ROBERT WILLIAM SERVICE
Original texts by R.Service granted by E.Vitkovskii.THE PARSON'S SON This is the song of the parson's son, as he squats in his shack alone, On the wild, weird nights, when the Northern Lights shoot up from the frozen zone, And it's sixty below, and couched in the snow the hungry huskies moan: "I'm one of the Arctic brotherhood, I'm an old-time pioneer. I came with the first - O God! how I've cursed this Yukon - but still I'm here. I've sweated athirst in its summer heat, I've frozen and starved in its cold; I've followed my dreams by its thousand streams, I've toiled and moiled for its gold. "Look at my eyes - been snow-blind twice; look where my foot's half gone; And that gruesome scar on my left cheek, where the frost-fiend bit to the bone. Each one a brand of this devil's land, where I've played and I've lost the game, A broken wreck with a craze for `hooch', and never a cent to my name. "This mining is only a gamble; the worst is as good as the best; I was in with the bunch and I might have come out right on top with the rest; With Cormack, Ladue and Macdonald - O God! but it's hell to think Of the thousands and thousands I've squandered on cards and women and drink. "In the early days we were just a few, and we hunted and fished around, Nor dreamt by our lonely camp-fires of the wealth that lay under the ground. We traded in skins and whiskey, and I've often slept under the shade Of that lone birch tree on Bonanza, where the first big find was made. "We were just like a great big family, and every man had his squaw, And we lived such a wild, free, fearless life beyond the pale of the law; Till sudden there came a whisper, and it maddened us every man, And I got in on Bonanza before the big rush began. "Oh, those Dawson days, and the sin and the blaze, and the town all open wide! (If God made me in His likeness, sure He let the devil inside.) But we all were mad, both the good and the bad, and as for the women, well - No spot on the map in so short a space has hustled more souls to hell. "Money was just like dirt there, easy to get and to spend. I was all caked in on a dance-hall jade, but she shook me in the end. It put me queer, and for near a year I never drew sober breath, Till I found myself in the bughouse ward with a claim staked out on death. "Twenty years in the Yukon, struggling along its creeks; Roaming its giant valleys, scaling its god-like peaks; Bathed in its fiery sunsets, fighting its fiendish cold - Twenty years in the Yukon . . . twenty years - and I'm old. "Old and weak, but no matter, there's `hooch' in the bottle still. I'll hitch up the dogs to-morrow, and mush down the trail to Bill. It's so long dark, and I'm lonesome - I'll just lay down on the bed; To-morrow I'll go . . . to-morrow . . . I guess I'll play on the red. ". . . Come, Kit, your pony is saddled. I'm waiting, dear, in the court . . . . . . Minnie, you devil, I'll kill you if you skip with that flossy sport . . . . . . How much does it go to the pan, Bill? . . .play up, School, and play the game. . . . . . Our Father, which art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name . . ." This was the song of the parson's son, as he lay in his bunk alone, Ere the fire went out and the cold crept in, and his blue lips ceased to moan, And the hunger-maddened malamutes had torn him flesh from bone.
THE CALL OF THE WILD Have you gazed on naked grandeur where there's nothing else to gaze on, Set pieces and drop-curtain scenes galore, Big mountains heaved to heaven, which the blinding sunsets blazon, Black canyons where the rapids rip and roar? Have you swept the visioned valley with the green stream streaking through it, Searched the Vastness for a something you have lost? Have you strung your soul to silence? Then for God's sake go and do it; Hear the challenge, learn the lesson, pay the cost. Have you wandered in the wilderness, the sagebrush desolation, The bunch-grass levels where the cattle graze? Have you whistled bits of rag-time at the end of all creation, And learned to know the desert's little ways? Have you camped upon the foothills, have you galloped o'er the ranges, Have you roamed the arid sun-lands through and through? Have you chummed up with the mesa? Do you know its moods and changes? Then listen to the Wild - it's calling you. Have you known the Great White Silence, not a snow-gemmed twig aquiver? (Eternal truths that shame our soothing lies.) Have you broken trail on snowshoes? mushed your huskies up the river, Dared the unknown, led the way, and clutched the prize? Have you marked the map's void spaces, mingled with the mongrel races, Felt the savage strength of brute in every thew? And though grim as hell the worst is, can you round it off with curses? Then hearken to the Wild - it's wanting you. Have you suffered, starved and triumphed, groveled down, yet grasped at glory, Grown bigger in the bigness of the whole? "Done things" just for the doing, letting babblers tell the story, Seeing through the nice veneer the naked soul? Have you seen God in His splendors, heard the text that nature renders? (You'll never hear it in the family pew.) The simple things, the true things, the silent men who do things - Then listen to the Wild - it's calling you. They have cradled you in custom, they have primed you with their preaching, They have soaked you in convention through and through; They have put you in a showcase; you're a credit to their teaching - But can't you hear the Wild? - it's calling you. Let us probe the silent places, let us seek what luck betide us; Let us journey to a lonely land I know. There's a whisper on the night-wind, there's a star agleam to guide us, And the Wild is calling, calling . . . let us go.
THE LONE TRAIL Ye who know the Lone Trail fain would follow it, Though it lead to glory or the darkness of the pit. Ye who take the Lone Trail, bid your love good-by; The Lone Trail, the Lone Trail follow till you die. The trails of the world be countless, and most of the trails be tried; You tread on the heels of the many, till you come where the ways divide; And one lies safe in the sunlight, and the other is dreary and wan, Yet you look aslant at the Lone Trail, and the Lone Trail lures you on. And somehow you're sick of the highway, with its noise and its easy needs, And you seek the risk of the by-way, and you reck not where it leads. And sometimes it leads to the desert, and the togue swells out of the mouth, And you stagger blind to the mirage, to die in the mocking drouth. And sometimes it leads to the mountain, to the light of the lone camp-fire, And you gnaw your belt in the anguish of hunger-goded desire. And sometimes it leads to the Southland, to the swamp where the orchid glows, And you rave to your grave with the fever, and they rob the corpse for its clothes. And sometimes it leads to the Northland, and the scurvy softens your bones, And your flesh dints in like putty, and you spit out your teeth like stones. And sometimes it leads to a coral reef in the wash of a weedy sea, And you sit and stare at the empty glare where the gulls wait greedily. And sometimes it leads to an Arctic trail, and the snows where your torn feet freeze, And you whittle away the useless clay, and crawl on your hands and knees. Often it leads to the dead-pit; always it leads to pain; By the bones of your brothers ye know it, but oh, to follow you're fain. By your bones they will follow behind you, till the ways of the world are made plain. Bid good-by to sweetheart, bid good-by to friend; The Lone Trail, the Lone Trail follow to the end. Tarry not, and fear not, chosen of the true; Lover of the Lone Trail, the Lone Trail waits for you.
MY MADONNA I haled me a woman from the street, Shameless, but, oh, so fair! I bade her sit in the model's seat And I painted her sitting there. I hid all trace of her heart unclean; I painted a babe at her breast; I painted her as she might have been If the Worst had been the Best. She laughed at my picture and went away. Then came, with a knowing nod, A connoisseur, and I heard him say; "'Tis Mary, the Mother of God." So I painted a halo round her hair, And I sold her and took my fee, And she hangs in the church of Saint Hillaire, Where you and all may see.
THE BALLAD OF PIOUS PETE "The North has got him." - Yukonism. I tried to refine that neighbor of mine, honest to God, I did. I grieved for his fate, and early and late I watched over him like a kid. I gave him excuse, I bore his abuse in every way that I could; I swore to prevail; I camped on his trail; I plotted and planned for his good. By day and by night I strove in men's sight to gather him into the fold, With precept and prayer, with hope and despair, in hunger and hardship and cold. I followed him into Gehennas of sin, I sat where the sirens sit; In the shade of the Pole, for the sake of his soul, I strove with the powers of the Pit. I shadowed him down to the scrofulous town; I dragged him from dissolute brawls; But I killed the galoot when he started to shoot electricity into my walls. God knows what I did he should seek to be rid of one who would save him from shame. God knows what I bore that night when he swore and bade me make tracks from his claim. I started to tell of the horrors of hell, when sudden his eyes lit like coals; And "Chuck it," says he, "don't persecute me with your cant and your saving of souls." I'll swear I was mild as I'd be with a child, but he called me the son of a slut; And, grabbing his gun with a leap and a run, he threatened my face with the butt. So what could I do (I leave it to you)? With curses he harried me forth; Then he was alone, and I was alone, and over us menaced the North. Our cabins were near; I could see, I could hear; but between us there rippled the creek; And all summer through, with a rancor that grew, he would pass me and never would speak. Then a shuddery breath like the coming of Death crept down from the peaks far away; The water was still; the twilight was chill; the sky was a tatter of gray. Swift came the Big Cold, and opal and gold the lights of the witches arose; The frost-tyrant clinched, and the valley was cinched by the stark and cadaverous snows. The trees were like lace where the star-beams could chase, each leaf was a jewel agleam. The soft white hush lapped the Northland and wrapped us round in a crystalline dream; So still I could hear quite loud in my ear the swish of the pinions of time; So bright I could see, as plain as could be, the wings of God's angels ashine. As I read in the Book I would oftentimes look to that cabin just over the creek. Ah me, it was sad and evil and bad, two neighbors who never would speak! I knew that full well like a devil in hell he was hatching out, early and late, A system to bear through the frost-spangled air the warm, crimson waves of his hate. I only could peer and shudder and fear - 'twas ever so ghastly and still; But I knew over there in his lonely despair he was plotting me terrible ill. I knew that he nursed a malice accurst, like the blast of a winnowing flame; I pleaded aloud for a shield, for a shroud - Oh, God! then calamity came. Mad! If I'm mad then you too are mad; but it's all in the point of view. If you'd looked at them things gallivantin' on wings, all purple and green and blue; If you'd noticed them twist, as they mounted and hissed like scorpions dim in the dark; If you'd seen them rebound with a horrible sound, and spitefully spitting a spark; If you'd watched IT with dread, as it hissed by your bed, that thing with the feelers that crawls - You'd have settled the brute that attempted to shoot electricity into your walls. Oh, some they were blue, and they slithered right through; they were silent and squashy and round; And some they were green; they were wriggly and lean; they writhed with so hateful a sound. My blood seemed to freeze; I fell on my knees; my face was a white splash of dread. Oh, the Green and the Blue, they were gruesome to view; but the worst of them all were the Red. They came through the door, they came through the floor, they came through the moss-creviced logs. They were savage and dire; they were whiskered with fire; they bickered like malamute dogs. They ravined in rings like iniquitous things; they gulped down the Green and the Blue. I crinkled with fear whene'er they drew near, and nearer and nearer they drew. And then came the crown of Horror's grim crown, the monster so loathsomely red. Each eye was a pin that shot out and in, as, squidlike, it oozed to my bed; So softly it crept with feelers that swept and quivered like fine copper wire; Its belly was white with a sulphurous light, it jaws were a-drooling with fire. It came and it came; I could breathe of its flame, but never a wink could I look. I thrust in its maw the Fount of the Law; I fended it off with the Book. I was weak - oh, so weak - but I thrilled at its shriek, as wildly it fled in the night; And deathlike I lay till the dawn of the day. (Was ever so welcome the light?) I loaded my gun at the rise of the sun; to his cabin so softly I slunk. My neighbor was there in the frost-freighted air, all wrapped in a robe in his bunk. It muffled his moans; it outlined his bones, as feebly he twisted about; His gums were so black, and his lips seemed to crack, and his teeth all were loosening out. 'Twas a death's head that peered through the tangle of beard; 'twas a face I will never forget; Sunk eyes full of woe, and they troubled me so with their pleadings and anguish, and yet As I rested my gaze in a misty amaze on the scurvy-degenerate wreck, I thought of the Things with the dragon-fly wings, then laid I my gun on his neck. He gave out a cry that was faint as a sigh, like a perishing malamute, And he says unto me, "I'm converted," says he; "for Christ's sake, Peter, don't shoot!" * * * * * They're taking me out with an escort about, and under a sergeant's care; I am humbled indeed, for I'm 'cuffed to a Swede that thinks he's a millionaire. But it's all Gospel true what I'm telling to you - up there where the Shadow falls - That I settled Sam Noot when he started to shoot electricity into my walls.
THE BALLAD OF ONE-EYED MIKE This is the tale that was told to me by the man with the crystal eye, As I smoked my pipe in the camp-fire light, and the Glories swept the sky; As the Northlights gleamed and curved and streamed, and the bottle of "hooch" was dry. A man once aimed that my life be shamed, and wrought me a deathly wrong; I vowed one day I would well repay, but the heft of his hate was strong. He thonged me East and he thonged me West; he harried me back and forth, Till I fled in fright from his peerless spite to the bleak, bald-headed North. And there I lay, and for many a day I hatched plan after plan, For a golden haul of the wherewithal to crush and to kill my man; And there I strove, and there I clove through the drift of icy streams; And there I fought, and there I sought for the pay-streak of my dreams. So twenty years, with their hopes and fears and smiles and tears and such, Went by and left me long bereft of hope of the Midas touch; About as fat as a chancel rat, and lo! despite my will, In the weary fight I had clean lost sight of the man I sought to kill. 'Twas so far away, that evil day when I prayed to the Prince of Gloom For the savage strength and the sullen length of life to work his doom. Nor sign nor word had I seen or heard, and it happed so long ago; My youth was gone and my memory wan, and I willed it even so. It fell one night in the waning light by the Yukon's oily flow, I smoked and sat as I marvelled at the sky's port-winey glow; Till it paled away to an absinthe gray, and the river seemed to shrink, All wobbly flakes and wriggling snakes and goblin eyes a-wink. 'Twas weird to see and it 'wildered me in a queer, hypnotic dream, Till I saw a spot like an inky blot come floating down the stream; It bobbed and swung; it sheered and hung; it romped round in a ring; It seemed to play in a tricksome way; it sure was a merry thing. In freakish flights strange oily lights came fluttering round its head, Like butterflies of a monster size - then I knew it for the Dead. Its face was rubbed and slicked and scrubbed as smooth as a shaven pate; In the silver snakes that the water makes it gleamed like a dinner-plate. It gurgled near, and clear and clear and large and large it grew; It stood upright in a ring of light and it looked me through and through. It weltered round with a woozy sound, and ere I could retreat, With the witless roll of a sodden soul it wantoned to my feet. And here I swear by this Cross I wear, I heard that "floater" say: "I am the man from whom you ran, the man you sought to slay. That you may note and gaze and gloat, and say `Revenge is sweet', In the grit and grime of the river's slime I am rotting at your feet. "The ill we rue we must e'en undo, though it rive us bone from bone; So it came about that I sought you out, for I prayed I might atone. I did you wrong, and for long and long I sought where you might live; And now you're found, though I'm dead and drowned, I beg you to forgive." So sad it seemed, and its cheek-bones gleamed, and its fingers flicked the shore; And it lapped and lay in a weary way, and its hands met to implore; That I gently said: "Poor, restless dead, I would never work you woe; Though the wrong you rue you can ne'er undo, I forgave you long ago." Then, wonder-wise, I rubbed my eyes and I woke from a horrid dream. The moon rode high in the naked sky, and something bobbed in the stream. It held my sight in a patch of light, and then it sheered from the shore; It dipped and sank by a hollow bank, and I never saw it more. This was the tale he told to me, that man so warped and gray, Ere he slept and dreamed, and the camp-fire gleamed in his eye in a wolfish way - That crystal eye that raked the sky in the weird Auroral ray.
THE BALLAD OF THE BRAND 'Twas up in a land long famed for gold, where women were far and rare, Tellus, the smith, had taken to wife a maiden amazingly fair; Tellus, the brawny worker in iron, hairy and heavy of hand, Saw her and loved her and bore her away from the tribe of a Southern land; Deeming her worthy to queen his home and mother him little ones, That the name of Tellus, the master smith, might live in his stalwart sons. Now there was little of law in the land, and evil doings were rife, And every man who joyed in his home guarded the fame of his wife; For there were those of the silver tongue and the honeyed art to beguile, Who would cozen the heart from a woman's breast and damn her soul with a smile. And there were women too quick to heed a look or a whispered word, And once in a while a man was slain, and the ire of the King was stirred; So far and wide he proclaimed his wrath, and this was the law he willed: "That whosoever killeth a man, even shall he be killed." Now Tellus, the smith, he trusted his wife; his heart was empty of fear. High on the hill was the gleam of their hearth, a beacon of love and cheer. High on the hill they builded their bower, where the broom and the bracken meet; Under a grave of oaks it was, hushed and drowsily sweet. Here he enshrined her, his dearest saint, his idol, the light of his eye; Her kisses rested upon his lips as brushes a butterfly. The weight of her arms around his neck was light as the thistle down; And sweetly she studied to win his smile, and gently she mocked his frown. And when at the close of the dusty day his clangorous toil was done, She hastened to meet him down the way all lit by the amber sun. Their dove-cot gleamed in the golden light, a temple of stainless love; Like the hanging cup of a big blue flower was the topaz sky above. The roses and lilies yearned to her, as swift through their throng she pressed; A little white, fragile, fluttering thing that lay like a child on his breast. Then the heart of Tellus, the smith, was proud, and sang for the joy of life, And there in the bronzing summertide he thanked the gods for his wife. Now there was one called Philo, a scribe, a man of exquisite grace, Carved like the god Apollo in limb, fair as Adonis in face; Eager and winning in manner, full of such radiant charm, Womenkind fought for his favor and loved to their uttermost harm. Such was his craft and his knowledge, such was his skill at the game, Never was woman could flout him, so be he plotted her shame. And so he drank deep of pleasure, and then it fell on a day He gazed on the wife of Tellus and marked her out for his prey. Tellus, the smith, was merry, and the time of the year it was June, So he said to his stalwart helpers: "Shut down the forge at noon. Go ye and joy in the sunshine, rest in the coolth of the grove, Drift on the dreamy river, every man with his love." Then to himself: "Oh, Beloved, sweet will be your surprise; To-day will we sport like children, laugh in each other's eyes; Weave gay garlands of poppies, crown each other with flowers, Pull plump carp from the lilies, rifle the ferny bowers. To-day with feasting and gladness the wine of Cyprus will flow; To-day is the day we were wedded only a twelvemonth ago." The larks trilled high in the heavens; his heart was lyric with joy; He plucked a posy of lilies; he sped like a love-sick boy. He stole up the velvety pathway - his cottage was sunsteeped and still; Vines honeysuckled the window; softly he peeped o'er the sill. The lilies dropped from his fingers; devils were choking his breath; Rigid with horror, he stiffened; ghastly his face was as death. Like a nun whose faith in the Virgin is met with a prurient jibe, He shrank - 'twas the wife of his bosom in the arms of Philo, the scribe. Tellus went back to his smithy; he reeled like a drunken man; His heart was riven with anguish; his brain was brooding a plan. Straight to his anvil he hurried; started his furnace aglow; Heated his iron and shaped it with savage and masterful blow. Sparks showered over and round him; swiftly under his hand There at last it was finished - a hideous and infamous Brand. That night the wife of his bosom, the light of joy in her eyes, Kissed him with words of rapture; but he knew that her words were lies. Never was she so beguiling, never so merry of speech (For passion ripens a woman as the sunshine ripens a peach). He clenched his teeth into silence; he yielded up to her lure, Though he knew that her breasts were heaving from the fire of her paramour. "To-morrow," he said, "to-morrow" - he wove her hair in a strand, Twisted it round his fingers and smiled as he thought of the Brand. The morrow was come, and Tellus swiftly stole up the hill. Butterflies drowsed in the noon-heat; coverts were sunsteeped and still. Softly he padded the pathway unto the porch, and within Heard he the low laugh of dalliance, heard he the rapture of sin. Knew he her eyes were mystic with light that no man should see, No man kindle and joy in, no man on earth save he. And never for him would it kindle. The bloodlust surged in his brain; Through the senseless stone could he see them, wanton and warily fain. Horrible! Heaven he sought for, gained it and gloried and fell - Oh, it was sudden - headlong into the nethermost hell. . . . Was this he, Tellus, this marble? Tellus . . . not dreaming a dream? Ah! sharp-edged as a javelin, was that a woman's scream? Was it a door that shattered, shell-like, under his blow? Was it his saint, that strumpet, dishevelled and cowering low? Was it her lover, that wild thing, that twisted and gouged and tore? Was it a man he was crushing, whose head he beat on the floor? Laughing the while at its weakness, till sudden he stayed his hand - Through the red ring of his madness flamed the thought of the Brand. Then bound he the naked Philo with thongs that cut in the flesh, And the wife of his bosom, fear-frantic, he gagged with a silken mesh, Choking her screams into silence; bound her down by the hair; Dragged her lover unto her under her frenzied stare. In the heat of the hearth-fire embers he heated the hideous Brand; Twisting her fingers open, he forced its haft in her hand. He pressed it downward and downward; she felt the living flesh sear; She saw the throe of her lover; she heard the scream of his fear. Once, twice and thrice he forced her, heedless of prayer and shriek - Once on the forehead of Philo, twice in the soft of his cheek. Then (for the thing was finished) he said to the woman: "See How you have branded your lover! Now will I let him go free." He severed the thongs that bound him, laughing: "Revenge is sweet", And Philo, sobbing in anguish, feebly rose to his feet. The man who was fair as Apollo, god-like in woman's sight, Hideous now as a satyr, fled to the pity of night. Then came they before the Judgment Seat, and thus spoke the Lord of the Land: "He who seeketh his neighbor's wife shall suffer the doom of the Brand. Brutish and bold on his brow be it stamped, deep in his cheek let it sear, That every man may look on his shame, and shudder and sicken and fear. He shall hear their mock in the market-place, their fleering jibe at the feast; He shall seek the caves and the shroud of night, and the fellowship of the beast. Outcast forever from homes of men, far and far shall he roam. Such be the doom, sadder than death, of him who shameth a home."
THE BALLAD OF GUM-BOOT BEN He was an old prospector with a vision bleared and dim. He asked me for a grubstake, and the same I gave to him. He hinted of a hidden trove, and when I made so bold To question his veracity, this is the tale he told. "I do not seek the copper streak, nor yet the yellow dust; I am not fain for sake of gain to irk the frozen crust; Let fellows gross find gilded dross, far other is my mark; Oh, gentle youth, this is the truth - I go to seek the Ark. "I prospected the Pelly bed, I prospected the White; The Nordenscold for love of gold I piked from morn till night; Afar and near for many a year I led the wild stampede, Until I guessed that all my quest was vanity and greed. "Then came I to a land I knew no man had ever seen, A haggard land, forlornly spanned by mountains lank and lean; The nitchies said 'twas full of dread, of smoke and fiery breath, And no man dare put foot in there for fear of pain and death. "But I was made all unafraid, so, careless and alone, Day after day I made my way into that land unknown; Night after night by camp-fire light I crouched in lonely thought; Oh, gentle youth, this is the truth - I knew not what I sought. "I rose at dawn; I wandered on. 'Tis somewhat fine and grand To be alone and hold your own in God's vast awesome land; Come woe or weal, 'tis fine to feel a hundred miles between The trails you dare and pathways where the feet of men have been. "And so it fell on me a spell of wander-lust was cast. The land was still and strange and chill, and cavernous and vast; And sad and dead, and dull as lead, the valleys sought the snows; And far and wide on every side the ashen peaks arose. "The moon was like a silent spike that pierced the sky right through; The small stars popped and winked and hopped in vastitudes of blue; And unto me for company came creatures of the shade, And formed in rings and whispered things that made me half afraid. "And strange though be, 'twas borne on me that land had lived of old, And men had crept and slain and slept where now they toiled for gold; Through jungles dim the mammoth grim had sought the oozy fen, And on his track, all bent of back, had crawled the hairy men. "And furthermore, strange deeds of yore in this dead place were done. They haunted me, as wild and free I roamed from sun to sun; Until I came where sudden flame uplit a terraced height, A regnant peak that seemed to seek the coronal of night. "I scaled the peak; my heart was weak, yet on and on I pressed. Skyward I strained until I gained its dazzling silver crest; And there I found, with all around a world supine and stark, Swept clean of snow, a flat plateau, and on it lay - the Ark. "Yes, there, I knew, by two and two the beasts did disembark, And so in haste I ran and traced in letters on the Ark My human name - Ben Smith's the same. And now I want to float A syndicate to haul and freight to town that noble boat." I met him later in a bar and made a gay remark Anent an ancient miner and an option on the Ark. He gazed at me reproachfully, as only topers can; But what he said I can't repeat - he was a bad old man.
THE GHOSTS Smith, great writer of stories, drank; found it immortalized his pen; Fused in his brain-pan, else a blank, heavens of glory now and then; Gave him the magical genius touch; God-given power to gouge out, fling Flat in your face a soul-thought - Bing! Twiddle your heart-strings in his clutch. "Bah!" said Smith, "let my body lie stripped to the buff in swinish shame, If I can blaze in the radiant sky out of adoring stars my name. Sober am I nonentitized; drunk am I more than half a god. Well, let the flesh be sacrificed; spirit shall speak and shame the clod. Who would not gladly, gladly give Life to do one thing that will live?" Smith had a friend, we'll call him Brown; dearer than brothers were those two. When in the wassail Smith would drown, Brown would rescue and pull him through. When Brown was needful Smith would lend; so it fell as the years went by, Each on the other would depend: then at the last Smith came to die. There Brown sat in the sick man's room, still as a stone in his despair; Smith bent on him his eyes of doom, shook back his lion mane of hair; Said: "Is there one in my chosen line, writer of forthright tales my peer? Look in that little desk of mine; there is a package, bring it here. Story of stories, gem of all; essence and triumph, key and clue; Tale of a loving woman's fall; soul swept hell-ward, and God! it's true. I was the man - Oh, yes, I've paid, paid with mighty and mordant pain. Look! here's the masterpiece I've made out of my sin, my manhood slain. Art supreme! yet the world would stare, know my mistress and blaze my shame. I have a wife and daughter - there! take it and thrust it in the flame." Brown answered: "Master, you have dipped pen in your heart, your phrases sear. Ruthless, unflinching, you have stripped naked your soul and set it here. Have I not loved you well and true? See! between us the shadows drift; This bit of blood and tears means You - oh, let me have it, a parting gift. Sacred I'll hold it, a trust divine; sacred your honour, her dark despair; Never shall it see printed line: here, by the living God I swear." Brown on a Bible laid his hand; Smith, great writer of stories, sighed: "Comrade, I trust you, and understand. Keep my secret!" And so he died. Smith was buried - up soared his sales; lured you his books in every store; Exquisite, whimsy, heart-wrung tales; men devoured them and craved for more. So when it slyly got about Brown had a posthumous manuscript, Jones, the publisher, sought him out, into his pocket deep he dipped. "A thousand dollars?" Brown shook his head. "The story is not for sale, " he said. Jones went away, then others came. Tempted and taunted, Brown was true. Guarded at friendship's shrine the fame of the unpublished story grew and grew. It's a long, long lane that has no end, but some lanes end in the Potter's field; Smith to Brown had been more than friend: patron, protector, spur and shield. Poor, loving-wistful, dreamy Brown, long and lean, with a smile askew, Friendless he wandered up and down, gaunt as a wolf, as hungry too. Brown with his lilt of saucy rhyme, Brown with his tilt of tender mirth Garretless in the gloom and grime, singing his glad, mad songs of earth. . . So at last with a faith divine, down and down to the Hunger-line. There as he stood in a woeful plight, tears a-freeze on his sharp cheek-bones, Who should chance to behold his plight, but the publisher, the plethoric Jones; Peered at him for a little while, held out a bill: "NOW, will you sell?" Brown scanned it with his twisted smile: "A thousand dollars! you go to hell!" Brown enrolled in the homeless host, sleeping anywhere, anywhen; Suffered, strove, became a ghost, slave of the lamp for other men; For What's-his-name and So-and-so in the abyss his soul he stripped, Yet in his want, his worst of woe, held he fast to the manuscript. Then one day as he chewed his pen, half in hunger and half despair, Creaked the door of his garret den; Dick, his brother, was standing there. Down on the pallet bed he sank, ashen his face, his voice a wail: "Save me, brother! I've robbed the bank; to-morrow it's ruin, capture, gaol. Yet there's a chance: I could to-day pay back the money, save our name; You have a manuscript, they say, worth a thousand - think, man! the shame. . . ." Brown with his heart pain-pierced the while, with his stern, starved face, and his lips stone-pale, Shuddered and smiled his twisted smile: "Brother, I guess you go to gaol." While poor Brown in the leer of dawn wrestled with God for the sacred fire, Came there a woman weak and wan, out of the mob, the murk, the mire; Frail as a reed, a fellow ghost, weary with woe, with sorrowing; Two pale souls in the legion lost; lo! Love bent with a tender wing, Taught them a joy so deep, so true, it seemed that the whole-world fabric shook, Thrilled and dissolved in radiant dew; then Brown made him a golden book, Full of the faith that Life is good, that the earth is a dream divinely fair, Lauding his gem of womanhood in many a lyric rich and rare; Took it to Jones, who shook his head: "I will consider it," he said. While he considered, Brown's wife lay clutched in the tentacles of pain; Then came the doctor, grave and grey; spoke of decline, of nervous strain; Hinted Egypt, the South of France - Brown with terror was tiger-gripped. Where was the money? What the chance? Pitiful God! . . . the manuscript! A thousand dollars! his only hope! he gazed and gazed at the garret wall. . . . Reached at last for the envelope, turned to his wife and told her all. Told of his friend, his promise true; told like his very heart would break: "Oh, my dearest! what shall I do? shall I not sell it for your sake?" Ghostlike she lay, as still as doom; turned to the wall her weary head; Icy-cold in the pallid gloom, silent as death . . . at last she said: "Do! my husband? Keep your vow! Guard his secret and let me die. . . . Oh, my dear, I must tell you now - the women he loved and wronged was I; Darling! I haven't long to live: I never told you - forgive, forgive!" For a long, long time Brown did not speak; sat bleak-browed in the wretched room; Slowly a tear stole down his cheek, and he kissed her hand in the dismal gloom. To break his oath, to brand her shame; his well-loved friend, his worshipped wife; To keep his vow, to save her name, yet at the cost of what? Her life! A moment's space did he hesitate, a moment of pain and dread and doubt, Then he broke the seals, and, stern as fate, unfolded the sheets and spread them out. . . . On his knees by her side he limply sank, peering amazed - each page was blank. (For oh, the supremest of our art are the stories we do not dare to tell, Locked in the silence of the heart, for the awful records of Heav'n and Hell.) Yet those two in the silence there, seemed less weariful than before. Hark! a step on the garret stair, a postman knocks at the flimsy door. "Registered letter!" Brown thrills with fear; opens, and reads, then bends above: "Glorious tidings! Egypt, dear! The book is accepted - life and love."
DEDICATION TO PROVIDENCE I loved to toy with tuneful rhyme, My fancies into verse to weave; For as I walked my words would chime So bell-like I could scarce believe; My rhymes rippled like a brook, My stanzas bloomed like blossoms gay: And that is why I dream this book A verseman's holiday. The palm-blades brindle in the blaze Of sunsets splendouring the sea; The Gloaming is a lilac haze That impish stars stab eagerly. . . . O Land of Song! Oh golden clime! O happy me, whose work is play! Please take this tribute of my rhymes: A verseman's holiday.
BATTLE OF THE BULGE This year an ocean trip I took, and as I am a Scot And like to get my money's worth I never missed a meal. In spite of Neptune's nastiness I ate an awful lot, Yet felt as fit as if we sailed upon an even keel. But now that I am home again I'm stricken with disgust; How many pounds of fat I've gained I'd rather not divulge. . . Well, anyway I mean to take this tummy down or bust, So here I'm suet-strafing in the Battle of the Bulge. No more will sausage, bacon, eggs provide my breakfast fare; On lobster I will never lunch, with mounds of mayonnaise. At tea I'll Spartanly eschew the chocolate eclair; Roast duckling and peche melba shall not consummate my days. No more nocturnal ice-box raids, midnight spaghetti feeds; On slabs of pate de foie gras I vow I won't indulge: Let bran and cottage cheese suffice my gastronomic needs, And lettuce be my ally in the Battle of the Bulge. To hell with you, ignoble paunch, abhorrent in my sight! I gaze at your rotundity, and savage is my frown. I'll rub you and I'll scrub you and I'll drub you day and night, But by the gods of symmetry I swear I'll get you down. Your smooth and smug convexity, by heck! I will subdue, And when you tucker in again with joy will I refulge; No longer of my toes will you obstruct my downward view . . . With might and main I'll fight to gain the Battle of the Bulge.
VANITY My tangoing seemed to delight her; With me it was love at first sight. I mentioned that I was a writer. . . She asked me: "What is it you write?" "Oh, only best-sellers," I told her. Their titles? . . . She shook her blonde head; The atmosphere seemed to grow colder: Not one of my books had she read. Oh, she was a beauty ensnaring, And I was an author of note; But little I saw she'd be caring If never a novel I wrote. Alas for the caprice of Cupid! Alack for the phantom of Fame! I thought her just homely and stupid: She didn't know even my name. I saw her a score of years after; She gushed as I took off my hat; But inwardly loud was my laughter, For she was enormously fat. Thank heaven I'd not made that error; I saw Love drive off in a hearse; But I too retreated in terror . . . She started to quote me my verse.
BINGO The daughter of the village Maire Is very fresh and very fair, A dazzling eyeful; She throws upon me such a spell That though my love I dare not tell, My heart is sighful. She has the cutest brown caniche, The French for "poodle" on a leash, While I have Bingo; A dog of doubtful pedigree, Part pug or pom or chow maybe, But full of stingo. The daughter of the village Maire Would like to speak with me, I'll swear, In her sweet lingo; But parlez-vous I find a bore, For I am British to the core, And so is Bingo Yet just to-day as we passed by, Our two dogs haulted eye to eye, In friendly poses; Oh, how I hope to-morrow they Will wag their tails in merry play, And rub their noses. * * * * * * * The daughter of the village Maire Today gave me a frigid stare, My hopes are blighted. I'll tell you how it came to pass . . . Last evening in the Square, alas! My sweet I sighted; And as she sauntered with her pet, Her dainty, her adored Frolette, I cried: "By Jingo!" Well, call it chance or call it fate, I made a dash . . . Too late, too late! Oh, naughty Bingo! The daughter of the village Maire That you'll forgive me, is my prayer And also Bingo. You should have shielded your caniche: You saw my dog strain on his leash And like a spring go. They say that Love will find a way - It definitely did, that day . . . Oh, canine noodles! Now it is only left to me To wonder - will your offspring be Poms, pugs or poodles?
BOOK BORROWER I am a mild man, you'll agree, But red my rage is, When folks who borrow books from me Turn down their pages. Or when a chap a book I lend, And find he's loaned it Without permission to a friend - As if he owned it. But worst of all I hate those crooks (May hell-fires burn them!) Who beg the loan of cherished books And don't return them. My books are tendrils of myself No shears can sever . . . May he who rapes one from its shelf Be damned forever.
BOOK LOVER I keep collecting books I know I'll never, never read; My wife and daughter tell me so, And yet I never head. "Please make me," says some wistful tome, "A wee bit of yourself." And so I take my treasure home, And tuck it in a shelf. And now my very shelves complain; They jam and over-spill. They say: "Why don't you ease our strain?" "some day," I say, "I will." So book by book they plead and sigh; I pick and dip and scan; Then put them back, distrest that I Am such a busy man. Now, there's my Boswell and my Sterne, my Gibbon and Defoe; To savour Swift I'll never learn, Montaigne I may not know. On Bacon I will never sup, For Shakespeare I've no time; Because I'm busy making up These jingly bits of rhyme. Chekov is caviare to me, While Stendhal makes me snore; Poor Proust is not my cup of tea, And Balzac is a bore. I have their books, I love their names, And yet alas! they head, With Lawrence, Joyce and Henry James, My Roster of Unread. I think it would be very well If I commit a crime, And get put in a prison cell And not allowed to rhyme; Yet given all these worthy books According to my need, I now caress with loving looks, But never, never read.
A VERSEMAN'S APOLOGY Alas! I am only a rhymer, I don't know the meaning of Art; But I learned in my little school primer To love Eugene Field and Bret Harte. I hailed Hoosier Ryley with pleasure, To John Hay I took off my hat; These fellows were right to my measure, And I've never gone higher than that. The Classics! Well, most of them bore me, The Moderns I don't understand; But I keep Burns, my kinsman before me, And Kipling, my friend, is at hand. They taught me my trade as I know it, Yet though at their feet I have sat, For God-sake don't call me a poet, For I've never been guilty of that. A rhyme-rustler, rugged and shameless, A Bab Balladeer on the loose; Of saccarine sonnets I'm blameless, My model has been - Mother Goose. And I fancy my grave-digger griping As he gives my last lodging a pat: "This guy wrote McGrew; 'Twas the best he could do" . . . So I'll go to my maker with that.
NO SOURDOUGH To be a bony feed Sourdough You must, by Yukon Law, Have killed a moose, And robbed a sluice, AND BUNKED UP WITH A SQUAW. . . Alas! Sourdough I'll never be. Oh, sad is my excuse: My shooting's so damn bad, you see . . . I've never killed a moose.
KATHLEEN It was the steamer Alice May that sailed the Yukon foam. And touched in every river camp from Dawson down to Nome. It was her builder, owner, pilot, Captain Silas Geer, Who took her through the angry ice, the last boat of the year; Who patched her cracks with gunny sacks and wound her pipes with wire, And cut the spruce upon the banks to feed her boiler fire; Who headed her into the stream and bucked its mighty flow, And nosed her up the little creeks where no one else would go; Who bragged she had so small a draft, if dew were on the grass, With gallant heart and half a start his little boat would pass. Aye, ships might come and ships might go, but steady every year The Alice May would chug away with Skipper Silas Geer. Now though Cap Geer had ne'er a fear the devil he could bilk, He owned a gastric ulcer and his grub was mostly milk. He also owned a Jersey cow to furnish him the same, So soft and sleek and mild and meek, and Kathleen was her name. And so his source of nourishment he got to love her so That everywhere the captain went the cow would also go; And though his sleeping quarters were ridiculously small, He roped a section of them off to make Kathleen a stall. So every morn she'd wake him up with mellifluous moo, And he would pat her on the nose and go to wake the crew. Then when he'd done his daily run and hitched on to the bank, She'd breath above his pillow till to soothing sleep he sank. So up and down the river seeded sourdoughs would allow, They made a touching tableau, Captain Silas and his cow. Now as the Captain puffed his pipe and Kathleen chewed her cud, There came to him a poetess, a Miss Belinda Budd. "An epic I would write," said she, "about this mighty stream, And from your gallant bark 'twould be romantic as a dream." Somewhat amazed the Captain gazed at her and shook his head; "I'm sorry, Miss, but we don't take she passengers," he said. "My boat's a freighter, we have no accommodation space For women-folk - my cabin is the only private palce. It's eight foot small from wall to wall, and I have, anyhow, No room to spare, for half I share with Kathleen, That's my cow." The lady sighed, then soft replied: "I love your Yukon scene, And for its sake your room I'll take, and put up with Kathleen." Well, she was so dead set to go the Captain said: "By heck! I like your spunk; you take my bunk and I'll camp on the deck." So days went by then with a sigh she sought him so anew: "Oh, Captain Geer, Kathleen's a dear, but does she have to moo? In early morn like motor horn she bellows overhead, While all the night without respite she snores above my bed. I know it's true she dotes on you, your smile she seems to miss; She leans so near I live in fear my brow she'll try to kiss. Her fond regard makes it so hard my Pegasus to spur. . . Oh, please be kind and try to find another place for her." Bereft of cheer was captain Geer; his face was glazed with gloom. . . He scratched his head: "There ain't," he said, "another inch of room. With freight we're packed; it's stowed and stacked - why even on the deck. There's seven salted sourdoughs and they're sleeping neck and neck. I'm sorry, Miss, that Kathleen's kiss has put your muse to flight; I realize her amber eyes abstract you when you write. I used to love them orbs above a-shining down on me, And when she'd chew my whickers you can't calculate my glee. I ain't at all poetical, but gosh! I guess your plight, So I will try to plan what I can fix up for to-night." Thus while upon her berth the wan and weary Author Budd Bewailed her fate, Kathleen sedate above her chewed her cud; And as he sought with brain distraught a steady course to steer, Yet find a plan, a worried man was Captain Silas Geer. Then suddenly alert was he, he hollerred to his mate; "Hi, Patsy, press our poetess to climb on deck and wait. Hip-hip-hooray! Bid her be gay and never more despair; My search is crowned - by heck, I've found an answer to her prayer." To Patsy's yell like glad gazelle came bounding Bardess Budd; No more forlorn, with hope new-born she faced the foaming flood; While down the stair with eager air was seen to disappear, Like one inspired (by genius fired) exultant Captain Geer. Then up he came with eye aflame and honest face aglow, And oh, how loud he laughed, as proud he led her down below. "Now you may write by day or night upon our Yukon scene, For I," he cried, "have clarified the problem of Kathleen. I thought a lot, then like a shot the remedy I found: I jest unhitched her rope and switched the loving creature round. No more her moo will trouble you, you'll sleep right restful now. Look, Lady, look! - I'm giving you. . . the tail end of the cow."
SENTIMENTAL SHARK Give me a cabin in the woods Where not a human soul intrudes; Where I can sit beside a stream Beneath a balsam bough and deam, And every morning see arise The sun like bird of paradise; Then go down to the creek and fish A speckled trout for breakfast dish, And fry it in an ember fire - Ah! there's the life of my desire. Alas! I'm tied to Wall Street where They reckon me a millionaire, And sometimes in a day alone I gain a fortune o'er the 'phone. Yet I to be a man was made, And here I ply this sorry trade Of Company manipulation, Of selling short and stock inflation. . . I whom God meant to rope a steer, Fate mad a Wall Street buccaneer. Old Time, how I envy you Who do the things I long to do. Oh, I would swap you all my riches To step into your buckskin britches. Your ragged shirt and rugged health I'd take in trade for all my wealth. Then shorn of fortune you would see How drunk with freedom I would be; I'd kick so hard, I'd kick so high, I'd kick the moon clean from the sky. Aye, gold to me is less than brass, And jewels mean no more than glass. My gold is sunshine and my gems The glint of dew on grassy stems . . . Yet though I hate my guts its true Time sorta makes you used to you; And so I will not gripe too much Because I have the Midas touch, But doodle on my swivel chair, Resigned to be a millionaire.