 
 I want to hear the soothin' tones of Bates's old 
 guitar 
 
 As he sings about "The Fisher Maiden" at "The Po- 
 lar Star/* 
 
 An' see Brick Wheaton rassle with his yaller mando- 
 lin 
 
 As he chants the charms of Injun hootch an' other 
 kinds of sin; 
 
34 I'm goin' back to dawson 
 
 I want to hear them songs once more an' want to 
 
 see my friends 
 Where the swiftly-rushin' Klondike v/ith the mighty 
 
 Yukon blends, 
 An' they size a feller-sinner by his lieart an' what 
 
 he knows 
 An' never ask his Southern name or criticise his 
 
 clo's. 
 
 I want to see Aurora — not the one that greets the 
 day. 
 
 But her weak an' pallid namesake — try to drive the 
 night away. 
 
 An' watch her throw her shafts of silver far up in 
 the sky. 
 
 While her color-bearers tint 'em with an ever- 
 changin' dye. 
 
 An' from the walls of heaven all their fragile ban- 
 ners swing 
 
 Till the air's alive with whispers like the swishin' of 
 a wing. 
 
 An' from the zenith flash great lights across the in- 
 terspace 
 
 Till you feel you're in God's presence an* can almost 
 see His face. 
 
 So I'm goin' back to Dawson, an' I'll float along that 
 
 way 
 As the ice moves down the river, 'long about the last 
 
 of May, 
 
I'm coin' back to dawson 35 
 
 When birds an' flowers are flirtin' an' the white 
 clouds sail the hlue — 
 
 An' the energetic insecks get in their fine work too. 
 
 I know now what I didn't when I went up there be- 
 fore, 
 
 That it is soshul suicide to linger round here poor, 
 
 For though the Arctic winters there are long an* 
 dark an' cold, 
 
 They're warmer than my welcome when they found I 
 brought no gold. 
 
 Washington, D. C, Feb. 22,1899. 
 
TO JOAQUII^ MILLER 
 
 Here at the Gate of the Arctic, 
 
 Facing the silent land. 
 Backward I reach through the distance 
 
 And grasp your heart-hot hand. 
 If our earthly trails ne'er cross again, 
 
 I'll meet you farther west. 
 On the sunset side of the Sundown Sea, 
 
 Where trail-worn poets rest. 
 
 Chilkoot Pass, June 19, 1899. 
 
ALASKA TO UNCLE SAM 
 
 Sitting on my greatest glacier. 
 
 With my feet in Bering Sea, 
 I am thinking, cold and lonely, 
 
 Of the way you've treated me. 
 Three-and-thirty years of silence! 
 
 Through ten thousand sleepless nights 
 I've heen praying for your coming — 
 
 For the dawn of civil rights. 
 
 When you took me, young and trusting, 
 
 Prom the growling Russian hear, 
 Loud you swore before the nations 
 
 I should have the Eagle's care. 
 Never yet has wing of eagle 
 
 Cast a shadow on my peaks. 
 But I've watched the flight of buzzards 
 
 And I've felt their busy beaks. 
 
 37 
 
38 AI^ASKA TO UNCr,E SAM 
 
 Your imported cross-roads statesmen 
 
 (What a motley, sordid train!) 
 Come with laws conceived in closets, — 
 
 Made for loot and private gain! 
 These the best that you can furnish? 
 
 Then God help the heathen folk 
 You have rescued from the burden 
 
 Of the rotting Spanish yoke! 
 
 I'm a full-grown, proud-souled woman. 
 
 And I'm getting tired and sick- 
 Wearing all the cast-off garments 
 
 Of your body politic. 
 If you'll give me your permission, 
 
 I will make some wholesome laws 
 That will suit my hard conditions 
 
 And promote your country's cause. 
 
 By the latest mail you sent me 
 
 (Nearly all j^our mails are late!). 
 Comes the news that you've gone roving 
 
 In your proud old Ship of State,— 
 Dreaming with a sunburnt siren 
 
 By the sultry southern seas, 
 Where the songs of your enchantress 
 
 Swoon upon the scented breeze. 
 
AI^ASKA TO UNCI,K SAM 39 
 
 You are blind with lust of conquest 
 
 And desire for foreign trade, 
 Or you'd see the half-drawn dagger, 
 
 With its brightly-burnished blade, 
 Sticking in the loosened girdle 
 
 Of the black brute by your side — 
 If you treat her as I'm treated 
 
 She will stick it through your hide. 
 
 Curb your taste for sun-killed countries, 
 
 Where the natives loaf and shirk; 
 Come to richer northern regions. 
 
 Where the people think and work. 
 If you want a part of Asia 
 
 When the Chinamen are killed, 
 Run a railroad up to Bering — 
 
 I will show you where to build. 
 
 Come next spring and count my treasures, 
 
 And don't stop at Glacier Bay, 
 Like the many high commissions 
 
 You have started up this way. 
 You will see my wooded mountains. 
 
 With their citadels of snow 
 Gleaming in the purple distance 
 
 Through the pearl-hued alpen-glow. 
 
40 AI,ASKA TO UNCI,B SAM 
 
 Standing on my flower-strewn hillsides. 
 
 Where my mighty rivers meet. 
 Gazing o'er my verdant valleys, 
 
 Spreading seaward from your feet, 
 You will see the sunlit splendors 
 
 Of my moonless midnight skies. 
 Gilded with the light supernal 
 
 Shining straight from Paradise. 
 
 If you stay till Hoary Winter 
 
 Has entombed the silent land. 
 You will read celestial sermons, 
 
 Written by the Master's hand 
 On the azure walls of heaven, 
 
 Where Aurora's tinted light 
 Weirdly flits like summer lightning 
 
 All the ghostly Arctic night. 
 
 When you come I'll show you wonders 
 
 That will cause you great surprise. 
 And if gold is what you're seeking 
 
 You will open wide your eyes. 
 Drive away your Wall street schemers. 
 
 With their coupons and their nerve. 
 Then while you extend your commerce 
 
 I'll expand your gold reserve. 
 
ALASKA TO UNCIvE SAM 41 
 
 You will find a magic city 
 
 On the shore of Bering Strait 
 Which shall be for you a station 
 
 To unload your Arctic freight, 
 Where the gold of Humboldt's vision 
 
 Has for countless ages lain, 
 Waiting for the hand of labor 
 
 And the Saxon's tireless brain. 
 
 You shall have a cool vacation. 
 
 Hunting for the great white bear. 
 And you'll soon forget Manila 
 
 And the trouble you've had there; 
 For as in the morn of nations 
 
 Every highway led to Rome, 
 You and all your restless rivals 
 
 Will be sailing straight to Nome. 
 
 You will wake a sleeping empire. 
 
 Stretching southward from the Pole 
 To the headlands where the waters 
 
 Of your western ocean roll. 
 Then will rise a mighty people 
 
 From the travail of the years. 
 Whom with pride you'll call your children, — 
 
 Offspring of my pioneers. 
 
 Fort Yukon, Sept. 6, 1899. 
 
THOUGHTS SUGGESTED BY MY FORTY-FIFTH 
 BIRTHDAY 
 
 When a man gets along to about forty-two. 
 He's apt to sit down and let pass in review 
 The scenes of his past, and he's likely to make 
 An effort to spot the fatal mistake 
 Which changed the whole course of human events 
 With regard to his hopes and honest intents. 
 
 One makes his mistake in the morning of life, 
 In failing to choose or in choosing a wife; 
 Another takes a drink and the evil is done. 
 And Dishonor completes what the Devil begun, 
 While many evade Life's pitfalls and snares 
 Till Old Time has garnered or silvered their hairs. 
 
 But mine was the earliest failure on earth. 
 For I made my mistake at the hour of birth 
 By making my debut, an undressed kid. 
 The same day of the month that Washington did. 
 And I look back now and see quite plain 
 Why all of my efforts have been in vain. 
 
 42 
 
THOUGHTS SUGGESTED BY MY FORTY-FIFTH BIRTHDAY 43 
 
 You've heard about George and his cute little ax 
 
 And his weakness for sticking too close to the facts. 
 
 My very first effort to emulate him 
 
 Gave a shock to my system that made my head swim, 
 
 For when I confessed to my volatile dad 
 
 I got the worst licking I ever have had. 
 
 In spite of that set-back I've kept up the fight 
 'Gainst Error and Falsehood, for Truth and the 
 
 Right; 
 But always through life I've felt the restraint 
 Of the gift handed down by my Natal-day Saint, 
 And I'm forced to admit that Virtue's reward 
 Is the only return I can thus far record. 
 
 No matter what pathway I've chosen in life. 
 
 In city or country or political strife, 
 
 On the crest of a mountain or the marge of a lake, 
 
 There stood close beside me my fatal mistake. 
 
 And wherever my lofty ambition has led 
 
 I've seen my hopes wither, my projects drop dead. 
 
 But here in the Arctic, where Falsehood is tough. 
 The pathway of Truth is peculiarly rough. 
 And as I gaze out o'er the white frozen sea 
 I feel all too keenly it's no place for me. 
 For no one who sticks to George W.'s creed 
 Can ever expect in this land to succeed. 
 St. Michael, Feb. 22, 1900. 
 
THE LAMENT OF THE OLD SOUR DOUGH 
 
 I've trudged and I've starved and I've frozen 
 
 All over this white barren land, — 
 Where the sea stretches straight, white and silent. 
 
 Where the timberless white mountains stand,.— 
 Prom the white peaks that gleam in the moonlight. 
 
 Like a garment that graces a soul. 
 To the last white sweep of the prairies. 
 
 Where the black shadows brood round the Pole. 
 
 (Now, pray don't presume from this prelude 
 
 That a flame of poetical fire 
 Is to burst from my brain like a beacon. 
 
 For I've only been tuning my lyre 
 To the low, sad voice of a singer 
 
 Who's inspired to sing you some facts 
 About the improvements in staking 
 
 And the men who mine with an ax.) 
 
 44 
 
IHE I<AMENT OF THE OI,D SOUR DOUGH 45 
 
 I've panned from Peru to Point Barrow, 
 
 But I never located a claim 
 Till I'd fully persuaded my conscience 
 
 That pay dirt pervaded the same ; 
 And this is the source of my sorrow. 
 
 As you will be forced to agree 
 When you learn how relentless Misfortune 
 
 Has dumped all her tailings on me. 
 
 I worked with my pardner all summer. 
 
 Cross-cutting a cussed cold creek. 
 Which we never once thought of locating 
 
 Unless we located the streak; 
 And when at the close of the season 
 
 We discovered the creek was a fake 
 We also discovered the region 
 
 Had nothing left in it to stake. 
 
 We traversed the toe-twisting tundra. 
 
 Where reindeer root round for their feed, 
 And the hungry Laplanders who herd them 
 
 Devour them before they can breed. 
 Here it seemed that good claims might be plenty, 
 
 And we thought we would stake one — perhaps; 
 But we found to our grief that the gulches 
 
 Were staked in the name of the Lapps. 
 
46 THE I/AMKNT OF THE OI,D SOUR DOUGH 
 
 A hundred long leagues to the northward. 
 
 O'er the untrodden, sun-hurnlshed snow, 
 We struggled, half blind and half famished. 
 
 To the sea where the staunch whalers go. 
 We found there broad beaches of ruby 
 
 And mountains with placers and leads, 
 But all save the sky was pre-empted 
 
 By salt-water sailors and Swedes. 
 
 Then we climbed the cold creeks near a mission 
 
 That is run by the agents of God, 
 Who trade Bibles and prayer-books to heathen 
 
 For ivory, sealskins and cod. 
 At last we were sure we had struck it. 
 
 But alas! for our hope of reward, — 
 The landscape from sea-beach to sky-line 
 
 Was staked in the name of the Lord! 
 
 We're too slow for the new breed of miners, 
 
 Embracing all classes of men, 
 Who locate by power of attorney 
 
 And prospect their claims with a pen, — 
 Who do all of their fine work through agents 
 
 And loaf around town with the sports, 
 On intimate terms with the lawyers. 
 
 On similar terms with the courts. 
 
THK I,AMKNT OF THE OIvD SOUR DOUGH 47 
 
 We're scared to submission and silence 
 
 By the men the Government sends 
 To force us to keep law and order. 
 
 While they keep claims for their friends. 
 And collect in an indirect manner 
 
 An exceedingly burdensome tax. 
 Assumed for a time by the traders 
 
 And then transferred to our backs. . 
 
 We had some hard knocks on the Klondike 
 
 From the Cub-lion's unpadded paws, 
 And suffered some shocks from high license 
 
 And other immutable laws; 
 But they robbed us by regular schedule, 
 
 So we knew just what to expect. 
 While at Nome we're scheduled to struggle 
 
 Until we're financially wrecked. 
 
 I'm sick of the scream of the Eagle 
 
 And laws of dishonest design. 
 And I'm going in quest of a country 
 
 Where a miner can locate a mine; 
 So when I have rustled an outfit 
 
 These places will know me no more, 
 For I'll try my luck with the Russians 
 
 On the bleak Siberian shore. 
 
 Nome, April 15, 1900. 
 
THE GOLDSMITH OP NOME 
 
 I 
 
 I am resting by my anvil, 
 
 And my forge is growing cold;' 
 I have ceased my age-long labors, 
 
 I have beaten out my gold ; 
 I hate scattered wide my treasures 
 
 On the superficial sands. 
 Where they lie unlocked and waiting 
 
 For the work of human hands. 
 
 Where my far-spread barren beaches 
 
 Lay untrod through countless years, 
 I can see the meager camp-fires 
 
 Of the hardy pioneers 
 Who have learned anew my secret 
 
 From the unsecretive sands. 
 And have sent my golden message 
 
 To the workers in all lands. 
 
 48 
 
THE GOI^DSMITH OF NOME 49 
 
 Gazing southward through the valleys 
 
 Where the ice-chained rivers sleep 
 'Neath their wide-flung ghostly mantles 
 
 And the Arctic nightwinds sweep, 
 I see men of dauntless spirit, — 
 
 Men whose brave hearts never quail, — 
 Struggling northward o'er wild barrens. 
 
 Breaking for the world a trail. 
 
 Looking out across the waters 
 
 Stretching sunward to the Sound, 
 I can see the sons of labor 
 
 Boarding vessels hitherbound; 
 I can hear the great crowds cheering 
 
 On the fast-receding piers, 
 Where sad mothers clasp their children 
 
 And gaze seaward through their tears. 
 
 I can see my people coming. 
 
 Sailing over many seas; 
 I can see the white sails swelling 
 
 As they catch the southern breeze; 
 I can see the black smoke trailing 
 
 From the sloping steamer-stacks. 
 Throwing swiftly-circling shadows 
 
 Over foamy, swirling tracks. 
 
50 the; GOI^DSMITH OF NOME 
 
 From the swarming, stifling cities, 
 
 Where wan children gasp for breath; 
 From the shadeless, unploughed prairies, 
 
 Where grim cyclones scatter death; 
 From the old world's worked-out placer 
 
 And the rock-choked mountain gorge. 
 They are coming by the thousands 
 
 For the product of my forge. 
 
 II 
 
 Here I wrought throughout the ages, 
 
 By the silent, tideless sea. 
 Beating out my golden ingots 
 
 For the empire yet to be,— 
 Watched the mighty strife of Nature, 
 
 Heard the glacial millstones grind, 
 Marked the rise and fall of nations. 
 
 Timed the progress of mankind. 
 
 While the seven-hued Arctic lightning 
 
 Faintly flashes through the night, 
 Tinting all the ghostly landscape 
 
 With its soft, elusive light, 
 I am dreaming of the glory 
 
 Of the prehistoric race 
 Which inhabited these valleys 
 
 When the first stampede took place. 
 
THE GOI^DSMITH OF NOME 5 1 
 
 When I entered on my labors 
 
 Stately palmtrees weirdly threw 
 Slender shadows in the moonlight. 
 
 Where the sea slept warm and blue; 
 In the dark primeval forest. 
 
 Dank beneath a tropic sun. 
 Roamed wild beasts of form colossal, 
 
 Greater than the mastodon. 
 
 Birds of brilliant sun-lit plumage 
 
 Caroled in the fronded trees. 
 And their songs were wafted seaward 
 
 On the balmy summer breeze; 
 Fragrant flowers exhaled their odors, 
 
 And the distant hazy hills 
 Lulled the fruitful vales and uplands 
 
 With the music of their rills. 
 
 From the plain swept wooded mountains 
 
 So immeasurably high 
 That their gleaming, snowy summits 
 
 Pierced the opalescent sky. 
 While the sun sent shafts of amber 
 
 To adorn their clinging clouds. 
 And the moon as came the night-tide 
 
 Veiled their forms in silver shrouds. 
 
52 THK GOIvDSMlTH OF NOME 
 
 Women framed in perfect beauty. 
 
 Greatest gift that God had given, 
 Reared to manhood happy children. 
 
 Taught them truth derived from heaven; 
 Men of elemental wisdom, 
 
 Giants of that elder time, 
 Made the land an earthly Eden, 
 
 Free from poverty and crime. 
 
 Ill 
 
 From beyond the distant mountains. 
 
 Where the day pursues the dawn, 
 Came strange men of pallid visage. 
 
 Active brain and feeble brawn. 
 Who brought all their wiles and vices. 
 
 Leaving truth and virtue home. 
 And at once took up the Durden 
 
 Of good government for Nome. 
 
 They brought all the arts and customs 
 
 Of the countries whence they came. 
 All their culture and refinement. 
 
 All their wickedness and shame. 
 And they taught my simple people 
 
 All their subtlety of mind 
 And the luxury of living 
 
 On the labor of their kind. 
 
THE GOIyDSMlTH OF NOME 53 
 
 They unearthed my hidden treasures, 
 
 Filled their coffers full of gold, 
 Traflficked in the market places 
 
 Where their fellowmen were sold, 
 Made of woman's soul and virtue 
 
 The cheap plaything of an hour. 
 Gave the rights of man to Mammon, 
 
 Bought their way to place and power. 
 
 When God saw the selfish uses 
 
 To which men had put His gold, 
 Black His hrow became with anger 
 
 And His heart grew stern and cold, 
 And He hurled His holts of thunder 
 
 From the hattle'ments of heaven 
 Till the sun went out in darkness 
 
 And remotest space was riven. 
 
 Then came on that awful travail 
 
 Which made Mother Nature groan. 
 Shook the stars from out the heavens, 
 
 Threw the Devil from his throne, 
 Swung the planets from their orbits 
 
 Till they aimless swept and whirled. 
 Turned the Tropics to the Arctics, 
 
 And repolarized the world. 
 
54 the; GOr^DSMlTH OF NOME 
 
 Through the frigid, age-long winter 
 
 Here in loneliness I dwelt 
 In my breezy glacial cavern, 
 
 Waiting for the ice to melt. 
 Till at last I caught a vision. 
 
 Through the sun-transfigured rime. 
 Of my vales once more aslumher 
 
 'Neath the haze of summertime. 
 
 IV 
 Then I watched that wondrous waking. 
 
 Nineteen hundred years ago. 
 When the great searchlights of Heaven 
 
 Set the universe aglow. 
 Throwing rays of hope and comfort 
 
 Through the darkness of despair 
 Hanging o'er the heavy laden 
 
 And the weary everywhere. 
 
 All nighl long the earth lay sleeping 
 
 'Neath a pale, mysterious light 
 Beaming from the throne of Heaven, 
 
 Where God's lamps were burning bright; 
 Choirs seraphic made sweet music. 
 
 Faintly heard through gates ajar; — 
 In the Bast above the morning 
 
 Shone a new irradiant Star. 
 
THK GOI^DSMITH Olf NOME 55 
 
 Jesus came and taught His lessons, 
 
 Walked the earth a little space, 
 Lighted all the ways of sorrow 
 
 With the glory of His face, 
 Planted hope in hopeless bosoms 
 
 As he went from door to door, 
 Wept and fainted by the wayside 
 
 'Neath the burdens of the poor. 
 
 He rebuked the righteous rascals 
 
 Who stood in the street to pray. 
 Scourged the brokers from God's temple. 
 
 Drove the hypocrites away. 
 Lifted up forsaken women. 
 
 Cheered the lonely and distressed, 
 Folded hungry little children 
 
 Gently to His loving breast. 
 
 Then the money-changers dragged Him 
 
 Like a drunkard through the street. 
 Thrust sharp thorns in His pale forehead. 
 
 Pierced with nails His bleeding feet, 
 Stretched Him on the tree of torture. 
 
 And His quivering muscles tore. 
 As upon the cross of labor 
 
 They now crucify the poor. 
 
56 THK GOI.DSMITH OF NOME 
 
 As His Spirit sped to Heaven, 
 
 Clothed in raiment white as snow, 
 From afar I heard His promise 
 
 To all workers here below: 
 "Watch and labor in my vineyard, 
 
 Bear the burden and the pain; 
 I am going to my Father, 
 
 But I'll come to you again." 
 
 V 
 
 Then a great awaking pity 
 
 Seized upon my swelling breast, 
 And my heart was filled with yearning 
 
 For the wretched and oppressed; 
 As a father loves to labor 
 
 For the children of his bone, 
 I have wrought here for my people, 
 
 In the silence and alone. 
 
 I have watched them sadly toiling 
 
 Through the centuries as slaves. 
 Never laying down their burdens 
 
 Till they dropped them at their graves. 
 And while watching I've been working 
 
 For the workers in all lands. 
 For the millions born to labor. 
 
 Their sole heritage their hands. 
 
THE GOI<DSMlTH OF NOMB 57 
 
 Not as wrought the other Goldsmiths, 
 
 Jealous of their hoarded wealth, 
 Who in darkness through the ages 
 
 Wrought in secret, and by stealth 
 Hid it in the heart of mountains 
 
 From the primal stratum hurled, 
 Or beneath the slag and cinders 
 
 In the basement of the world. 
 
 They wrought for the thrifty masters, 
 
 For the men of fertile brain. 
 Who grow rich through toil of others, 
 
 Thriving on their brothers' pain, — 
 Who by traffic with earth's rulers 
 
 Gain control of Nature's sod. 
 Arrogating as their birthright 
 
 A co-partnership with God. 
 
 Come and take my golden treasures 
 
 From the shining, yielding sands; 
 They shall be the untithed wages 
 
 Of your free, unfettered hands. 
 If the men who prey on labor 
 
 Try to grasp the gold you glean, 
 I will call the guardian nation. 
 
 And she'll scourge them from the scene. 
 
58 THE GOI^DSMITH OF NOME 
 
 For the self-selected savior 
 
 Of the islands of the sea 
 Will not idly stand and witness 
 
 Such a blow to liberty; 
 She that 'round the lazy heathen 
 
 Her protecting arms has thrown 
 Will not let her working children 
 
 Be defrauded of their own. 
 
 Nome, April 1, 1900. 
 
SINCE THE JUDGE LEFT HERE FOR NOME 
 
 Like one just waking from a dream, I walked abroad 
 
 to-day 
 And rambled to the green-roofed town that sleeps 
 
 across the bay; ' 
 I wandered to the empty house, where I was wont to 
 
 go 
 And always found a welcome and a solace for my 
 
 woe, — 
 Where erstwhile on cold winter nights (so long and 
 
 yet so short!) 
 We boys from all the island round did frequently 
 
 resort 
 To celebrate the passing hours by playing cards and 
 
 pool, 
 While our kind host walked back and forth and with 
 
 his famous tool 
 Extracted corks and filled us up on beer and wine 
 
 and stuff 
 Till each had sworn repeatedly that he was full 
 
 enough. 
 
6o SINCE THK JUDGE LEFT HERE FOR NOME 
 
 I stood despondent at the door and faced the frozen 
 foam 
 
 That from my frail and faltering feet reached west- 
 ward to Cape Nome, 
 
 And as I gazed with brimming eyes across the shin- 
 ing sea, 
 
 Some sober thoughts and sentiments were blown 
 ashore to me. 
 
 I pictured in my burning brain the Judge upon the 
 trail, 
 
 Entombed within a native shack or struck by Arctic 
 
 And then that old, old question came and bothered 
 
 me again: 
 "Are those who go or those who stay the sport of 
 
 greatest pain?" 
 And as I rubbed my throbbing brow, my aching heart 
 
 repined : 
 "The ones who suffer most of all are those who stay 
 
 behind!" 
 
 I'm sure as westward speeds the Judge he little ap- 
 prehends 
 
 The frightful havoc he has wrought among his for- 
 mer friends; 
 
 If he could hear them sigh and groan and see them 
 try to walk. 
 
SINCE THE JUDGK I^EFT HERE FOR NOME 6i 
 
 I'm sure he never would again produce his private 
 
 stock 
 Of Runnymede and Pommery's and Mumm's seduc- 
 tive sees 
 And pour the same persistently down their receptive 
 
 necks. 
 (The thing that seems most strange to me and fills 
 
 me with surprise 
 Is how the Judge's private stock affects a fellow's 
 
 eyes, — 
 Last night before he went away the town was painted 
 
 red, 
 But now it wears a ghastly green like grave-grass o'er 
 
 the dead.) 
 
 I wandered through the hatless hall and passed from 
 room to room. 
 
 Last night alive with mirth and light, to-day adead 
 with gloom. 
 
 I went into the parlor, where we used to sit around 
 
 And suffer till the Judge his punch did perfectly com- 
 pound. 
 
 The bookcase stood with vacant shelves and doors ex- 
 tended wide. 
 
 As if it yearned for vanished friends that once re- 
 posed inside; 
 
62 SINCE the: judge I,E;FT here for NOME 
 
 Some flowering plants, left there abloom with blos- 
 soms chaste and rare, 
 
 Already drooped their slender stems for want of wo- 
 man's care, — 
 
 The sight of these familiar things intensified my 
 grief 
 
 So that I sadly turned away and sought outside re- 
 lief. 
 
 I blundered with uncertain steps into a closet dark, 
 
 Where stood the shapes of spirits flown, all glassy- 
 eyed and stark, — 
 
 A hundred bottles, all uncorked (last night with full- 
 ness rife), 
 
 Proclaiming by their emptiness the emptiness of life. 
 
 What happened then? Was it a dream? What was i 
 looking at? 
 
 What was it that on yonder shelf so calm and proud- 
 ly sat? 
 
 (It was a large cold cruse of Mumm the Judge forgot 
 to crack, — 
 
 I cracked it with celerity, my lips began to smack. 
 
 And to my careless absent friend I drank this truth- 
 ful toast: 
 
 "Of all the drinks I've drunk with you I needed this 
 one most!") 
 
SINCE the; judge I^EFT here for NOME 63 
 
 The room that had appeared so dark was brilliantly 
 
 ablaze, — 
 The scene now shone transplendent with the light of 
 
 other days; 
 The place was full of brawny men and charming wo- 
 men too, — 
 The former raiher numerous, the latter somewhat 
 
 few; 
 I heard again the happy jest, the reading of old 
 
 rhymes, 
 The tales of hardships long endured, the stories of 
 
 old times; 
 I heard once more the sweet old songs, sung with a 
 
 graceful art 
 That made us think of childhood's days and softened 
 
 every heart; 
 And then I sank into a chair and wished I was in 
 
 Nome, 
 And while I wished I fell asleep and dreamed a dream 
 
 of home. 
 
 St. MiCHAKii, April 25, 1900. 
 
TO THE YUKON ORDER OF PIONEERS 
 
 In Memory of Charles S. Lavante. Died at Nome, 
 Sept. 8, 1900 
 
 Will you let an Arctic Brother lay a garland on the 
 
 bier 
 Where sleeps the stark and pallid form of a Yukon 
 
 Pioneer? 
 Will you let me pay a tribute to the one you mourn 
 
 to-day. 
 Whose soul is speeding homeward from its worked- 
 
 out dump of clay? 
 
 I spent a winter with your friend among the Yukon 
 hills. 
 
 And shared with him his~ simple joys and compli 
 cated ills; 
 
 I saw him tested by the rule which few at Nome ob- 
 serve, 
 
 That we should do to other men what we ourselves 
 deserve. 
 
 64 
 
TO THIS YUKON ORDKR OF PIONEERS 65 
 
 He broke the rules of order and the excise ordi- 
 nance 
 
 By selling untaxed liquor at the old-time Siwash 
 dance; 
 
 But he never broke the maxim of the mushers on the 
 trail. 
 
 That it's wrong to pass a comrade when you see he's 
 apt to fail. 
 
 I see his face a-beaming as he stood behind the bar 
 And listened to the soothing tones of Bates's old 
 
 guitar, 
 In the good old days at Circle, ere the courts and 
 
 lawyers came 
 To rob our richest sluices in a way that is a shame. 
 
 I hear again his gentle voice and see his sad, sweet 
 
 smile, 
 As he told the tales of. hardship on the creeks at 
 
 Forty Mile,— 
 How you wintered on bad bacon and on prehistoric 
 
 beans, 
 And when you had the scurvy steeped the spruce 
 
 boughs for your greens. 
 
66 TO run YUKON ORDER OF PIONEKRS 
 
 He told me all about the trails that climbed up in the 
 
 air. 
 Meandered o'er the mountain peaks, and ended — God 
 
 knows where; 
 He told me of the hopeful times you spent at Cas- 
 
 siar, 
 And how you used to rock out gold on old Bonanza 
 
 Bar. 
 
 He told me how the traders used to do you boys up 
 
 brown 
 By putting up the prices when they said they'd put 
 
 them down, 
 And all about that awful year you fellows almost 
 
 died 
 Because you missed "The Racket" and were forced to 
 
 stay inside. 
 
 His latchstring always hung outside, and you never 
 
 had to knock, 
 For he had no knocker at his door, and he hadn't 
 
 any lock; 
 When you asked him for a porterhouse he dished up 
 
 caribou, 
 And when you craved a whisky straight he set up 
 
 "hootchinoo." 
 
TO THE YUKON ORDBR OF PIONEBRS 67 
 
 He never liked the Klondike, and he had no faith in 
 
 Nome, 
 And since he came, in '86, he got no news from 
 
 home; 
 But he never lost his courage, and he always used to 
 
 say 
 That the good old times at Forty Mile would come 
 
 again to stay. 
 
 The good old times have come to him, but not at 
 Forty Mile, 
 
 And ne'er again at Circle will you see his happy 
 smile; 
 
 For he's gone to take his well-earned rest in the uni- 
 versal way, 
 
 And I know he'll find God's latchstring a-hanging out 
 to-day. 
 
 NoMic, Sept. 9, 1900. 
 
A GREETIMG TO THE SWEDES 
 
 From their Fellow-sufferers at Topkuk 
 
 We learn to-day that you've received a message from 
 
 the Sound 
 Which loosed the legal ligatures with which your 
 
 claims were bound. 
 We send our warmest greetings, and hope that you 
 
 will get 
 The dust the Boss Receiver is a-hanging onto yet. 
 
 We had our little laughs last year, and chuckled at 
 your woes 
 
 Caused by the festive jumpers and the mournful old 
 Sour Doughs; 
 
 But we've ceased to smile and laid our laughs upon 
 the upper shelves, 
 
 For we have learned to our regret just how it is our- 
 selves. 
 
A GREETING TO THE SWEDES 69 
 
 We have a sub-receiver here, who's working out our 
 mine 
 
 In a systematic manner which makes our hearts re- 
 pine. 
 
 He brought a damned expensive plant, shipped in his 
 boss's name, 
 
 And planted it against our "kick" upon our richest 
 claim. 
 
 He brought a gang of bosom friends, helped up here 
 
 from below. 
 And wouldn't give a single job to any one we know. 
 And when he took the riffles out and weighed his 
 
 shining swag. 
 He wouldn't let us see the scales or even heft the bag. 
 
 We called upon the lowest court and all the powers 
 
 that be, — 
 We raised our mournful cries to heaven and sent 
 
 them out to sea; 
 We cried in vain for earthly help and almost ceased 
 
 to fight. 
 When Nature took a hand and gave a knock-out blow 
 
 for right. 
 
70 A GREETING TO THE SWEDES 
 
 Last week the foam-crowned Sea King came and 
 serred his unbought writ, 
 
 And Aleck's high-priced plant now lies deep down be- 
 neath the spit. 
 
 God jumped our claim and drove away the horde of 
 unpaid hands. 
 
 Who wander up and down and weep along our 
 worked-out sands. 
 
 We join with you in praise to-day and raise a joyful 
 
 shout 
 In honor of the righteous laws that knocked the 
 
 jumpers out. 
 Let's celebrate in dry champagne the powers that 
 
 wield the rod, — 
 You thank the U. S. Circuit Court while we giv? 
 
 thanks to God! 
 
 ToPKUK, Sept. 16, 1900. 
 
THE POOR SWEDE 
 
 A square-headed, hard-working Swede, 
 Propelled by inordinate greed. 
 Mushed around in the cold 
 Till he found some coarse gold, 
 And then came to town at full speed. 
 
 A lawyer with galvanized jaw. 
 Whose mode of procedure was raw, 
 Sent a thief out to jump 
 The rich claim of the chump 
 And stake it "according to law." 
 
 The Swede is now stretched on the rack 
 And trying to get his claim back. 
 
 While the Court takes its time 
 
 To consider the crime 
 Till the receiver fills up his long sack. 
 
 Nome, Sept. 17, 1900. 
 
 71 
 
STARVING ONCE. RECEIVING NOW 
 
 I 
 A lawyer was disbarred back home 
 And found it convenient to roam; 
 
 He floated this way 
 
 In a cargo of hay 
 And inflicted his presence on Nome. 
 
 He waited for clients to rob 
 
 Till his stomach demanded a job; 
 
 Then he haunted the street 
 
 For something to eat 
 Till he looked like a Klondike slob. 
 
 72 
 
STARVING ONCE, RECEIVING NOW 73 
 
 II 
 
 A miner climbed over the Mils 
 And prospected the gulches and rills 
 
 Till he discovered enough 
 
 Of the right kind of stufC 
 To drive away poverty's ills. 
 
 He staked a rich claim in his name 
 
 And proceeded to ground-sluice the same; 
 
 Then he came in and bragged 
 
 Of the gold he had bagged, — 
 That's why he's not working his claim. 
 
 Ill 
 
 The case was decided next day 
 In the usual ex parte way. 
 
 And the miner then found 
 
 He was robbed of his ground 
 And couldn't get even a lay. 
 
 The lawyer now has ample means 
 And frequents the most brilliant scenes; 
 
 He eats three times a day 
 
 At the Paree Caffay, 
 While the miner eats bacon and beans. 
 
 Nome, Sept. 18, 1900. 
 
HOMEWARD BOUND 
 
 I am out upon the ocean, 
 
 Sailing southward to the Sound 
 With six hundred busted brothers, 
 
 Kicking hard, but homeward bound. 
 There are sixty in the staterooms 
 
 And some eighty souls or so 
 Sleeping on the floors and tables, 
 
 While the rest seek sleep below. 
 
 Of the sixty in the cabin 
 
 Only thirty had the stufC, 
 While the others came on passes 
 
 Or some other sort of bluff. 
 How the hundreds in the steerage 
 
 Got the gold to get them home 
 Always will remain the greatest 
 
 Of the mysteries of Nome. 
 
 74 
 
HOMBWARD BOUND 75 
 
 There's a siren from Seattle 
 
 Who is traveling in style, 
 Basking in the brilliant sunshine 
 
 Of the purser's dazzling smile. 
 She has jumped a first-class stateroom 
 
 That is simply out of sight, 
 And has oranges and apples 
 
 With her champagne every night. 
 
 There's a widow with two children 
 
 Who is trying to get home, 
 Having given up the struggle 
 
 When her husband died at Nome. 
 Both her kids exhibit cravings 
 
 For all kinds of fruits and nuts. 
 But they can't get 'nough of either 
 
 To distend their little guts. 
 
 There's a smooth absconding lawyer, 
 
 Wearing diamonds like a sport, 
 Who spends all his lucid moments 
 
 Praising Nome's imported Court. 
 He has beefsteaks in his stateroom, 
 
 Purloined by the pantryman. 
 While his clients in the steerage 
 
 Bat cold corn-beef from a can. 
 
76 HOMEWARD BOUND 
 
 There's a Topkuk sub-receiver 
 
 Who is smuggling like a thief 
 All the gold the gang could gobble 
 
 For their late-transported Chief. 
 He indulges in fresh oysters, 
 
 Fine cigars and foreign wines. 
 While the man who first staked Topkuk 
 
 Tells us how they robbed his mines. 
 
 There are counts galore from Paris 
 
 And a few of them from Spain, 
 Who invaded Nome to traffic; 
 
 But they'll not do so again, 
 For they found their debts so heavy 
 
 That they had to leave them there. 
 While their unpaid Dago valets 
 
 Had to come out on the Bear. 
 
 Late last night they gave a banquet, 
 
 And imposed some heavy fines 
 To defray the steward's charges 
 
 For his bummest brands of wines. 
 All the guests stood the assessment 
 
 Without making any kick. 
 But as soon as they get sober 
 
 They'll appreciate the trick. 
 
HOMEWARD BOUND 
 
 77 
 
 I shall not recount the horrors 
 
 And the terrors of the trip. 
 For the same may be imagined 
 
 By all those who know the ship; 
 But I'll simply say in closing 
 
 That the most distressing fact 
 That has come to my attention 
 
 Is the way the ladies act. 
 
 Lat. 55, 54 N., Long. 139, 18 W., Nov. 1, 1900. 
 
 l.ofC. 
 
8o TO THS YUKON SOUR DOUGHS 
 
 Then I sent them to the censors of the 10-cent mag- 
 azines; 
 
 But they wanted stuff from China or the un whipped 
 Philippines, 
 
 Or a lot of pictures showing how the British butcher 
 Boers, — 
 
 Not a word about the pirates who infest your barren 
 shores. < 
 
 So I've had my verses printed, and I send them up 
 
 to you, 
 Who for years have borne the burden, but are yet as 
 
 staunch and true 
 As when first you blazed the pathway to the white 
 
 and silent land; 
 And I know that when you read them you will feel 
 
 and understand. 
 
 Washington, D. C, Feb. 1, 1901. 
 
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