Part 13

"Father, a bitter cry I heard, Out of the night so dark and wild. Why is my heart so strangely stirred? 'Twas like the voice of our erring child."

"Mother, mother, you only heard A waterfowl in the locked lagoon-- Out of the night a wounded bird-- Rest and sleep, 'twill be morning soon."

Who is it talks of sleeping? I'll swear that somebody shook Me hard by the arm for a moment, but how on earth could it be? See how my feet are moving--awfully funny they look-- Moving as if they belonged to a someone that wasn't me. The wind down the night's long alley bowls me down like a pin; I stagger and fall and stagger, crawl arm-deep in the snow. Beaten back to my corner, how can I hope to win? And there is the blizzard waiting to give me the knockout blow.

Oh, I'm so warm and sleepy! No more hunger and pain. Just to rest for a moment; was ever rest such a joy? Ha! what was that? I'll swear it, somebody shook me again; Somebody seemed to whisper: "Fight to the last, my boy." Fight! That's right, I must struggle. I know that to rest means death; Death, but then what does death mean?--ease from a world of strife. Life has been none too pleasant; yet with my failing breath Still and still must I struggle, fight for the gift of life.

* * * * *

Seems that I must be dreaming! Here is the old home trail; Yonder a light is gleaming; oh, I know it so well! The air is scented with clover; the cattle wait by the rail; Father is through with the milking; there goes the supper-bell.

* * * * *

Mother, your boy is crying, out in the night and cold; Let me in and forgive me, I'll never be bad any more: I'm, oh, so sick and so sorry: please, dear mother, don't scold-- It's just your boy, and he wants you. . . . Mother, open the door. . . .

"Father, father, I saw a face Pressed just now to the window-pane! Oh, it gazed for a moment's space, Wild and wan, and was gone again!"

"Mother, mother, you saw the snow Drifted down from the maple tree (Oh, the wind that is sobbing so! Weary and worn and old are we)-- Only the snow and a wounded loon-- Rest and sleep, 'twill be morning soon."

L'Envoi

We talked of yesteryears, of trails and treasure, Of men who played the game and lost or won; Of mad stampedes, of toil beyond all measure, Of camp-fire comfort when the day was done. We talked of sullen nights by moon-dogs haunted, Of bird and beast and tree, of rod and gun; Of boat and tent, of hunting-trip enchanted Beneath the wonder of the midnight sun; Of bloody-footed dogs that gnawed the traces, Of prisoned seas, wind-lashed and winter-locked; The ice-gray dawn was pale upon our faces, Yet still we filled the cup and still we talked.

The city street was dimmed. We saw the glitter Of moon-picked brilliants on the virgin snow, And down the drifted canyon heard the bitter, Relentless slogan of the winds of woe. The city was forgot, and, parka-skirted, We trod that leagueless land that once we knew; We saw stream past, down valleys glacier-girted, The wolf-worn legions of the caribou. We smoked our pipes, o'er scenes of triumph dwelling; Of deeds of daring, dire defeats, we talked; And other tales that lost not in the telling, Ere to our beds uncertainly we walked.

And so, dear friends, in gentler valleys roaming, Perhaps, when on my printed page you look, Your fancies by the firelight may go homing To that lone land that haply you forsook. And if perchance you hear the silence calling, The frozen music of star-yearning heights, Or, dreaming, see the seines of silver trawling Across the sky's abyss on vasty nights, You may recall that sweep of savage splendor, That land that measures each man at his worth, And feel in memory, half fierce, half tender, The brotherhood of men that know the North.