I 
 
 ^jiij^ii^jM^i^K^ ii^iii 
 
 UC-NRLF 
 
UNIYGRS1TY Of CALIFORNIA 
 LIBRARY 
 
 -YY\ 
 
THE MEN 
 WHO BLAZE 
 THE TRAIL 
 
 
THE MEN 
 WHO BLAZE 
 THE TRAIL 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 BY 
 
 SAM. C. DUNHAM 
 
 With an Introduction by 
 
 JOAQUIN MILLER 
 
 Let others sing of those who ve won 
 
 Full hoard of virgin gold! 
 1 strike the lyre for those who ve none, 
 
 But yet are strong and bold. 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 BARSE & HOPKINS 
 
 PUBLISHERS 
 
COPYRIGHT, 1913, BY 
 BARSE & HOPKINS 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 19 
 
 Let others sing of those who ve won. 
 ALASKA TO UNCLE SAM 21 
 
 Sitting on my greatest glacier. 
 COMRADES OF THE KLONDIKE 26 
 
 Have you, too, banged at the Chilkoot ? 
 
 A REPLY 27 
 
 I, too, have banged at the Chilkoot. 
 ARCTIC LIGHTNING 29 
 
 Far cut where the sullen darkness. 
 TO JOAQUIN MILLER 30 
 
 Here at the Gate of the Arctic. 
 JUST BACK FROM DAWSON 31 
 
 I ve just got back from Dawson, where the 
 
 Arctic rainbow ends. 
 SENCE I COME BACK FROM DAWSON.... 36 
 
 Sence I come back from Dawson to these old 
 
 familiar scenes. 
 I M COIN BACK TO DAWSON 41 
 
 I m goin back to Dawson, an suppose I must 
 
 explain. 
 A FATAL GIFT 48 
 
 When a man gets along to about forty-two. 
 THE LAMENT OF THE OLD SOUR DOUGH. 51 
 
 I ve trudged and I ve starved and I ve frozen. 
 THE GOLDSMITH OF NOME 55 
 
 I am resting by my anvil. 
 SINCE THE JUDGE LEFT HERE FOR NOME 66 
 
 Like one just waking from a dream, I walked 
 abroad to-day. 
 
 17] 
 
 395506 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 TO THE YUKON ORDER OF PIONEERS... 72 
 
 Will you let an Arctic Brother lay a garland on 
 
 the bier? 
 A GREETING TO THE SWEDES 76 
 
 We learn to-day that you ve received a message 
 
 from the Sound. 
 THE POOR SWEDE 79 
 
 A square-headed, hard-working Swede. 
 THE LAWYER AND THE MINER 80 
 
 A lawyer was disbarred back home. 
 HOMEWARD BOUND 82 
 
 I am out upon the ocean. 
 TO THE YUKON SOUR DOUGHS 86 
 
 I ve done just as you told me to that night I 
 
 read to you. 
 A WISE SWEDE 91 
 
 Last year, when the fever was staking. 
 BRICK WHEATON S GRAVE 94 
 
 I ve been across to Oakland Heights, just as I 
 
 promised you. 
 A YUKON VISION 103 
 
 As one who holds a sea-shell to his ear. 
 TO ANDREW CARNEGIE 104 
 
 We re informed that you re afraid. 
 RIDER ROOSEVELT 107 
 
 If I were Rider Roosevelt and Rider Roosevelt I. 
 GIVE US WATER, UNCLE SAM 110 
 
 What we want out here is water. 
 THE NYE COUNTY ASS 114 
 
 The ass that roams yon barren hill. 
 THE PROMOTER 118 
 
 Twas way back in the early days a year ago 
 
 last fall. 
 LEM ALLEN OF CHURCHILL 123 
 
 We sing of Lem Allen of Churchill. 
 
 [8] 
 
THE POET LAUREATE OF ALASKA 
 
 I HAVE asked permission of my friend, pardner 
 and companion of the olden, golden Klondike 
 days, to write an introduction to this revised edi 
 tion of his Alaskan poems. He is not at all 
 responsible for the title of this screed or its con 
 tents. In truth, he stoutly protests; for, like all 
 true poets, he is doubtful of his merits and shy 
 of favorable mention. But I have bullied him 
 into letting me have my own way and shall say 
 what I please. For I love the great new land 
 of the ultimate North, the lone white silence 
 which spreads its wings of mingled light and 
 midnight even to the North Pole; and whoever 
 loves this vast empire and can picture the life 
 there, even in the humblest walks, as Dunham has 
 done, I must love also from my heart of hearts. 
 
 Ever so much has been written of Alaska, but 
 Sam C. Dunham has not only loved Alaska, he 
 has lived Alaska; and his book shall live. Only 
 
 [9] 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 one other writer, a woman, Ella Higginson, in 
 her great prose work, it seems to me, has really 
 gone to the heart of Alaskan life and death. 
 The two authors and their works are as wide 
 apart as Sitka and Nome; but each book is in 
 its way entirely true, interesting and unique. 
 I had climbed the formidable Chilkoot Pass 
 of ice and avalanches, with my eighty-pound 
 pack and nearly sixty years on my back, and on 
 reaching the Klondike addressed some lines to 
 my fellow-adventurers, beginning: 
 
 Have you, too, banged at the Chilkoot, 
 1 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, 
 "J wrrc one, where it seemed that an oath were a. 
 
 prayer 
 
 Seemed that God couldn t care, 
 Seemed that God wasn t there. 
 
 Sam C. Dunham, a close friend of the Com 
 missioner of Labor at Washington, who sent 
 him out nominally in the interest of commerce 
 and labor, but really on a semi-secret mission, 
 came on over the terrible Chilkoot Pass soon 
 after, and as a whole mountainside of men and 
 
 I -o] 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 women had been swept by an avalanche down 
 the icy steep into eternity, he felt constrained to 
 parody my lines and give anything but a glorious 
 and romantic coloring to the condition of things, 
 either on the Klondike or the way thither. But 
 he did not protest. Even an avalanche, or all 
 the avalanches in the world, would not have 
 stopped or turned aside that mad torrent of hu 
 manity bound for the Klondike. He took the 
 only wise course made light of the whole most 
 serious situation. 
 
 Dunham had been wisely chosen at Washing 
 ton for this mission to the new goldfields. He 
 had roughed it in California, Nevada, Utah, and 
 Colorado, and was one of the heroic figures of 
 Montana, and he knew gold mines and gold 
 miners well. Almost any other man, sent out 
 from the social center of the national capital, 
 would have either turned back or at least sent 
 out wails of official cries for help and protests 
 against the incoming flood of half-destitute and 
 wholly desperate humanity. But he did nothing 
 of the sort. This close friend and private secre 
 tary of Senator Voorhees, this man of letters at 
 Washington, sat down quietly on the Klondike, 
 took his beans and bacon with the rest of us; 
 
 in] 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 then when Nome broke out was on the firing line 
 with dogs and sled along with the first. And 
 under these circumstances were his realistic lit 
 tle poems written. And that is why they are 
 so entirely photographic. He dealt only with 
 men and the men of the hour. I also worked, 
 worked hard and honestly as I could ; but I dealt 
 with Nature, the elements, and with old Indian 
 traditions. My longest, strongest, and, I think, 
 best, poem was written there.* But I fell far 
 short of Dunham in directness and picturesque 
 force. His work is clean. Bret Harte and many 
 others, in dealing with these mighty modern Ar 
 gonauts, have seen fit to sail too often very close 
 to forbidden lands in literature. But Sam C. 
 Dunham s work is entirely clean. It is strong 
 and the most truthful poetry I ever read. 
 
 JOAQUIN MILLER. 
 THE RIGHTS, Fruitvale, Cal., Dec. I, 1912. 
 
 * "A Song of Creation." It constitutes the fifth vol 
 ume of Mr. Miller s Complete Poems. 
 
 [12] 
 
On February fifteenth, nineteen thirteen, while 
 this book was being put in type, Joaquin Miller 
 died at his home on The Rights, a stone s throw 
 from where I am writing these lines. I owe 
 much to him. My very first attempt at verse- 
 writing was my "Reply" to his "Comrades of 
 the Klondike," and it was his generous encour 
 agement during our intimate association at Circle 
 City in the winter of 1897-8 that impelled me to 
 write the verses that appear in the first section 
 of this little volume. He was the wisest and 
 best and kindliest man whom I have ever known 
 the greatest all-round human being whom it 
 has ever been my privilege to call "friend." 
 With all the love and veneration that one man 
 can have for another, I send this greeting to him 
 in his new home on the sunset side of his Sun 
 down Sea, where trail-worn poets rest: 
 
 Beyond the moon, beyond the sun, 
 
 Beyond the farthest star, 
 In the realms of everlasting peace, 
 
 Out where our loved ones are. 
 
 SAM C. DUNHAM. 
 Fruitvale, Cal, Feb. 28, 1913. 
 [13 ]! 
 
DEDICATION 
 
 To the one who stood by my side with un 
 daunted soul through the stress and strain of 
 impending shipwreck in the great Ice Pack on 
 Bering Sea; who stood with me, hand in hand, 
 no less intrepidly, on the Great American Des 
 ert, amid the rack and ruin of an exploded 
 mining boom; who has exemplified, through the 
 succeeding years of persistent and apparently 
 perpetual adversity, the sublimity of patience and 
 courage and helpfulness; who is my wisest and 
 keenest, and yet my kindest, critic, and the only 
 "pardner" who has played fair with me at all 
 times and in all situations; to the bravest and 
 best fellow in the world, my wife, this little 
 book of verse is affectionately dedicated. 
 
 SAM C. DUNHAM. 
 
 tis] 
 
PREFACE 
 
 THE verses in the first part of this book were 
 originally published in 1901, under the title of 
 "The Goldsmith of Nome and Other Verse." 
 That little volume, which was dedicated "To 
 the workers on the Yukon, who, through the 
 long, cold winter of national neglect, have been 
 patiently working while watching and waiting for 
 the ice to melt," contained the following preface : 
 
 "These verses were written while the author 
 was under assignment to Northern Alaska in 
 1897-8 as a Statistical Expert of the Depart 
 ment of Labor, and in 1899-1900 as a Special 
 Agent of the Twelfth Census. They are the free 
 expression of some sentiments which official 
 courtesy quite properly excluded from his re 
 ports to the Commissioner of Labor and the Di 
 rector of the Census. Most of them have ap 
 peared in various newspapers The New York 
 Sun, 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 the Government at Washington for 
 relief from the wrongs which they have borne 
 too patiently for twenty years. In 1900 Alaska 
 paid into the Treasury of the United States rev 
 enues averaging $1,207.43 for every day in the 
 year. For what?" 
 
 The verses in the first edition are reproduced 
 here practically without revision. Except for 
 the thin sop of an emasculated legislative assem 
 bly, the Government at Washington has done so 
 little for Alaska during the last decade that they 
 are as timely now as when they were written. 
 
 Most of the verses in the second part origi 
 nally appeared in The Tonopah Miner while I 
 was editor of that paper. 
 
 SAM C. DUNHAM. 
 FRUITVALE, CAL., Dec. 10, 1912. 
 
 [18] 
 
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 that 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. 
 
 [19] 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 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 weds 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 Fates prevail, 
 I will sing of the many, staunch and true, 
 
 Whose brave hearts never quail 
 Who with the 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 ! 
 
 [20] 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 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 been praying for your coming 
 
 For the dawn of civil rights. 
 
 When you took me, young and trusting, 
 
 From the growling Russian bear, 
 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. 
 
 Your imported cross-roads statesmen 
 (What a motley, sordid train!) 
 
 Come with laws conceived in closets 
 Made for loot and private gain! 
 
 [21] 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 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 your 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. 
 
 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, 
 
 [22] 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 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. 
 
 Standing on my flower-strewn hillsides, 
 Where my mighty rivers meet, 
 
 Gazing o er my verdant valleys, 
 Spreading seaward from your feet, 
 
 [23] 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 You will see the sunlit splendors 
 Of my moonless midnight skies, 
 
 Gilded with a 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. 
 
 You will find a magic city 
 On the shore of Bering Strait 
 
 Which shall be for you a station 
 To unload your Arctic freight, 
 
 [24] 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 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. 
 
 25] 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 COMRADES OF THE KLONDIKE 
 
 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, 
 T were 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? 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 III 
 
 Hast read, low-voiced, by the Northlights 
 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- 1 
 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. 
 
 A REPLY 
 
 I 
 
 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; 
 
 [27] 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 And I ottered 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 tbe water filled both of my boots ; 
 Hare drank from golden born 
 With nuidfns, night to morn 
 I acknowledge the corn. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Have heard, loud-voiced, by the Xorthlights 
 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. 111 come to thy sunland 
 As soon as this long winter *s o er, 
 And IT1 drink to thy health in the one land 
 Whither thy thoughts ever soar; 
 [28] 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 And though this drought be the worst 
 That ever humanity cursed, 
 At last we ll banish our thirst. 
 
 ARCTIC LIGHTNING 
 
 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. 
 \Yhere 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. 
 
 [29] 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 TO JOAQUIX MILLER 
 Written at CkSkoot Pass 
 
 Here at the Gate of die Arctic, 
 
 Facing the sflent lan<L 
 Backward I reach through the distance 
 
 And gi^afj jpotir heart-hot hand. 
 If oar earthly trails ne er cross again, 
 
 I TI iiitcl you farther west. 
 On the sunset side of your Sundown Sea, 
 
 Where trail-worn poets rest. 
 
 [30] 
 
THE MEN" WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 JUST BACK FROM DAWSON 
 
 I Ve just gat back from Dxwsoo, where the Arc- 
 
 tic 
 An* the swiftly- 
 
 1 
 
 - :-t 
 
 of 
 So that just a 
 
 gets; 
 
 An the ri 
 
 . _^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 
 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 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 dol 
 lars 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 
 shampain, 
 
 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 buy 
 ers legs; 
 
 Where our helpful friends in Washington, mis 
 led by bad advice, 
 
 Concluded they could operate steam enjins on 
 the ice, 
 
 An are tryin now the reindeer, a-feedin them 
 on moss, 
 
 But wherever they ve been tried so far there s 
 been a heavy loss, 
 
 [32] 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 While all the old trail-breakers to their pet tra 
 ditions 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 articu 
 late 
 
 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 every 
 body 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; 
 
 [33] 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 Where the men who dig the treasure are strong 
 
 an brave an bold, 
 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. 
 
 [34] 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 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 that episode with 
 
 Eve, 
 Which led to woe an stern decree that they 
 
 would have to leave, 
 
 Like thirty thousand other jays, by golden vi 
 sions 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. 
 
 [35] 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 SENCE I COME BACK FROM 
 DAWSON 
 
 Sence I come back from Dawson to these old 
 familiar scenes, 
 
 I ve read the yaller journals an the lo-cent mag 
 azines, 
 
 An to sort o classify events an find out what 
 occurred 
 
 While I was hibernatin 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 artisti 
 cally lied 
 
 Bout the riches of the Klondike concluded to 
 subside. 
 
 Then every trail was occupied by journalistic 
 beats 
 
 Who represented (with slim cards) all saffron- 
 tinted sheets 
 
 [36] 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 From Seattle to Savannah an from Bangor to 
 Duluth, 
 
 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 asked old-timers bout the short 
 est 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 re 
 frain 
 
 From causin people trouble, they arranged a 
 war with Spain, 
 
 [37] 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 An to properly conduct the same, rushed bravely 
 to the front 
 
 An led all the gallant charges an bore the bat 
 tle s brunt. 
 
 Now, while us Klondike refugees most greevusly 
 
 deplore 
 The mournful fact so few of them passed to the 
 
 other shore, 
 Our grief is curtailed by the thought which 
 
 punctuates 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 but 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, 
 
 [38] 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 Who in the "Klondike Number" of a well- 
 known magazine 
 
 Told of the sylvan beauties of some trails he d 
 never seen, 
 
 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 
 
 flippant air. 
 But while I m settin here to-night a ghost stands 
 
 by my chair. 
 Again I see a famished form stretched neath a 
 
 sombre 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, 
 
 [39] 
 
THE MEN* WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 \Yhere 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. 
 
 Xow, as I ain t no statesman. I can t figger what 
 well gain 
 
 Through our unexpected legacy of trouble from 
 old Spain; 
 
 But as a unkissed hero from the barren Yukon 
 Flats, 
 
 I modestly petition our distinguished diplomats : 
 
 In your God-directed efforts to emancipate man 
 kind, 
 
 Don t forget your helpless brothers in your Arc 
 tic wilds confined, 
 
 But in your swoop for liberty, to right an justice 
 true, 
 
 Extend a helpin hand to them annex Alaska, 
 too. 
 
 [40] 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 I M GOIX BACK TO DAWSON 
 
 I m goin back to Dawson, an* suppose I must 
 
 explain 
 How I generated nerve enough to hit that trail 
 
 again. 
 I ve tramped this land from east to west an f tried 
 
 it 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 clouds 
 I stood alone "mid ghostly isles that pierced a 
 
 spectral sea 
 An cried in vain to far-off stars that couldn t 
 
 answer me. 
 
 I met a great philanthropist, whose wealth they 
 
 say was ground 
 From the labor of a thousand serfs whose 
 
 fame s a-spreadin round 
 
 [41] 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 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 
 
 the change. 
 
 An I rambled through the alleys of a big de 
 partment 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 
 everybody sings, 
 
 An somethin like five hundred girls that ought 
 to be at school 
 
 Lean wearily against the shelves because there s 
 nary stool 
 
 [42] 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 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. 
 
 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 
 
 heathens he had saved 
 For a discount up in heaven on the white folks 
 
 he d enslaved. 
 
 Then I roused up from my dreamin that the 
 organ had produced 
 
 An thought about the Yukon boys I ve so shame 
 fully traduced, 
 
 .143] 
 
THE MEN* WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 An seen again quite clearly, in no music-painted 
 dream. 
 
 Two snow-blind men a-stumblin hind a limpin 
 Si wash team 
 
 Old Cooley an his pardner Jo, who never go to 
 church, 
 
 A-strugglin back to Circle from their long trip 
 out on Birch 
 
 To feed the starvin Tananas a service so high- 
 priced 
 
 They ll not collect their wages till they hand 
 their bills to Christ. 
 
 In trampin through this high-toned land I m 
 painfully surprised 
 
 To learn that butchers so refined an highly civ 
 ilized 
 
 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 
 
 [44] 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 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 
 
 Polar Star," 
 An watch Brick Wheaton rassle with his yaller 
 
 mandolin 
 As he chants the charms of Injun hootch an 
 
 other kinds of sin; 
 I want to hear them songs once more an want 
 
 to see my friends 
 Where the swiftly-rushin Klondike with the 
 
 mighty Yukon blends, 
 An they size a feller-sinner by his heart 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, 
 
 [45] 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 An watch her throw her shafts of silver far up 
 
 in the sky, 
 While her color-bearers tint em with an always- 
 
 changin dye, 
 An from the walls of heaven all their fragile 
 
 banners swing 
 Till the air s alive with whispers like the swishin 
 
 of a wing, 
 An from the zenith flash great lights across the 
 
 interspace 
 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 
 When the ice moves down the river, long about 
 
 the last of May, 
 When the birds an flowers are flirtin an the 
 
 white clouds sail the blue 
 An the energetic insecks get in their fine work 
 
 too. 
 I know now what I didn t when I went up there 
 
 before, 
 That it is soshul suicide to linger round here 
 
 poor, 
 
 [46] 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 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. 
 
 [47] 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 A FATAL GIFT* 
 
 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 regards 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 
 
 * Read at a dinner given to the author at St. Michael, 
 Alaska, on his forty-fifth birthday, February 22, 1900. 
 
 [48] 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 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. 
 
 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, 
 
 [49] 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 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. 
 
 [50] 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 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 
 From the white peaks that gleam in the moon 
 light, 
 
 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.) 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 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 per 
 haps; 
 But we found to our grief that the gulches 
 
 Were staked in the name of the Lapps. 
 
 [52] 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 A hundred long leagues to the northward, 
 
 Through the untrodden, sun-burnished 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 an agent of God, 
 Who trades 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. 
 
 [53] 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 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 search 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. 
 
 [54] 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 THE GOLDSMITH OF 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 have 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. 
 
 * The name of the richest creek in the Nome district 
 (Anvil) was suggested by a large rock on the top of a 
 mountain, about five miles from the beach ; from many 
 points of view this rock resembles a blacksmith s anvil. 
 
 [55] 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 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. 
 
 [56] 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 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, 
 
 [57] 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 I am dreaming of the glory 
 
 Of the prehistoric race 
 Which inhabited these valleys 
 
 When the first stampede took place. 
 
 When I entered on my labors 
 
 Stately palm trees 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 sunlit 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, 
 
 [58] 
 
" 
 
 THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 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. 
 
 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 a perfect 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 burden 
 
 Of good government for Nome. 
 
 [59] 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 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. 
 
 They unearthed my hidden treasures, 
 
 Filled their coffers full of gold, 
 Trafficked 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 brow became with anger 
 
 And His heart grew stern and cold, 
 And He hurled His bolts of thunder 
 
 From the battlements of Heaven 
 Till the sun went out in darkness 
 
 And remotest space was riven. 
 
 [60] 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 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. 
 
 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 aslumber 
 
 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, 
 [61] 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 Throwing rays of hope and comfort 
 Through the darkness of despair 
 
 Hanging o er the heavy laden 
 And the weary everywhere. 
 
 All night 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 East, above the morning, 
 
 Shone a new Irradiant Star. 
 
 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, 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 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. 
 
 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." 
 
 [63] 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 V 
 
 Then a great awaking pity 
 
 Seized upon my swelling breast, 
 And my heart was rilled 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. 
 
 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. 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 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. 
 
 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. 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 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 ran 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. 
 
 [66] 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 I stood despondent at the door and faced the 
 
 frozen foam 
 That from my frail and faltering feet reached 
 
 westward to Cape Nome, 
 And as I gazed with brimming eyes across the 
 
 shining 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 gale, 
 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 
 
 apprehends 
 The frightful havoc he has wrought among his 
 
 former friends; 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 If he could hear them sigh and groan and see 
 them try to walk, 
 
 I m sure he never would again produce his pri 
 vate stock 
 
 Of Runnymede and Pommery s and Mumm s se 
 ductive sees 
 
 And pour the same persistently down their re 
 ceptive necks. 
 
 (The thing that seems most strange to me and 
 fills me with surprise 
 
 Is how the Judge s "private stock" affects a fel 
 low 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 
 
 compound. 
 
 [68] 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 The bookcase stood with vacant shelves and 
 
 doors extended wide, 
 As if it yearned for vanished friends that once 
 
 reposed inside; 
 Some flowering plants, left there abloom with 
 
 blossoms chaste and rare, 
 Already drooped their slender stems for want 
 
 of woman s care 
 The sight of these familiar things intensified my 
 
 grief 
 So that I sadly turned away and sought outside 
 
 relief. 
 
 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 
 
 fullness 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 
 
 proudly sat? 
 
 [69] 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 (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 
 
 truthful toast : 
 "Of all the drinks I ve drunk with you I needed 
 
 this one most !") 
 
 The room that had appeared so dark was bril 
 liantly ablaze 
 
 The scene now shone resplendent with the light 
 of other days ; 
 
 The place was full of brawny men and charming 
 women too 
 
 The former rather numerous, the latter some 
 what 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; 
 
 [70] 
 
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. 
 
 [7.1] 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 TO THE YUKON ORDER OF 
 PIONEERS 
 
 In Memory of Charles S. Lavante. Died at Nome, 
 Sept. 8 f 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 com 
 plicated ills; 
 
 I saw him tested by the rule which few at Nome 
 observe, 
 
 That we should do to other men what we our 
 selves deserve. 
 
 [72] 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 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 prehis 
 toric beans, 
 
 And when you had the scurvy steeped the spruce 
 boughs for your greens. 
 
 [73] 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 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 time you spent at 
 Cassiar, 
 
 And how you used to rock out gold on old Bo 
 nanza 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." 
 
 [74] 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 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 nevermore at Circle will you see his happy 
 
 smile; 
 For he s gone to take his well-earned rest in the 
 
 universal way, 
 And I know he ll find God s latchstring a-hang- 
 
 ing out to-day. 
 
 [751 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 A GREETING TO THE SWEDES 
 
 From Their Fellow-sufferers at Topkuk 
 
 We learn to-day that you ve received a mes 
 sage 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 on to 
 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 
 
 ourselves. 
 
 We have a sub-receiver here, who s working out 
 
 our mine 
 In a systematic manner which makes our hearts 
 
 repine. 
 
 [76] 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 He brought a damned expensive plant, shipped 
 in his boss s name, 
 
 And planted it against our "kick" upon our rich 
 est 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 knockout 
 
 blow for right. 
 
 Last week the foam-crowned Sea King came and 
 
 served his unbought writ, 
 And Aleck s high-priced plant now lies deep 
 
 down beneath the spit. 
 
 [77] 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 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 give 
 
 thanks to God! 
 
 [78] 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 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. 
 
 [79] 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 THE LAWYER AND THE MINER 
 
 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. 
 
 II 
 
 A miner climbed over the hills 
 And prospected the gulches and rills 
 Till he discovered enough 
 Of the right kind of stuff 
 To drive away poverty s ills. 
 
 [80] 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 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. 
 
 81] 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 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 stuff, 
 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. 
 
 There s a siren from Seattle 
 
 Who is traveling in style, 
 Basking in the brilliant sunshine 
 
 Of the purser s dazzling smile. 
 [82] 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 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 
 
 Eat cold corn-beef from a can. 
 
 There s a Topkuk sub-receiver 
 Who is smuggling like a thief 
 
 All the gold the gang could gobble 
 For their late-transported Chief. 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 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. 
 
 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; 
 
 [84] 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 But I ll simply say in closing 
 That the most distressing fact 
 
 That has come to my attention 
 Is the way the ladies act. 
 
 [85] 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 TO THE YUKON SOUR DOUGHS 
 
 I ve done just as you told me to that night I 
 
 read to you 
 My simple Yukon verses and you said, "By God ! 
 
 they re true!* 
 But I can t report much progress in a literary 
 
 way, 
 For the folks down here don t hanker for the 
 
 things I have to say. 
 
 I read my verses to some men officially quite 
 
 high, 
 Who could give you boys up there relief if they 
 
 would only try; 
 But I couldn t make them smile or weep or even 
 
 once relax 
 Perhaps they don t like poetry that s based on 
 
 solid facts. 
 
 I read them to the statesmen who combined and 
 
 formed a trust 
 To monopolize sluice-robbing and to confiscate 
 
 your dust, 
 
 [86] 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 And shipped to Nome last summer a gang of 
 
 hired hands 
 To drive you from your placers and to gut your 
 
 golden sands. 
 
 I held them with my glittering eye and read my 
 
 very best, 
 Just as the Ancient Manner held up the wedding 
 
 guest ; 
 But just before I made my point they vanished 
 
 with the "whips" 
 To reorganize the army and to subsidize some 
 
 ships. 
 
 I tried to get my verses in the daily picture-press, 
 But the men who guard its columns sent them 
 
 back to my address, 
 With the gentle intimation, "We ve no room for 
 
 news from Nome; 
 We re too busy with our neighbors to consider 
 
 crimes at home." 
 
 Then I sent them to the censors of the ic-cent 
 
 magazines ; 
 But they wanted stuff from China or the un- 
 
 whipped Philippines, 
 
 [87] 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 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. 
 
 [88] 
 
LATER VERSES 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 A WISE SWEDE 
 
 Last year, when the fever for staking 
 
 Raged hotly on tundra and creek, 
 I fled for my life, and while breaking 
 
 The trail to a far-distant peak, 
 To stake for my health on the summit, 
 
 I mushed up a canyon that feed? 
 The famous-rich-coveted placers 
 
 Discovered and staked by the Swedes. 
 
 As far as my eyesight could travel 
 
 From the head of the creek to its lakes, 
 To the sky-reaching rim of its gravel 
 
 There was nothing but silence and stakes; 
 For the gold which God in His goodness 
 
 Had placed there to make the Swedes glad 
 Lay deep neath a godless injunction 
 
 Which covered the claims they once had. 
 
 I mushed up the canyon as quickly 
 As a musher like me could proceed 
 
 Till I came to a claim where a sickly 
 But exceedingly square-headed Swede 
 
 [91] 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 Was rapidly rocking a rocker 
 
 With a skillful and minerlike twist 
 
 That yielded each clean-up a panful 
 Of nuggets as big as your fist. 
 
 The claim had been staked to perfection, 
 
 As even a novice could see, 
 For it bristled in every direction 
 
 With stakes that were tall as a tree. 
 It looked like a hopfield in autumn 
 
 No jumper would ever presume 
 To make an attempt at pre-emption, 
 
 For the landscape afforded no room. 
 
 I marveled why Back-room Injunction, 
 
 The servant of Organized Greed 
 His Honor s most fraudulent function 
 
 Had never "injuncted" this Swede; 
 And I asked him to tell me the secret 
 
 Of how he had managed to keep 
 His claim from the clutch of the lawyers 
 
 And all its great benefits reap. 
 
 He climbed up and sat down beside me, 
 On a big pile of well-sharpened stakes, 
 
 And calmly but searchingly eyed me, 
 With the care that a mind-reader takes; 
 
 [92] 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 Then he leaned, with an air confidential, 
 Till his whiskers reposed on my cheek, 
 
 And with a smile that was placid he whispered, 
 "I yump it myself every veek!" 
 
 [93] 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 BRICK WHEATON S GRAVE* 
 
 I ve been across to Oakland Hights, just as I 
 
 promised you, 
 An fixed "Brick" Wheaton s restin place the 
 
 way you told me to, 
 An planted in the coolest spot, among the 
 
 strange plants there, 
 The slender sprigs of Yukon fern you sent him 
 
 in my care. 
 
 But Jack McQuesten tells me that he s sure 
 they ll never grow, 
 
 Cause they ought to be a-sleepin now beneath 
 the Yukon snow; 
 
 He says all things that s raised up North is sen 
 sitive an queer 
 
 That even men that s been up there ain t satis 
 fied down here. 
 
 * Written in San Francisco and dedicated to Circle 
 City Camp No. 7, Arctic Brotherhood, in memory of 
 W. R. Wheaton, who died at Nome, July 27, 1900. 
 
 [94] 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 He tells me that in twenty years he never knew 
 
 a man 
 That spent a winter in the North except one 
 
 African 
 An came outside to see the sights, that wasn t 
 
 broke an tired 
 An homesick for his Yukon friends before a 
 
 month expired. 
 
 He says his little children fret an mope aroun 
 
 all day 
 To have him take em back again to where they 
 
 use to play 
 
 An fish along the river bank an imitate the cry 
 O wild geese tracin long black lines across the 
 
 summer sky. 
 
 He says they keep a-beggin an implorin him 
 to go 
 
 Back where they used to frolic with their play 
 mates in the snow 
 
 An watch the stars an wonder at the tremblin 
 Northern Lights 
 
 That flit an dance an whisper through the 
 moon-tranced Arctic nights. 
 
 [95] 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 He says the Malamutes he brought to make his 
 
 children glad 
 Became before a week went by low-spirited an 
 
 sad, 
 An moped aroun just like the kids, an even 
 
 though he tried 
 To cheer em up with empty cans, they pined 
 
 away an died. 
 
 Old Jack declares that it s the heat that makes 
 his children weep 
 
 An renders Yukon plants an dogs so difficult to 
 keep; 
 
 He says there s somethin in the hootch these 
 roadhouse-keepers sell 
 
 That makes this climate worse for us than sum 
 mertime in hell. 
 
 But I ve got my own opinion why his little chil 
 dren cry, 
 
 An why the Yukon plants an dogs get homesick 
 here an die. 
 
 It ain t the heat an ain t the hootch, but a sort 
 o soshul fog 
 
 That breeds an awful lonesomeness that even 
 kills a dog. 
 
 [96] 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 The high-toned children born down here with 
 pedigrees all right 
 
 Decline to play with Yukon kids whose mothers 
 ain t pure white, 
 
 An when they pass em on the trail they elevate 
 their nose 
 
 An laugh because they re pidgin-toed an criti 
 cise their clo s. 
 
 The high-toned curly poodle dogs with ribbons 
 
 roun their necks 
 Don t act a bit more soshable, but sneak behind 
 
 an vex 
 The Malamutes till they get mad an spoilin for 
 
 a fight, 
 But when they turn aroun to scrap the poodles 
 
 ain t in sight. 
 
 I mush along the crowded trails they call a 
 trail a "street" 
 
 An nod an smile an say "Hello!" to all the 
 folks I meet ; 
 
 But every cuss looks straight ahead an emu 
 lates the speed 
 
 Of a Circle City miner on a Tanana stampede. 
 
 [97] 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 They never stop an ask a man how he is gettin 
 on, 
 
 Or try to ascertain from him if all his bacon s 
 gone; 
 
 They never take a stranger in to spend a pleas 
 ant hour, 
 
 Or ask him if he s out o beans or if he needs 
 some flour. 
 
 This heartless conduct makes me sad an lone 
 some like the kids, 
 
 An every Sunday afternoon, unless the fog for 
 bids, 
 
 I cross the bay to Oakland, where I while away 
 the hours 
 
 Beside Brick s peaceful restin place an cultivate 
 his flowers. 
 
 An while I set there by his grave, revolvin in 
 my mind 
 
 Why Death most always takes the good an 
 leaves the bad behind, 
 
 My memory goes a-mushin an it mushes to the 
 scenes 
 
 Where Brick an me was neighbors, in the far- 
 off land of beans. 
 
 [98] 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 I set an dream about the things we use to do 
 
 up there 
 That was legally unlawful, but that otherwise 
 
 was square, 
 In the good old days at Circle, fore the lawyers 
 
 formed a trust 
 To jump our richest minin claims an confiscate 
 
 our dust. 
 
 Again I hear the soothin tones o Bates s old 
 guitar, 
 
 As he sung about "The Fisher Maiden" at the 
 Polar Star ; 
 
 Again I see Brick rasslin with his yaller mando 
 lin, 
 
 As he chanted bout the charms o hootch an 
 other kinds o sin. 
 
 Again I hear his anecdotes that use to make us 
 
 smile, 
 About the soshul scandals that excited Forty 
 
 Mile, 
 An watch his evolutions as he use to frisk an 
 
 prance 
 An liven up the Lancers at the old-time Siwash 
 
 dance. 
 
 [99] 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 Brick had a lot o weaknesses, but most of em 
 
 was strong 
 Compared to Christian virtues, an but few of 
 
 "em was wrong. 
 He sometimes got bewildered, but he weighed 
 
 our gold dust fair, 
 An I recall but one time when his conduct 
 
 wasn t square. 
 
 That s when he stole my parkie for the hungry 
 
 shiverin cuss 
 That nearly starved at Dawson fore he floated 
 
 down to us, 
 An took him to my cabin, where he put him in 
 
 my bed 
 An filled him full o hootch an beans an left 
 
 him there for dead. 
 
 He never passed a comrade havin trouble on 
 
 the trail 
 Until he d lingered long enough to hear his 
 
 mournful tale, 
 An whether it was strictly true or somewhat 
 
 otherwise, 
 It always proved sufficient to secure some fresh 
 
 supplies. 
 
 [100] 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 He never broke a contract for an insufficient 
 
 cause, 
 An never jumped a minin claim or broke the 
 
 minin laws; 
 For he had an inborn weakness for the old 
 
 Yukon belief 
 That a man who jumps a placer is an acrobatic 
 
 thief. 
 
 In dividin with a pardner he was never known 
 
 to make 
 
 An error in division, an he never tried to take 
 Advantage o the clean-up, like some modern 
 
 pardners do, 
 An he never kicked a Siwash dog or sawed a 
 
 boat in two. 
 
 He s climbed up past the great white peaks that 
 
 overlook the vale 
 Where God has built a roadhouse for the men 
 
 who blaze the trail, 
 An he s restin there an waitin for his old-time 
 
 Yukon friends 
 To climb up there an join him when their earthly 
 
 mushin ends. 
 
 [101] 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 When all the kindly deeds he done are entered 
 
 over there 
 By the honest Camp Recorder, who records our 
 
 titles fair, 
 I m sure the Great Impartial Judge, in passin 
 
 on the same, 
 Will rule he ain t no alien an entitled to a 
 
 claim. 
 
 TIC*] 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 A YUKON VISION* 
 
 As one who holds a sea-shell to his ear, 
 
 On some far mountaintop, can hear the moan 
 Of Ocean s sad, eternal monotone, 
 
 So he who contemplates this Relic here, 
 
 Methinks, may catch this vision, sharp and clear : 
 Two rival monarchs of the frozen zone 
 In mortal comhat for the Great Moose 
 throne, 
 
 With Death in midnight shadows lurking near; 
 
 The swiftly gathering wolf-pack s hunger-cry 
 Across the ghost-pale snow beneath the 
 
 moon ; 
 The low, discordant dirge of dying groans; 
 
 The fading life-light in a death-glazed eye ; 
 
 And lying stark, as dawns the Arctic noon, 
 This Relic, tween two piles of polished 
 bones. 
 
 * Lines engraved on the silver plate on interlocked 
 moosehorns found on the Yukon in 1898, and now in 
 possession of the San Francisco-Alaska Club of San 
 Francisco. Plate presented to the club by Erik O. Lind- 
 blom. 
 
 1 103 1 
 
THE MAN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 TO ANDREW CARNEGIE 
 
 We re informed that you re afraid 
 To explore Death s gloomy glade 
 Till you ve restitution made 
 
 Of the pelf 
 
 You extracted from the toil 
 Of the men who sweat and broil, 
 Keeping nearly all the spoil 
 
 For yourself. 
 
 You imported hordes of Huns, 
 And with clubs and gatling guns 
 Drove our working native sons 
 
 From your mills, 
 While the Congressmen you paid 
 On the armor-plate you made 
 A protective tariff laid 
 
 In their bills. 
 
 You find balm in the belief 
 That the most colossal thief 
 May repent and buy relief 
 
 For his soul ; 
 
 But the law of God declares 
 Ere he climb the golden stairs 
 He must pay the rightful heirs 
 
 All he stole. 
 [104] 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 Now the men who earned your gold 
 
 Rapidly are growing old 
 
 Weak from hunger and from cold, 
 
 They can t work; 
 With old age fast creeping on, 
 With their loved ones starved and gone, 
 They are waiting for the dawn 
 
 At the kirk. 
 
 While they beg their daily bread, 
 With no place to lay their head, 
 And no hope till they are dead, 
 
 Neath the mould, 
 You are squandering their means 
 Mid attractive foreign scenes, 
 And you ll buy the Philippines 
 
 If they re sold. 
 
 You are building everywhere 
 Homes for books and pictures rare, 
 While these men die of despair, 
 
 And we re told 
 
 That you hope to write your name 
 On the world s great roll of fame 
 And expect to gild the same 
 
 With their gold. 
 
 [105] 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 Now, we have a better scheme 
 It s no poet s idle dream, 
 And it would your soul redeem 
 
 At the last: 
 
 Give your millions to the ones 
 Whom you drove out for the Huns 
 At the muzzle of your guns 
 
 In the past. 
 
 If you ll take our scheme in hand, 
 Everyone in this broad land 
 Will declare your project grand 
 
 And sublime. 
 
 Peace of mind you ll then secure; 
 God will bless you, we are sure, 
 And your fame it will endure 
 
 For all time. 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 RIDER ROOSEVELT 
 
 (With apologies to the late Eugene Field.) 
 
 If I were Rider Roosevelt and Rider Roose 
 velt I, 
 
 No publisher would hesitate my manuscripts to 
 buy. 
 
 I d make no rhymes about the crimes committed 
 by our courts, 
 
 But praise in prose our costly wars and other 
 strenuous sports; 
 
 I d print a book of tactics on the way my cow 
 boys drilled, 
 
 And write a brilliant brochure on "Wild Animals 
 I ve Killed." 
 
 The printer of my books, I ween, could scarce 
 the trade supply 
 
 If I were Rider Roosevelt and Rider Roose 
 velt I. 
 
 If I were Rider Roosevelt and Rider Roose 
 velt I, 
 
 He could not sell his books because the public 
 would not buy; 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 He could not ride at eventide upon a prancing 
 steed, 
 
 Nor earn the wherewithal to buy the things his 
 children need; 
 
 He could not keep his charming wife in neces 
 sary gear, 
 
 Not even if her frocks cost less than fifty pounds 
 a year; 
 
 And often when he tried to sleep, these thoughts 
 would make him sigh 
 
 If I were Rider Roosevelt and Rider Roose 
 velt I. 
 
 If I were Rider Roosevelt and Rider Roose 
 velt I, 
 
 No commonplace amusements would my nature 
 satisfy. 
 
 I d bust a broncho every morn, as no mere cow 
 boy could, 
 
 And sprint to Cabin John and back with lucky 
 Leonard Wood; 
 
 Then after lunch I d rush across and from 
 Elihu s files 
 
 Extract some confidential facts and reprimand 
 old Miles; 
 
 [ 108! 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 I d snub Mark Hanna and his friends and on 
 myself rely 
 
 If I were Rider Roosevelt and Rider Roose 
 velt I. 
 
 If I were Rider Roosevelt and Rider Roose 
 velt I, 
 
 He d think it strange that I should thus the de 
 cencies defy, 
 
 And ask me if I had forgot the gallant things 
 Miles did 
 
 While I squirmed in my mother s arms, a squall 
 ing, kicking kid 
 
 How Miles fought on a hundred fields where 
 thickest raged the fray, 
 
 With nary nigger regiment to charge and save 
 the day; 
 
 At least I am inclined to think that he would thus 
 reply 
 
 If I were Rider Roosevelt and Rider Roose 
 velt I. 
 
 [109] 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 GIVE US WATER, UNCLE SAM 
 
 What we want out here is Water, 
 Just plain Water, Uncle Sam, 
 
 And we think you ought to bring it 
 From a Governmental Dam. 
 
 We ve just learned that you ve decided,. 
 
 After many years delay, 
 To supply the West with Water 
 
 If you find the scheme will pay. 
 
 We ve been praying hard for moisture, 
 Through the hot and arid years, 
 
 But our cry of Water! Water!" 
 Has just lately reached your ears. 
 
 Though we re longing for this liquid, 
 Yet we wouldn t have you think 
 
 For a solitary minute 
 
 That we want the stuff to drink. 
 
 We have other kinds of liquids, 
 From the best brands to the worst, 
 
 And they re mighty efficacious 
 
 When it comes to quenching thirst. 
 
 [no] 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 We maintain out here that Water 
 Its great function best fulfills 
 
 When it irrigates our ranches 
 And brings power to our mills. 
 
 Come out here and help us finish 
 What God left about half done 
 
 When He turned the Desert over 
 To the Lizard and the Sun. 
 
 If you can t resist the impulse 
 That impels you to expand, 
 
 You can find room for Expansion 
 On our ancient arid land. 
 
 (As we furnished you with Silver 
 When you wanted to resume, 
 
 Now that you ve espoused Expansion, 
 We ll provide the bridal-room.) 
 
 You can go up in these mountains 
 
 And construct a reservoir 
 For a tithe of what you squandered 
 
 In your recent foreign war. 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 You can go down in these valleys 
 And produce a flowing well, 
 
 And you need not run your auger 
 More than half way down to hell. 
 
 You can dig a hundred ditches 
 From the Platte to Tonopah 
 
 For much less than you have taxed us 
 For your ditch at Panama. 
 
 With the differential duties 
 
 Which you pay the Sugar Trust 
 
 You can pump sufficient Water 
 To forever lay our dust. 
 
 If you ll only bring us Water 
 To our arid lands out West, 
 
 We will ask no further favors, 
 And will quickly do the rest. 
 
 We will make the Desert blossom 
 Like the fertile Philippines, 
 
 Where you re killing off the natives 
 While we furnish you the means. 
 
 [112] 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZED THE TRAIL 
 
 We will show you what strong muscles, 
 When engaged in honest toil, 
 
 Can produce on barren uplands 
 From a shallow, sandy soil. 
 
 We will fill your empty coffers 
 With the stuff you like so well 
 
 Then the bankers can t control you, 
 For you ll have gold bricks to sell. 
 
 When this prayer of ours you answer 
 And our arid lands redeem, 
 
 You will see the full fruition 
 Of our hydrographic dream. 
 
 Then you ll see our verdant valleys, 
 Smiling neath our azure skies, 
 
 Circled by our purple mountains, 
 Like the vales of Paradise. 
 
 What we want out here is Water, 
 Just plain Water, Uncle Sam, 
 
 And we think you ought to bring it 
 From a Governmental Dam. 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 THE NYE COUNTY ASS 
 
 The Ass that roams yon barren hill 
 
 In search of sustenance 
 Is not what carping critics call 
 
 A subject for romance. 
 
 The housewives in this arid town 
 Whose water he has spilled, 
 
 We re very sure, from what they say, 
 Would like to see him killed. 
 
 The prejudice of these, and all 
 Who re wakened from their sleep 
 
 At midnight by his mournful song, 
 Is permanent and deep. 
 
 But he who burns the midnight oil 
 And barters night for day 
 
 Is never wakened from his sleep 
 By harsh nocturnal bray. 
 
 And such a one, with prejudice 
 Against nor beast nor class, 
 
 Would crave to be allowed to speak 
 A good word for the Ass. 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 The Ass has been so vilified 
 
 So persecuted, too 
 That we re inclined to spare the space 
 
 And give the cuss his due. 
 
 Look at the picture here displayed; 
 
 Inspect it with all care 
 Gaze in that solemn little face 
 
 And read the story there: 
 
 The pathos of two thousand years 
 Of ancient jokes and low, 
 
 Of insufficient nourishment, 
 And hereditary woe. 
 
 Go take your Bible from the shelf 
 Or come and borrow ours ! 
 
 And turn to where it tells about 
 The great diluvian showers. 
 
 Examine well the pictures there, 
 And you will quick remark 
 
 That Asses just like these of ours 
 Took passage in the ark. 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 Of all the races on the earth 
 Or man, or fowl, or beast 
 
 We ve every reason to believe 
 The Ass has changed the least. 
 
 And when it comes to pedigree, 
 
 Since Adam s slip and fall 
 We are convinced the Ass can show 
 
 The purest one of all. 
 
 Ours is the same old, patient Ass 
 
 Ears, appetite and all 
 That scaled the heights of Lebanon 
 
 And browsed by Zion s wall. 
 
 His gentle voice, from time remote, 
 Has undergone no change, 
 
 And when we hear it in the night 
 It has the same old range. 
 
 The song he sings on yonder hill, 
 So loud and sad and slow, 
 
 Was heard in far-off Palestine 
 Two thousand years ago. 
 [116] 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 It is the same heart-breaking song, 
 Pitched in the same sad key, 
 
 That woke the humble fishermen 
 On storm-tossed Galilee. 
 
 The shepherds heard the sad refrain 
 That wondrous winter night, 
 
 When far athwart the eastern sky 
 God flashed the World s New Light. 
 
 And now we make a plea to all 
 To cease their loud complaints 
 
 Against the songs of long ago 
 That satisfied the saints. 
 
 The Ass has borne your burdens here 
 
 So patiently and long, 
 That you should bear as patiently 
 
 The burden of his song. 
 
 And when you meet a weary Ass, 
 
 O erburdened on the road, 
 No matter whether man or beast, 
 
 Help lighten up his load. 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 THE PROMOTER 
 
 T was way back in the early days a year ago 
 
 last fall- 
 When the leases was perducin big an Tonopah 
 
 was small; 
 When Butler use to stake the boys to do most 
 
 anything, 
 An never took no notes, but said, "J est P av me 
 
 in the spring !" 
 Before Zeb Kendall made his pile, an full o 
 
 local pride, 
 Put up his costly Palace an a sleepin place 
 
 supplied 
 
 Before Frank Golden built a block, with confi 
 dence as great, 
 That s a marvel to all strangers an an honor to 
 
 the State. 
 
 Sence then we ve had permoters here from al 
 most every State, 
 
 From the breezy Bay o Fundy to the foggy 
 Golden Gate 
 
 From Montana down to Texas, an from there 
 to Puget Sound 
 
 An there s always bout a hundred o these 
 gents a-loafin round. 
 [118] 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 They ve reduced our common fractions an con 
 solidated claims 
 
 An they ve christened all our prospects with 
 their double-jointed names 
 
 Till it looks as though the nation hasn t any 
 more to lend 
 
 An extended our extensions till there s nothin 
 to extend. 
 
 One night a mine permoter from the mercenary 
 
 East, 
 With his cheek all smoothly shaven like a Phily- 
 
 delphy priest, 
 
 Got into camp from Sody on an overloaded stage, 
 With his eyes inflamed an rimy, an a-smellin 
 
 strong o sage; 
 An they dumped him down at Stimler s, where 
 
 he stomped aroun an cussed 
 Bout the bloomin arid desert while a-shakin off 
 
 the dust; 
 Then he turned an tackled Stimler, sayin loudly. 
 
 "I persoom 
 
 That you filed my application for a two-com 
 partment room !" 
 Stimler pondered for a minit, then he sort o 
 
 smiled an said : 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 "You ll be mighty lucky, pardner, if you get a 
 
 single bed! 
 I jest filed yer application, but I ain t got nary 
 
 sweet/ 
 An the market ain t supplyin us with very much 
 
 to eat; 
 But we ve got a lot o liquids that s as good as 
 
 you can find 
 
 Pervided you re acclimeted to our pertic lar kind : 
 An if you re feelin frisky an a-hankerin to bet, 
 We can furnish you with faro an amuse you 
 
 with roulette." 
 
 Then a lot o Mizpah leasers that was lingerin 
 
 aroun 
 They allured the thirsty stranger to go out an 
 
 see the town, 
 An they took him down to Brougher s an they 
 
 showed him every sight 
 An persood the local customs which controls 
 
 the camp at night, 
 An when they got him sleepy and suffishuntly 
 
 confused, 
 They took him to a tunnel which was very sel- 
 
 dum used, 
 
 [120] 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 An they made the cuss a mattress out o thou 
 sand-dollar ore, 
 
 An they covered him with empty sacks an left 
 him there to snore. 
 
 Next afternoon this expert, when he got himself 
 
 released, 
 Perpared a tecknicul report an sent the same 
 
 back East. 
 He said : "A chap named Butler was a-munkey- 
 
 in aroun 
 An stumbled gainst a chunk o ore protrudin 
 
 from the groun , 
 
 An jest because it assayed high an looked un 
 common fine 
 He sort o lost his head an thought he d found 
 
 a payin mine." 
 An then he closed his first report: "They ll 
 
 work her out by spring 
 I spent a whole night underground an couldn t 
 
 see a thing!" 
 
 Next day this here permoter was interrogatin 
 
 Jim, 
 With a sort o sneakin notion that he d get the 
 
 best o him. 
 
 [121] 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 They was settin down to Kendall s with a jug 
 o Holland gin, 
 
 Which the same they was imbibin out o glasses 
 made o tin, 
 
 When this expert sprung the question, with a 
 wise look all aroun , 
 
 "Are you certain, Mister Butler, that yer bloom- 
 in ledge goes down?" 
 
 Old Jim he thought a second, while a-gazin in 
 his cup, 
 
 Then he answered sort o sudden, "Well, by 
 God! she don t go up!" 
 
 That night he made his last report this expert 
 
 of renown: 
 "I find the Mizpah don t go up, an therefore 
 
 turn her down!" 
 Last month the news it got back East it was 
 
 too good to keep 
 That every mine in Tonopah is rich an wide an 
 
 deep! 
 When this permoter heard the news, he went 
 
 an got in bed, 
 An tossed an groaned there for a week, an* 
 
 then they found him dead, 
 An the coroner s certificut it was consize an* 
 
 brief: 
 "The late lamented wasn t sick he simply died 
 
 o grief!" 
 
 1 123]! 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 LEM ALLEN OF CHURCHILL 
 
 We sing of Lem Allen of Churchill* 
 The man who runs second to Sparks, 
 
 And his rare old collection of whiskers 
 And his extra dry brand of remarks. 
 
 We interviewed Lem up at Reno, 
 
 And while drinking dry Mumm which he 
 
 bought 
 We told him our Nye county voters 
 
 Were anxious to know what he thought. 
 
 He gave us his candid opinion 
 Why Silver should reign as of old, 
 
 And the same was as weighty and solid 
 As a brick made of Tonopah gold. 
 
 He dissected our absentee statesmen 
 Who mingle with Morgan too much 
 
 And spend their vacations in Europe 
 
 With Frenchmen and English and Dutch. 
 
 * Lieutenant-Governor of Nevada, 1903-6. 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 His voice it got husky and faltered 
 
 When the Crime" he began to discuss, 
 
 And he looked so exceedingly arid 
 
 That we asked him to moisten with us. 
 
 He quickly absorbed the prescription, 
 
 But insisted on paying again, 
 And he said, "In regard to my dryness 
 
 I guess I had ought to explain: 
 
 "I try to raise sheep on the desert, 
 
 In a county adjacent to Nye; 
 So it s largely climatic conditions 
 
 Which renders my language so dry." 
 
 (Nine terms in the Silver State Senate, 
 And still he works hard on a ranch, 
 
 Which proves that old Lem never tasted 
 
 The plums that are picked from that branch.) 
 
 He depicted the sorrows of Silver 
 
 He called her his "White Virgin Queen" 
 Since that hard-hearted, yellow-skinned traitor 
 
 Went roving and treated her mean. 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 He deeply deplored the decadence 
 Of everything good in the State 
 
 He asserted that even our whisky 
 Is losing its strength here of late. 
 
 He claimed that the market for mutton, 
 Like the market for silver, s too cheap 
 
 That Sparks waxes rich raising cattle, 
 While he nearly starves raising sheep. 
 
 He declared that the wealth of our statesmen 
 
 Has slipped a few cogs in repute 
 Since Clark ran a corner on copper 
 
 And raised the quotations at Butte. 
 
 He painted a picture of plenty, 
 
 With the skill of a master of old, 
 
 When Silver was Queen of the Mountains 
 And her legalized Consort was Gold. 
 
 He told the sad tale of our miners 
 
 Who ve hopelessly toiled through the years, 
 
 While their wives and their children have fasted 
 And sprinkled the desert with tears. 
 I 125 ] 
 
THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 
 
 He paid his respects to the bankers 
 Who conspired to make Silver low-priced, 
 
 And supported each separate statement 
 With a similar statement by Christ. 
 
 He projected his mind to the future, 
 
 When Gold will be kicked from the Street 
 
 And return to the Queen of the Mountains 
 And grovel in shame at her feet. 
 
 Just as Lem reached the heart of his subject 
 We were forced to depart for our train 
 
 But we leaned on the bar ere we vanished 
 To permit him to treat us again. 
 
 Now, list, all you Nye county voters, 
 To our plain but prophetic remarks: 
 
 You can bet that Lem Allen of Churchill 
 Will run a hot second to Sparks. 
 
 And if Lem keeps on talking and treating 
 In the extra dry way he s begun, 
 
 He will turn down the traitors to Silver 
 By a ratio of sixteen to one. 
 

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