GOLDSMITH OF V NOME AND OTHER VERS SAM C DUNHAM COVER. DESIGN BY THE AUTHOR. WASHINGTON, D. C. The Neale Publishing Company 431 ELEVENTH STREET MCMI Copyrighted, 1901. By Samuel C. Dunham. tact oft Ubfas% To the workers on the Yukon, who through the long, cold winter of nation- al neglect have been patiently working while watching and waiting for the ice to melt. iii PREFACE These verses were written while the author was under assignment to Northern Alaska in 1897-1898 as a Statistical Expert of the Department of Labor, and in 1899-1900 as a Special Agent of the Twelfth Cen- sus. They are the free expression of some sentiments which "Official Courtesy" quite properly excluded from his formal reports to the Commissioner of Labor and the Director of the Census. Most of them have appeared in various newspapers The New York 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 lae Government at Washington for relief from the wrongs which they have oorne too patiently for twenty years. In 1900 Alaska paid into the Treasury of the United States revenues averaging $1,207.43 for every day in the year. For what? SAM C. DUNHAM. WASHINGTON, D. C., March 1, 1901. CONTENTS The Men Who Blaze the Trail : 9 Comrades of the Klondike n A Reply 13 Why the Devil Never Visits the Yukon 15 Arctic Lightning 19 Just Back from Dawson 20 Sence I Come Back from Dawson 25 I'm Goin' Back to Dawson . . . t 30 To Joaquin Miller 36 Alaska to Uncle Sam 37 Thoughts Suggested by My Forty-fifth Birthday 42 The Lament of the Old Sour Dough 44 The Goldsmith of Nome 48 Since the Judge Left Here for Nome 59 To the Yukon Order of Pioneers 64 A Greeting to the Swedes 68 The Poor Swede 71 Starving Once, Receiving Now 72 Homeward Bound 74 To the Yukon Sour Doughs 77 vll THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL Let others sing of those who've won Full hoard of virgin gold! I strike the lyre for those who've none, But yet are strong and bold, Who've blazed the trails through a pathless waste /i.nd on the world's new chart have traced The lines which lead where the treasure's placed, And all their secrets told. They search the streams and hillsides rend, The hidden truth to learn; They trudge where land and sky-line blend, And gaze till eyeballs burn; They scale bleak heights whence vast plains sweep, And sow for those who come to reap, While wives and sweethearts in homeland weep And pray for their return. 10 THE MEN WHO BIvAZE THE) TRAII, Afar in regions of night-gloomed day Their slender shadows leap; O'er snow-crowned peaks they fight their way To where the Gold-gods sleep; Where the congelations of the ages lie, And athwart the dome of the midnight sky Aurora's moon-drenched splendors fly, Onward their footsteps creep. Out where Deathland, reft of bush or tree, Spreads like a sun-browned lawn; To the verge of the rigid, ice-locked sea, Where twilight greets the dawn; Where a sheenless moon sails the sunlit night, Where inert and dim bides the Mystic Light, And the white swan ends his vernal flight, They still are pressing on. So while others sing of the chosen few Who o'er the Fates prevail, I will sing of the many, staunch and true, Whose brave hearts never quail, Who with dauntless spirit of pioneers A state are building for the coming years, Their sole reward their loved ones' tears, The men who blaze the trail! CIRCLE CITY, Jan. 1, 1898. COMRADES OF THE KLONDIKE I Have you, too, banged at the Chilkoot, That storm-locked gate to the golden door? Those thunder-built steeps have words built to suit, And whether you prayed or whether you swore, 'Twere one, where it seemed that an oath were a prayer- Seemed that God couldn't care, Seemed that God wasn't there! II Have you, too, climbed to the Klondike? Hast talked as a friend to the five-horned stars? With muckluc shoon and with talspike Hast bared gray head to the golden bars, Those heaven-built bars where Morning is born? Hast drunk with Maiden Morn Prom Klondike's golden horn? 11 12 COMRADES OF THE KLONDIKE III Hast read, low-voiced, by the Korthlights Such sermons as never men say? Hast sat and sat with the Midnights, That sit and that sit all day? Hast heard the iceberg's boom on boom? Hast heard the silence, the room? The glory of God, the gloom? IV Then come to my sunland, my soldier, Aye, come to my heart, and to stay! For better crusader or bolder Bared never his breast to the fray, And whether you prayed or you cursed, You dared the best and the worst That ever brave man durst. JOAQUIN MILLER. CIRCLE CITY, Oct. 19, 1897. 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; And I uttered a curse-laden prayer, Of course God didn't care, For only the Devil was there. II I, too, have climbed to the Klondike, Through bog and muck and roots, Till my legs were as stiff as thy talspike And the water filled both of my boots; Have drunk from golden horn With maidens, night to morn, I acknowledge the corn. 14 A REPI.Y HI Have heard, loud-voiced, by the Northlights Such oaths as only men say; Have lain awake through the midnights And fought mosquitoes all day; Cursed Klondike's not the iceberg's boom, And paid an ounce for a room, Which filled my soul with gloom. IV My friend, I'll come to thy sunland As soon as this long winter's o'er, And I'll drink to thy health in the one land Whither thy thoughts ever soar; And though this drought be the worst That ever humanity cursed, At last we'll banish our thirst. CIRCLE CITY, Oct. 21, 1897. WHY THE DEVIL NEVER VISITS THE YUKON The Devil one day, so the sagas say, Taking his Christmas vacation, On outstretched pinions sailed this way, In search of souls for damnation. With malice prepense, the cold was intense (It always is in this section), A.nd our unclad friend, in his innocence, Came without proper protection. (There are others, I'm told, who, equally bold, Come here from a warmer climate, To find that they're a soft snap for the cold, Just like hell's thin-blooded primate). In the pathless wood a lone wigwam stood, Not far from the ice-bound river, And in hope of finding there warmth and food, Nick shook the flap with a shiver. 15 16 WHY THE DEVII, NEVER VISITS THE YUKON No strangers to sin, they quick took him in, And he stood with back to the fire While the host prepared a big moose-skin And "night-cap" on which to retire. He cursed the weather, and asked them whether There was any hope for a change; He switched his tail like a thong of leather And said that its fork felt strange. A maiden half-fair, with raven-black hair And a beautiful bear-tooth brooch, Handed our friend, without offering a chair, A cup of the stuff they call "hootch." Now I wasn't there, but the sagas declare The draught he quaffed was a rank one, A fact to which it is needless to swear Before a man who has drank one. Our cold friend from hell gave a fiendish yell, And soon ail his limbs' were jerkin', And flat on the ground convulsive he fell, For the hootch had got its work in. WHY THE DEVII, NEVER VISITS THE YUKON He opened his eyes, now looking crosswise, And asked who it was that slugged him, And opened them wider, in wild surprise, When he learned they had only drugged him. When able to walk and freely to talk, He asked them what was in it, And the chief concoctor, without a balk, Told him in less than a minute: "With most cunning skill we concoct the swill Of sugar, sour dough and berries, And sell it to white men by quart or gill In spite of the missionaries. "But while it is bad, I am very glad To say that high-wines are worse; The white chiefs import them, which makes us sad And puts a big kink in our purse. "That unrectified sin the whites smuggle in Will kill if you don't dilute it, A thing which they do, large profits to win; No one will dare to dispute it." l8 WHY THE DEVII, NEVER VISITS THE YUKON As pale as grim Death and with quickened breath, Old Nick gasped, "I'll hie me southward, And prone on the sulphurous marge of Lethe, I'll dash its sweet waters mouthward. "That infernal stuff is quite strong enough To run a small hell without me; I firmly believe I'll carry its rough Effects for a year about me." He then climbed the sky, and with curdling cry Soared off through the azure, sinwards, In the well-stocked sideboards of hell to try To find something to soothe his inwards. And up to this day, so the sagas say, The Devil flies shy of this region, Contented, aye! glad, to resign his sway To Hootch and his High-wine Legion. CIRCI/E CITY, Jan. 8, 1898. ARCTIC LIGHTNING Far out where the sullen darkness Palls the silent, ice-chained sea, Spring, low-arched, the fragile Northlighta O'er the realm of mystery; From their haunts beneath the crescent, Where the murky shadows lie, Come Aurora's pale magicians, With their festoons for the sky, And while the Color Sergeant musters His Immortal Seven To hang their banners from the dome And drape the walls of heaven, Straight he hurls his shafts of silver High up in the star-gemmed blue, Where the wraiths of light, soft-tinted And of swiftly-changing hue, Through the long and ghostly vigils Of the voiceless Arctic night Weirdly gleam and faintly whisper As they tremble out of sight. CIRCLE CITY, Feb. 22, 1898. 19 JUST BACK FROM DAVVSON I've just got back from Dawson, where the Arctic rainbow ends, An' the swiftly-rushin' Klondike with the mighty Yukon blends; Where the sun on Christmas mornin' in the act of risin' sets, So that just a minit's sunshine is all that region gets; An' the rimplin' midnight glories through the moon- tranced heavens fly, While the guileless sour-dough miners set around the stove and lie 'Bout the good old times at Circle, 'fore the smooth promoters came An' set the country boomin' in a way that Is a shame. 20 JUST BACK FROM DAWSON 21 I've just got back from Dawson, where the large mos- quitoes sing, An' soon as they forsake the camp, their small suc- cessors sting; Where 'long about the last of June the sun again surprises The new-arrived inhabitants, an' while it's settin' rises; Where the price of pay-streak bacon is two dollars for a pound, An' to treat your friends at Spencer's costs an ounce or two a round, An' they sell Seattle cider, in the guise of dry cham- pagne, Which institoots a lingerin' drunk that's very far from plain. I've just returned from Dawson, where the charge for anteek eggs Makes considerable difference in length of buyers' legs; Where our helpful friends in Washington, misled by bad advice, Concluded they could operate steam enjines on tha 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 lose, 22 JUST BACK FROM DAWSON While all the old trail-breakers to their pet traditions cling An' still maintain with vehemence "the dog's the proper thing." I've just reached here from Dawson, where I seen Frank Slavin spar, An' also seen his victim a-revivin' at the bar While Frank shook hands with all his friends an' loudly did declare That he could lick Fitzsimmons, too, if he was only there; An' seen Oklahoma Wilson attempt to instigate A coop de Colt, but ere his gun became articulate They yanked him to the barracks in a way he won't forget, An' to cultivate his harmlessness they're boardin' him there yet. I've just come out from Dawson, where everybody's health Is bein' undermined an' ruined in a wild-eyed rush for wealth, An' a score or so of schemers, on evil projects bent, Are robbin' the community to a terrible extent; Where the men who dig the treasure are strong an* brave an' bold, JUST BACK FROM DAWSON 23 Wrenchin' from the glacier's bowels stockin's full of yellow gold, While the transportation pirates slyly syndicate their gall With the criminal intention of absorbin' of it all. I've just escaped from Dawson, where the ice grows ten feet thick, An' doods who like their baths served cold don't take 'em in a crick; Where no one, be he rich or poor, is ever dubbed a "hero" Till he has done his hundred miles at 60 less than zero; Where men chop water out in chunks an' pile it on the banks, An* make their hot-air heaters out of empty coal-oil tanks, An' read back-number papers by the unobtrusive rays Of tallow-dips an' davy lamps dim lights of other days. I've just emerged from Dawson, a bad financial wreck, For instead of gettin' dust galore, I got it in the neck, Where Adam got the apple in tnat episode with Eve, 24 JUST BACK PROM DAWSOW Which led to woe an' stern decree that they would have to leave, Like thirty thousand other jays, by golden visions lured, Who climbed the trails, through hardships to which they weren't inured, To find that them Dominion knaves, by dastardly deceits, Had concessioned everything in sight an' even leased the streets. WASHINGTON, U. C., Nov. 25, 1898. SENCE I COME BACK FROM DAW80N Sence I come back from Dawson to these old famil- iar scenes, I've read the yaller journals an' the 10-cent maga- zines, An' to sort o' classify events an' find out what oc- curred While I was 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 artistically lied 'Bout the riches of the Klondike concluded to sub- side. 25 26 SENCE I COME BACK FROM DAWSON Then every trail was occupied by journalistic beats Who represented (with slim cards) all saffron-tinted sheets From Seattle to Savannah an' from Bangor to Du- luth, But nary one. of them was there to represent the truth. They stumbled up the Chilkoot an' they loafed along the lakes, An' when not a-photographin' things or writin' up their fakes, Imbibed raw rum from Hudson Bay, an' dressed in goffin' suits, Stood 'round an' told old-timers 'bout the shortest Klondike roots. Now I've gathered from my readin' that the reason why they quit Writin' lies about the Klondike was, as lawyers say, to-wit: Havin' placed us in cold storage an' done all the harm they could, They felt a awful . cravin' for a brand of booze that's good, An' left at once to sponge it, an' unable to refrain From causin' people trouble, they arranged a war with Spain, SENCE I COME BACK FROM DAWSON 27 An' to properly conduct the same* rushed bravely to the front An' led all the gallant charges an' bore the battle's brunt. Now, while us Klondike refugees most greevusly de- plore The mournful fact so few of them passed to the other shore, Our grief is curtailed by the thought which punctu- ates our sobs, That some of them who were not killed have lately lost their jobs. An' sence my feelin's is aroused, some words I've got to say About the highly lucrative an' lowly sinful way The experts an' perfessers told the things they didn't know (A-settin' in warm rooms at home) about the realm of snow. * ' Of all their stories I have read, the worst about that far land Was written by a man whose brow has long worn Fiction's garland, Who in the "Klondike Number" of a well-known mag- azine Told of the sylvan beauties of some trails he'd never seen, 28 SENCE i COME BACK FROM DAWSON With purlin' broods 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 se*em that I've assumed a gay an' flip- pant air, But while I'm settin' here to-night a ghost stands by my chair. Again I see a famished form stretched 'neath a som- bre sky; Again I fold the shriveled hands an' close the death- glazed eye; I see the horrors Falsehood wrought, an' hear again the wail Of its victim as he perished on a panoramic trail, Where his bleached an' badly-scattered bones is all that's left to tell How he battled with the terrors of a thousand miles of hell. Now, as I ain't no statesman, I can't figger what we'll gain Through this unexpected legacy of trouble from old Spain; SENCK I COME BACK FROM DAWSON 29 But as a unkissed hero from the barren Yukon Flats, I modestly petition our distinguished diplomats: In your God-directed efforts to emancipate mankind, Don't forget your helpless brothers in your Arctic wilds confined, But in your swoop for liberty, to right an' justice true, Extend a helpin' hand to them, annex Alaska, too. WASHINGTON, D. C., Jan. 1, 1899. I'M GOIN' BACK TO DAWSON I'm goin' back to Dawson, an' suppose I must ex- plain How I generated nerve enough to hit that trail again. I've tramped this land from east to west an' tried 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 cloud? I stood alone 'mid ghostly isles that pierced a spec- tral sea An' cried in vain to far-off stars that couldn't answer me. I'M COIN' BACK TO DAWSON 3! I met a great philanthropist, whose wealth they say was ground From the labor of a thousand serfs, whose fame's a-spreadin' round Because he built a edifice an' filled it full of books To learn the poor submission to incorporated crooks, An' seen him stop a barefoot kid with papers in the street . An' hand to him a nickel for a flamin' one-cent sheet, Then sneak behind him for a block, a-keepin' him in range, To nab the limpin' little cuss if he tried to swipe th3 change. An* I rambled through the alleys of a big depart- ment store, Admirin' of the handsome gents which walk along the floor A-tellin' ladies where to go to get the cheapest things, Where "Cash!" appears to be the song that every- body sings, An' somethin' like five hundred girls that ought to be at school Lean wearily against the shelves because there's nary a stool, An* I'm told the chap who owns the claim has the immortal nerve To pay but half a case a day to them that stand an' serve. 32 I'M COIN' BACK TO DAWSON I'm also told that this here man exists In princely style In marble halls set on a hill that slopes away a mile, An' to stupefy his conscience he's donated from Ma wad Some money to the heathens an' has built a house for God; An' drowsin' in his temple on a recent Sabbath morn, I seen again the faces of them girls so pale an' lorn, An' wondered if the cuss was bankin' on the heath- ens he had saved For a discount up in heaven 'gainst the white folks he'd enslaved. Then I roused up from my dreamin' that the organ had produced An' thought about the Yukon boys I've so shame- fully traduced, An' seen again quite clearly, in no music-painted dream, Two snow-blind men a-stumblin' 'hind a limpin' Siwash team, Old Cooley an' his pardner Jo, who never go to church, A-strugglin' back to Circle from their long trip out on Birch I'M GOIN' BACK TO DAWSON 33 To feed the starvin' Tananas, a service so high- priced They'll not collect their wages till they hand their time to Christ. In trampin' through this high-toned land I'm pain- fully surprised To learn that butchers so refined an' highly civilized That they'd disdain to occupy a mansion built of logs Provide our soldiers beef an' things I wouldn't feed my dogs; Which makes me want to get back where the canned goods ain't so bad An' the girls you meet on every hand ain't pale- faced, thin, an' sad, Where the milk of human kindness ain't so rigidly congealed That we'd let 'em wander from the trail because they wasn't heeled. I want to hear the soothin' tones of Bates's old guitar As he sings about "The Fisher Maiden" at "The Po- lar Star," An' see Brick Wheaton rassle with his yaller mando- lin As he chants the charms of Injun hootch an' other kinds of sin; 34 I'M GOIN' BACK TO DAWSON I want to hear them songs once more an' want to see my friends Where the swiftly-rushin' Klondike y/ith 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, An' watch her throw her shafts of silver far up in the sky, While her color-bearers tint 'em with an ever- changin' dye, An' from the walls of heaven all their fragile ban- ners swing Till the air's alive with whispers like the swishin' of a wing, An' from the zenith flash great lights across the in- ..- terspace Till you^feel you're in God's presence an' can almost see His face. So I'm goin' back to Dawson, an' I'll float along that way As the ice moves down the river, 'long about the last of May, I'M GOIN' BACK TO DAWSON . 35 When 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 be- fore, That it is soshul suicide to linger round here poor, For though the Arctic winters there are long an* dark an* cold, They're warmer than my welcome when they found I brought no gold. WASHINGTON, D. C M Feb. 22,1899. TO JOAQUIN MILLER Here at the Gate of the Arctic, Facing the silent land, Backward I reach through the distance And grasp your heart-hot hand. If our earthly trails ne'er cross again, I'll meet you farther west, On the sunset side of the Sundown Sea, Where trail-worn poets rest. CHILKOOT PASS, June 19, 1899. ALASKA TO UNCLE 8AM 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. 38 ALASKA TO UNCLE SAM Your imported cross-roads statesmen (What a motley, sordid train!) Come with laws conceived in closets, Made for loot and private gain! These the best that you can furnish? Then God help the heathen folk You have rescued from the burden Of the rotting Spanish yoke! I'm a full-grown, proud-souled woman, And I'm getting tired and sick Wearing all the cast-off garments Of your body politic. If you'll give me your permission, I will make some wholesome laws That will suit my hard conditions And promote your country's cause. By the latest mail you sent me (Nearly all 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. ALASKA TO UNCLE SAM 39 You are blind with lust of conquest And desire for foreign trade, Or you'd see the half-drawn dagger, With its brightly-burnished blade, Sticking in the loosened girdle Of the black brute by your side If you treat her as I'm treated She will stick it through your hide. Curb your taste for sun-killed countries, Where the natives loaf and shirk; Come to richer northern regions, Where the people think and work. If you want a part of Asia When the Chinamen are killed, Run a railroad up to Bering I will show you where to build. Come next spring and count my treasures, And don't stop at Glacier Bay, Like the many high commissions You have started up this way. You will see my wooded mountains, With their citadels of snow Gleaming in the purple distance Through the pearl-hued alpen-glow. 40 ALASKA TO UNCI^E SAM Standing on my flower-strewn hillsides, Where my mighty rivers meet, Gazing o'er my verdant valleys, Spreading seaward from your feet, You will see the sunlit splendors Of my moonless midnight skies, Gilded with the light supernal Shining straight from Paradise. If you stay till Hoary Winter Has entombed the silent land, You will read celestial sermons, Written by the Master's hand On the azure walls of heaven, Where Aurora's tinted light Weirdly flits like summer lightning All the ghostly Arctic night. When you come I'll show you wonders That will cause you great surprise, And if gold is what you're seeking You will open wide your eyes. Drive away your Wall street schemers, With their coupons and their nerve,- Then while you extend your commerce I'll expand your gold reserve. ALASKA TO UNCI,E SAM 41 You will find a magic city On the shore of Bering Strait Which shall be for you a station To unload your Arctic freight, Where the gold of Humboldt's vision Has for countless ages lain, Waiting for the hand of labor And the Saxon's tireless brain. You shall have a cool vacation, Hunting for the great white bear, And you'll soon forget Manila And the trouble you've had there; For as in the morn of nations Every highway led to Rome, You and all your restless rivals Will be sailing straight to Nome. You will wake a sleeping empire, Stretching southward from the Pole To the headlands where the waters Of your western ocean roll. Then will rise a mighty people From the travail of the years, Whom with pride you'll call your children, Offspring of my pioneers. FORT YUKON, Sept. 6, 1899. THOUGHTS SUGGESTED BY MY FORTY-FIFTH BIRTHDAY When a man gets along to about forty-two, He's apt to sit down and let pass in review The scenes of his past, and he's likely to make An effort to spot the fatal mistake Which changed the whole course of human events With regard to his hopes and honest intents. One makes his mistake in the morning of life, In failing to choose or in choosing a wife; Another takes a drink and the evil is done, And Dishonor completes what the Devil begun, While many evade Life's pitfalls and snares Till Old Time has garnered or silvered their hairs. But mine was the earliest failure on earth, For I made my mistake at the hour of birth By making my debut, an undressed kid, The same day of the month that Washington did, And I look back now and see quite plain Why all of my efforts have been in vain. 42 THOUGHTS SUGGESTED BY MY FORTY-FIFTH BIRTHDAY 43 You've heard about George and his cute little ax And his weakness for sticking too close to the facts. My very first effort to emulate him Gave a shock to my system that made my head swim, For when I confessed to my volatile dad I got the worst licking I ever have had. In spite of that set-back I've kept up the fight 'Gainst Error and Falsehood, for Truth and the Right; But always through life I've felt the restraint Of the gift handed down by my Natal-day Saint, And I'm forced to admit that Virtue's reward Is the only return I can thus far record. No matter what pathway I've chosen in life, In city or country or political strife, On the crest of a mountain or the marge of a lake, There stood close beside me my fatal mistake, And wherever my lofty ambition has led I've seen my hopes wither, my projects drop dead. But here in the Arctic, where Falsehood is tough, The pathway of Truth is peculiarly rough, And as I gaze out o'er the white frozen sea I feel all too keenly it's no place for me, For no one who sticks to George W.'s creed Can ever expect in this land to succeed. ST. MICHAEL, Feb. 22, 1900. THE LAMENT OF THE OLD SOUR DOUGH I've trudged and I've starved and I've frozen All over this white barren land, Where the sea stretches straight, white and silent, Where the timberless white mountains stand, From the white peaks that gleam in the moonlight, Like a garment that graces a soul, To the last white sweep of the prairies, Where the black shadows brood round the Pole. (Now, pray don't presume from this prelude That a flame of poetical fire Is to burst from my brain like a beacon, For I've only been tuning my lyre To the low, sad voice of a singer Who's inspired to sing you some facts About the improvements in staking And the men who mine with an ax.) -11 THE; LAMENT OF THE; OI,D SOUR DOUGH 45 I've panned from Peru to Point Barrow, But I never located a claim Till I'd fully persuaded my conscience That pay dirt pervaded the same; And this is the source of my sorrow, As you will be forced. to agree When you learn how relentless Misfortune Has dumped all her tailings on me. I worked with my pardner all summer, Cross-cutting a cussed cold creek, Which we never once thought of locating Unless we located the streak; And when at the close of the season We discovered the creek was a fake We also discovered the region Had nothing left in it to stake. We traversed the toe-twisting tundra, Where reindeer root round for their feed, And the hungry Laplanders who herd them Devour them before they can breed. Here it seemed that good claims might be plenty, And we thought we would stake one perhaps; But we found to our grief that the gulches Were staked in the name of the Lapps. 46 THE LAMENT OF THE OI,D SOUR DOUGH A .hundred long leagues to the northward, O'er 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 the agents of God, Who trade Bibles and prayer-books to heathen For ivory, sealskins and cod. At last we were sure we had struck it, But alas! for our hope of reward, The landscape from sea-beach to sky-line Was staked in the name of the Lord! We're too slow for the new breed of miners, Embracing all classes of men, Who locate by power of attorney And prospect their claims with a pen, Who do all of their fine work through agents And loaf around town with the sports, On Intimate terms with the lawyers, On similar terms with the courts. THE LAMENT OF THE Ol,D SOUR DOUGH 47 We're scared to submission and silence By the men the Government sends To force us to keep law and order, While they keep claims for their friends, And collect in an indirect manner An exceedingly burdensome tax, Assumed for a time by the traders And then transferred to our backs. We had some hard knocks on the Klondike From the Cub-lion's unpadded paws, And suffered some shocks from high license And other immutable laws; But they robbed us by regular schedule, So we knew just what to expect, While at Nome we're scheduled to struggle Until we're financially wrecked. I'm sick of the scream of the Eagle And laws of dishonest design, And I'm going in quest of a country Where a miner can locate a mine; So when I have rustled an outfit These places will know me no more, For I'll try my luck with the Russians On the bleak Siberian shore. NOME, April 15, 1900. THE GOLDSMITH 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 GOLDSMITH OF NOME 49 Gazing southward through the valleys Where the ice-chained rivers sleep 'Neath their wide-flung ghostly mantles And the Arctic nightwinds sweep, I see men of dauntless spirit, Men whose brave hearts never quail, Struggling northward o'er wild barrens, Breaking for the world a trail. Looking out across the waters Stretching sunward to the Sound, I can see the sons of labor Boarding vessels hitherbound; I can hear the great crowds cheering On the fast-receding piers, Where sad mothers clasp their children And gaze seaward through their tears. I can see my people coming, Sailing over many seas; I can see the white sails swelling As they catch the southern breeze; I can see the black smoke trailing From the sloping steamer-stacks, Throwing swiftly-circling shadows Over foamy, swirling tracks. 50 THE GOLDSMITH OF NOME From the swarming, stifling cities, Where wan children gasp for breath; Prom 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 ail the ghostly landscape With its soft, elusive light, I am dreaming of the glory Of the prehistoric race Which inhabited these valleys When the first stampede took place. THE GOLDSMITH OF NOME 51 When I entered on my labors Stately palmtrees weirdly threw Slender shadows in the moonlight, Where the sea slept warm and blue; In the dark primeval forest, Dank beneath a tropic sun, Roamed wild beasts of form colossal, Greater than the mastodon. Birds of brilliant sun-lit plumage Caroled in the fronded trees, And their songs were wafted seaward On the balmy summer breeze; Fragrant flowers exhaled their odors, And the distant hazy hills Lulled the fruitful vales and uplands With the music of their rills. From the plain swept wooded mountains So immeasurably high That their gleaming, snowy summits Pierced the opalescent sky, While the sun sent shafts of amber To adorn their clinging clouds, And the moon as came the night-tide Veiled their forms in silver shrouds. 52 THE GOLDSMITH OF NOME Women framed in perfect beauty, Greatest gift that God had given, Reared to manhood happy children, Taught them truth derived from heaven; Men of elemental wisdom, Giants of that elder time, Made the land an earthly Eden, Free from poverty and crime. Ill From beyond the distant mountains, Where the day pursues the dawn, Came strange men of pallid visage, Active brain and feeble brawn, Who brought all their wiles and vices, Leaving truth and virtue home, And at once took up the ourden Of good government for Nome. They brought all the arts and customs Of the countries whence they came, All their culture and refinement, All their wickedness and shame, And they taught my simple people All their subtlety of mind And the luxury of living On the labor of their kind. THE GOLDSMITH OF NOME 53 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 battle~ments of heaven Till the sun went out in darkness ' And remotest space was riven. Then came on that awful travail Which made Mother Nature groan, Shook the stars from out the heavens, Threw the Devil from his throne, Swung the planets from their orbits Till they aimless swept and whirled, Turned the Tropics to the Arctics, And repolarized the world. 54 THE GOLDSMITH OF NOME Through the frigid, age-long winter Here in loneliness I dwelt In my breezy glacial cavern, Waiting for the ice to melt, Till at last I caught a vision, Through the sun-transfigured rime, Of my vales once more 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, 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. THE GOLDSMITH OF NOME 55 Jesus came and taught His lessons, Walked the earth a little space, Lighted all the ways of sorrow With the glory of His face, Planted hope in hopeless bosoms As he went from door to door, Wept and fainted by the wayside 'Neath the burdens of the poor. He rebuked the righteous rascals Who stood in the street to pray, Scourged the brokers from God's temple, Drove the hypocrites away, Lifted up forsaken women, Cheered the lonely and distressed, Folded hungry little children Gently to His loving breast. Then the money-changers dragged Him Like a drunkard through the street, Thrust sharp thorns in His pale forehead, Pierced with nails His bleeding feet, Stretched Him on the tree of torture, And His quivering muscles tore, As upon the cross of labor V^ They now crucify the poor. 56 THE GOLDSMITH OF NOME As His Spirit sped to Heaven, Clothed in raiment white as snow, From afar I heard His promise To all workers here below: "Watch and labor in my vineyard, Bear the burden and the pain; I am going to my Father, But I'll come to you again." V Then a great awaking pity Seized upon my swelling breast, And my heart was filled with yearning For the wretched and oppressed; As a father loves to labor For the children of his bone, I have wrought here for my people, In the silence and alone. I have watched them sadly toiling Through the centuries as slaves, Never laying down their burdens Till they dropped them at their graves, And while watching I've been working For the workers in all lands, For the millions bom to labor, Their sole heritage their hands. THE GOLDSMITH OF NOME 57 Not as wrought the other Goldsmiths, Jealous of their hoarded wealth, Who in darkness through the ages Wrought in secret, and by stealth Hid it in the heart of mountains From the primal stratum hurled, Or beneath the slag and cinders In the basement of the world. They wrought for the thrifty masters, For the men of fertile brain, Who grow rich through toil of others, Thriving on their brothers' pain, Who by. traffic with earth's rulers Gain control of Nature's sod, Arrogating as their birthright A co-partnership with God. Come and take my golden treasures From the shining, yielding sands; They shall be the untithed wages Of your free, unfettered hands. If the men who prey on labor Try to grasp the gold you glean, I will call the guardian nation, And she'll scourge them from the scene. 58 THE GOLDSMITH OF NOME For the self-selected savior Of the islands of the sea Will not idly stand and witness Such a blow to liberty; She that 'round the lazy heathen Her protecting arms has thrown Will not let her working children Be defrauded of their own. NOME, April 1, 1900. SINCE THE JUDGE LEFT HERE FOR Like one just waking from a dream, I walked abroad to-day And rambled to the green-roofed town that sleeps across the bay; I wandered to the empty house, where I was wont to go And always found a welcome and a solace for my woe, Where erstwhile on cold winter nights (so long and yet so short!) We boys from all the island round did frequently resort To celebrate the passing hours by playing cards and pool, While our kind host walked back and forth and with his famous tool Extracted corks and filled us up on beer and wine and stuff Till each had sworn repeatedly that he was full enough. 60 SINCE THE JUDGE LEFT HERE FOR NOME I stood despondent at the door and faced the frozen foam That from my frail and faltering feet reached west- ward to Cape Nome, And as I gazed with brimming eyes across the shin- ing sea, Some sober thoughts and sentiments were blown ashore to me. I pictured in my burning brain the Judge upon the trail, Entombed within a native shack or struck by Arctic 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 ap- prehends The frightful havoc he has wrought among his for- mer friends; If he could hear them sigh and groan and see them try to walk, SINCE THE JUDGE IfEFT HERE FOR NOME 6l I'm sure lie never would again produce Ms private stock Of Runnymede and Pommery's and Mumm's seduc- tive sees And pour the .same persistently down their receptive necks. (The thing that seems most strange to me and fills me with surprise Is how the Judge's private stock affects a fellow's eyes- Last night before he went away the town was painted red, But now it wears a ghastly green like grave-grass o'er the dead.) I wandered through the hatless hall and passed from room to room, Last night alive with mirth and light, to-day adead with gloom. I went into the parlor, where we used to sit around And suffer till the Judge his punch did perfectly com- pound. The bookcase stood with vacant shelves and doors ex- tended wide, As if it yearned, for vanished friends that once re- posed inside; 62 SINCE THE; JUDGE I,EFT HERE FOR NOME Some flowering plants, left there abloom with blos- soms chaste and rare, Already drooped their slender stems for want of wo- man's care, The sight of these familiar things intensified my grief So that I sadly turned away and sought outside re- lief. I blundered with uncertain steps into a closet dark, Where stood the shapes of spirits flown, all glassy- eyed and stark, A hundred bottles, all uncorked (last night with full- ness rife), Proclaiming by their emptiness the emptiness of life. What happened then? Was it a dream? What was 1 looking at? What was it that on yonder shelf so calm and proud- ly sat? (It was a large cold cruse of Mumm the Judge forgot to crack, I cracked it with celerity, my lips began to smack, And to my careless absent friend I drank this truth- ful toast: "Of all the drinks I've drunk with you I needed this one most!") SINCE THE JUDGE I/EFT HERE FOR NOME 63 The room that had appeared so dark was brilliantly ablaze, The scene now shone transplendent with the light of other days; The place was full of brawny men and charming wo- men too, The former rather numerous, the latter somewhat few; I heard again the happy jest, the reading of old rhymes, The tales of hardships long endured, the stories of old times; I heard once more the sweet old songs, sung with a graceful art That made us think of childhood's days and softened every heart; And then I sank into a chair and wished I was in Nome, And while I wished I fell asleep and dreamed a dream of home. ST. MICHAEL, April 25, 1900. TO THE YUKON ORDER OF PIONEERS In Memory of Charles S. Lavante. Died at Nome, Sept. 8, 1900 Will you let an Arctic Brother lay a garland on the bier Where sleeps the stark and pallid form of a Yukon Pioneer? Will you let me pay a tribute to the one you mourn to-day, Whose soul is speeding homeward from its worked- out dump of clay? I spent a winter with your friend among the Yukon hills, And shared with him his" simple joys and compli cated ills; I saw him tested by the rule which few at Nome ob- serve, That we should do to other men what we ourselves deserve. TO THE YUKON ORDER OF PIONEERS 65 He broke the rules of order and the excise ordi- nance By selling untaxed liquor at the old-time Siwash dance; But he never broke the maxim of the mushers on the trail, That it's wrong to pass a comrade when you see he's apt to fail. I see his face a-beaming as he stood behind the bar And listened to the soothing tones of Bates's old guitar, In the good old days at Circle, ere the courts and lawyers came To rob our richest sluices in a way that is a shame. I hear again his gentle voice and see his sad, sweet smile, As he told the tales of hardship on the creeks at Forty Mile, How you wintered on bad bacon and on prehistoric beans, And when you had the scurvy steeped the spruce boughs for your greens. 66 TO THE YUKON ORDER OF PIONEERS He told me all about the trails that climbed up in the air, Meandered o'er the mountain peaks, and ended God knows where; He told me of the hopeful times you spent at Cas- siar, And how you used to rock out gold on old Bonanza Bar. He told me how the traders used to do you boys up brown By putting up the prices when they said they'd put them down, And all about that awful year you fellows almost died Because you missed "The Racket" and were forced to stay inside. His latchstring always hung outside, and you never had to knock, For he had no knocker at his door, and he hadn't any lock; When you asked him for a porterhouse he dished up caribou, And when you craved a whisky straight he set up "hootchinoo." TO THE YUKON ORDER OF PIONEERS 67 He never liked the Klondike, and he had no faith in Nome, And since he came, in '86, he got no news from home; But he never lost his courage, and he always used to say That the good old times at Forty Mile would come again to stay. The good old times have come to him, but not at Forty Mile, And ne'er again at Circle will you see his happy smile; For he's gone to take his well-earned rest in the uni- versal way, And I know he'll find God's latchstring a-hanging out to-day. NOME, Sept. 9, 1900. A GREETING TO THE SWEDES From their Fellow-sufferers at Topkuk We learn to-day that you've received a message from the Sound Which loosed the legal ligatures with which your claims were bound. We send our warmest greetings, and hope that you will get The dust the Boss Receiver is a-hanging onto yet. We had our little laughs last year, and chuckled at your woes Caused by the festive jumpers and the mournful old Sour Doughs; Jbut we've ceased to smile and laid our laughs upon the upper shelves, For we have learned to our regret just how it is our- selves. A GREETING TO THE SWEDES 69 We have a sub-receiver here, who's working out our mine In a systematic manner which makes our hearts re- pine. He brought a damned expensive plant, shipped in his boss's name, And planted it against our "kick" upon our richest claim. He brought a gang of bosom friends, helped up here from below, And wouldn't give a single job to any one we know, And when he took the riffles out and weighed his shining swag, He wouldn't let us see the scales or even heft the bag. We called upon the lowest court and all the powers that be, We raised our mournful cries to heaven and sent them out to sea; We cried in vain for earthly help and almost ceased to fight, When Nature took a hand and gave a knock-out blow for right. 70 A GREETING TO THE SWEDES Last week the foam-crowned Sea King came and served his unbought writ, And Aleck's high-priced plant now lies deep down be- neath the spit. God jumped our claim and drove away the horde of unpaid hands, Who wander up and down and weep along our worked-out sands. We join with you in praise to-day and raise a joyful shout In honor of the righteous laws that knocked the jumpers out. Let's celebrate in dry champagne the powers that wield the rod, You thank the U. S. Circuit Court while we giv? thanks to God! TOPKTTK, Sept. 16, 1900. THE POOR SWEDE A square-headed, hard-working Swede, Propelled by inordinate greed, Mushed around in the cold Till he found some coarse gold, And then came to town at full speed. A lawyer with galvanized jaw, Whose mode of procedure was raw, Sent a thief out to jump The rich claim of the chump And stake it "according to law." The Swede is now stretched on the rack And trying to get his claim back, While the Court takes its time To consider the crime Till the receiver fills up his long sack. ' NOME, Sept. 17, 1900. 71 STARVING ONCE, RECEIVING NOW I A lawyer was disbarred back home And found it convenient to roam; He floated this way In a cargo of hay And inflicted his presence on Nome. He waited for clients to rob Till his stomach demanded a job; . Then he haunted the street For something to eat Till he looked like a Klondike slob. 72 STARVING ONCE, RECEIVING NOW 73 II A miner climbed over the hills And prospected the gulches and rills Till he discovered enough Of the right kind of stuff To drive away poverty's ills. He staked a rich claim in his name And proceeded to ground-sluice the same; Then he came in and bragged Of the gold he had bagged, That's why he's not working his claim. Ill The case was decided next day In the usual ex parte way, And the miner then found He was robbed of his ground And couldn't get even a lay. The lawyer now has ample means And frequents the most brilliant scenes; He eats three times a day At the Paree Caffay, * ^ While the miner eats bacon and beans. NOMK, Sept. 18, 1900. HOMEWARD BOUND I am out upon the ocean, Sailing southward to the Sound With six hundred busted brothers, Kicking hard, but homeward bound. There are sixty in the staterooms And some eighty souls or so Sleeping on the floors and tables, While the rest seek sleep below. Of the sixty in the cabin Only thirty had the 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. , v 74 HOMEWARD BOUND 75 There's a siren from Seattle Who is traveling in style, Basking in the brilliant sunshine Of the purser's dazzling smile. She has jumped a first-class stateroom That is simply out of sight, And has oranges and apples With her champagne every night. There's a widow with two children Who is trying to get home, Having given up the struggle When her husband died at Nome. Both her kids exhibit cravings For all kinds of fruits and nuts, But they can't get 'nough of either To distend their little guts. There's a smooth absconding lawyer, Wearing diamonds like a sport, Who spends all his lucid moments Praising Nome's imported Court. He has beefsteaks in his stateroom, Purloined by the pantryman, While his clients in the steerage Eat cold corn-beef from a can. 76 HOMEWARD BOUND There's a Topkuk sub-receiver Who is smuggling like a thief All the gold the gang could gobble For their late-transported Chief. He indulges in fresh oysters, Fine cigars and foreign wines, While the man who first staked Topkuk Tells us how they robbed his mines. There are counts galore from Paris And a few of them from Spain, Who invaded Nome to traffic; But they'll not do so again, For they found their debts so heavy That they had to leave them there, While their unpaid Dago valets Had to come out on the Bear. Late last night they gave a banquet, And imposed some heavy fines To defray the steward's charges For his bummest brands of wines. All the guests stood the assessment Without making any kick, But as soon as they get sober They'll appreciate the trick. HOMEWARD BOUND 77 I shall not recount the horrors And the terrors of the trip, For the same may be imagined By all those who know the ship; But I'll simply say in closing That the most distressing fact That has come to my attention Is the way the ladies act LAT. 65, 54 N., LONG. 189, 18 W., Nov. 1, 1900. TO THE YUKON SOUR DOUGHS I've done just as you told me 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. 78 TO THE YUKON SOUR DOUGHS ?9 I read them to the statesmen who combined and formed a trust To monopolize sluice-robbing and to confiscate your dust, 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 Mariner 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." 80 TO THB YUKON SOUR DOUGHS Then I sent them to the censors of the 10-cent mag- azines; But they wanted stuff from China or the unwhipped Philippines, Or a lot of pictures showing how the British butcher Boers, Not a word about the pirates who infest your barren shores. So I've had my verses printed, and I send them up to you, Who for years have borne the burden, but are yet as staunch and true As when first you blazed the pathway to the white and silent land; And I know that when you read them you will feel and understand. WASHINGTON, D. C., Feb. 1, 1901.