Ballads of a Cheechako Part 5

He practised all his pretty words, and these, I fear, were few.

At last, one frosty evening, with a cold chill down his spine, He found himself before her house, the threshold of the shrine.

His courage flickered to a spark, then glowed with sudden flame-- He knocked; he heard a welcome word; she came--his G.o.ddess came.

Oh, she was fair as any flower, and huskily he spoke: "I'm all the way from Klondike, with a mighty heavy poke.

I'm looking for a la.s.sie, one whose Christian name is Peg, Who sought a Klondike miner, and who wrote it on an egg."

The la.s.sie gazed at him a s.p.a.ce, her cheeks grew rosy red; She gazed at him with tear-bright eyes, then tenderly she said: "Yes, lonely Klondike miner, it is true my name is Peg.

It's also true I longed for you and wrote it on an egg.

My heart went out to someone in that land of night and cold; But oh, I fear that Yukon egg must have been mighty old.

I waited long, I hoped and feared; you should have come before; I've been a wedded woman now for eighteen months or more.

I'm sorry, since you've come so far, you ain't the one that wins; But won't you take a step inside--I'LL LET YOU SEE THE TWINS."

The Man from Eldorado

He's the man from Eldorado, and he's just arrived in town, In moccasins and oily buckskin s.h.i.+rt.

He's gaunt as any Indian, and pretty nigh as brown; He's greasy, and he smells of sweat and dirt.

He sports a crop of whiskers that would shame a healthy hog; Hard work has racked his joints and stooped his back; He slops along the sidewalk followed by his yellow dog, But he's got a bunch of gold-dust in his sack.

He seems a little wistful as he blinks at all the lights, And maybe he is thinking of his claim And the dark and dwarfish cabin where he lay and dreamed at nights, (Thank G.o.d, he'll never see the place again!) Where he lived on tinned tomatoes, beef embalmed and sourdough bread, On rusty beans and bacon furred with mould; His stomach's out of kilter and his system full of lead, But it's over, and his poke is full of gold.

He has panted at the windla.s.s, he has loaded in the drift, He has pounded at the face of oozy clay; He has taxed himself to sickness, dark and damp and double s.h.i.+ft, He has labored like a demon night and day.

And now, praise G.o.d, it's over, and he seems to breathe again Of new-mown hay, the warm, wet, friendly loam; He sees a snowy orchard in a green and dimpling plain, And a little vine-clad cottage, and it's--Home.

II.

He's the man from Eldorado, and he's had a bite and sup, And he's met in with a drouthy friend or two; He's cached away his gold-dust, but he's sort of bucking up, So he's kept enough to-night to see him through.

His eye is bright and genial, his tongue no longer lags; His heart is br.i.m.m.i.n.g o'er with joy and mirth; He may be far from savory, he may be clad in rags, But to-night he feels as if he owns the earth.

Says he: "Boys, here is where the s.h.a.ggy North and I will shake; I thought I'd never manage to get free.

I kept on making misses; but at last I've got my stake; There's no more thawing frozen muck for me.

I am going to G.o.d's Country, where I'll live the simple life; I'll buy a bit of land and make a start; I'll carve a little homestead, and I'll win a little wife, And raise ten little kids to cheer my heart."

They signified their sympathy by crowding to the bar; They bellied up three deep and drank his health.

He shed a radiant smile around and smoked a rank cigar; They wished him honor, happiness and wealth.

They drank unto his wife to be--that unsuspecting maid; They drank unto his children half a score; And when they got through drinking very tenderly they laid The man from Eldorado on the floor.

III.

He's the man from Eldorado, and he's only starting in To cultivate a thousand-dollar jag.

His poke is full of gold-dust and his heart is full of sin, And he's dancing with a girl called Muckluck Mag.

She's as light as any fairy; she's as pretty as a peach; She's mistress of the witchcraft to beguile; There's suns.h.i.+ne in her manner, there is music in her speech, And there's concentrated honey in her smile.

Oh, the fever of the dance-hall and the glitter and the s.h.i.+ne, The beauty, and the jewels, and the whirl, The madness of the music, the rapture of the wine, The languorous allurement of a girl!

She is like a lost madonna; he is gaunt, unkempt and grim; But she fondles him and gazes in his eyes; Her kisses seek his heavy lips, and soon it seems to him He has staked a little claim in Paradise.

"Who's for a juicy two-step?" cries the master of the floor; The music throbs with soft, seductive beat.

There's glitter, gilt and gladness; there are pretty girls galore; There's a woolly man with moccasins on feet.

They know they've got him going; he is buying wine for all; They crowd around as buzzards at a feast, Then when his poke is empty they boost him from the hall, And spurn him in the gutter like a beast.

He's the man from Eldorado, and he's painting red the town; Behind he leaves a trail of yellow dust; In a whirl of senseless riot he is ramping up and down; There's nothing checks his madness and his l.u.s.t.

And soon the word is pa.s.sed around--it travels like a flame; They fight to clutch his hand and call him friend, The chevaliers of lost repute, the dames of sorry fame; Then comes the grim awakening--the end.

IV.

He's the man from Eldorado, and he gives a grand affair; There's feasting, dancing, wine without restraint.

The smooth Beau Brummels of the bar, the faro men, are there; The tinhorns and purveyors of red paint; The sleek and painted women, their predacious eyes aglow-- Sure Klondike City never saw the like; Then Muckluck Mag proposed the toast, "The giver of the show, The livest sport that ever hit the pike."

The "live one" rises to his feet; he stammers to reply-- And then there comes before his muddled brain A vision of green vast.i.tudes beneath an April sky, And clover pastures drenched with silver rain.

He knows that it can never be, that he is down and out; Life leers at him with foul and fetid breath; And then amid the revelry, the song and cheer and shout, He suddenly grows grim and cold as death.

He grips the table tensely, and he says: "Dear friends of mine, I've let you dip your fingers in my purse; I've crammed you at my table, and I've drowned you in my wine, And I've little left to give you but--my curse.

I've failed supremely in my plans; it's rather late to whine; My poke is mighty weasened up and small.

I thank you each for coming here; the happiness is mine-- And now, you thieves and harlots, take it all."

He twists the thong from off his poke; he swings it o'er his head; The nuggets fall around their feet like grain.

They rattle over roof and wall; they scatter, roll and spread; The dust is like a shower of golden rain.

The guests a moment stand aghast, then grovel on the floor; They fight, and snarl, and claw, like beasts of prey; And then, as everybody grabbed and everybody swore, The man from Eldorado slipped away.

V.

He's the man from Eldorado, and they found him stiff and dead, Half covered by the freezing ooze and dirt.

A clotted Colt was in his hand, a hole was in his head, And he wore an old and oily buckskin s.h.i.+rt.

His eyes were fixed and horrible, as one who hails the end; The frost had set him rigid as a log; And there, half lying on his breast, his last and only friend, There crouched and whined a mangy yellow dog.

My Friends

The man above was a murderer, the man below was a thief; And I lay there in the bunk between, ailing beyond belief; A weary armful of skin and bone, wasted with pain and grief.

My feet were froze, and the lifeless toes were purple and green and gray; The little flesh that clung to my bones, you could punch it in holes like clay; The skin on my gums was a sullen black, and slowly peeling away.

I was sure enough in a direful fix, and often I wondered why They did not take the chance that was left and leave me alone to die, Or finish me off with a dose of dope--so utterly lost was I.

But no; they brewed me the green-spruce tea, and nursed me there like a child; And the homicide he was good to me, and bathed my sores and smiled; And the thief he starved that I might be fed, and his eyes were kind and mild.

Yet they were woefully wicked men, and often at night in pain I heard the murderer speak of his deed and dream it over again; I heard the poor thief sorrowing for the dead self he had slain.

I'll never forget that bitter dawn, so evil, askew and gray, When they wrapped me round in the skins of beasts and they bore me to a sleigh, And we started out with the nearest post an hundred miles away.