Part 4

He was long and slim and lean of limb, but strong as a stripling bear; And by the right of his skill and might he guided the Long Brigade. All water-wise were his laughing eyes, and he steered with a careless care, And he shunned the shock of foam and rock, till they came to the Big Cascade. And here they must make the long portage, and the boys sweat in the sun; And they heft and pack, and they haul and track, and each must do his trick; But their thoughts are far in the Landing bar, where the founts of nectar run: And no man thinks of such gorgeous drinks as that Athabaska Dick.

'Twas the close of day and his long boat lay just over the Big Cascade, When there came to him one Jack-pot Jim, with a wild light in his eye; And he softly laughed, and he led Dick aft, all eager, yet half afraid, And snugly stowed in his coat he showed a pilfered flask of "rye". And in haste he slipped, or in fear he tripped, but -- Dick in warning roared -- And there rang a yell, and it befell that Jim was overboard.

Oh, I heard a splash, and quick as a flash I knew he could not swim. I saw him whirl in the river swirl, and thresh his arms about. In a queer, strained way I heard Dick say: "I'm going after him," Throw off his coat, leap down the boat -- and then I gave a shout: "Boys, grab him, quick! You're crazy, Dick! Far better one than two! Hell, man! You know you've got no show! It's sure and certain death. . . ." And there we hung, and there we clung, with beef and brawn and thew, And sinews cracked and joints were racked, and panting came our breath; And there we swayed and there we prayed, till strength and hope were spent -- Then Dick, he threw us off like rats, and after Jim he went.

With mighty urge amid the surge of river-rage he leapt, And gripped his mate and desperate he fought to gain the shore; With teeth a-gleam he bucked the stream, yet swift and sure he swept To meet the mighty cataract that waited all a-roar. And there we stood like carven wood, our faces sickly white, And watched him as he beat the foam, and inch by inch he lost; And nearer, nearer drew the fall, and fiercer grew the fight, Till on the very cascade crest a last farewell he tossed. Then down and down and down they plunged into that pit of dread; And mad we tore along the shore to claim our bitter dead.

And from that hell of frenzied foam, that crashed and fumed and boiled, Two little bodies bubbled up, and they were heedless then; And oh, they lay like senseless clay! and bitter hard we toiled, Yet never, never gleam of hope, and we were weary men. And moments mounted into hours, and black was our despair; And faint were we, and we were fain to give them up as dead, When suddenly I thrilled with hope: "Back, boys! and give him air; I feel the flutter of his heart. . . ." And, as the word I said, Dick gave a sigh, and gazed around, and saw our breathless band; And saw the sky's blue floor above, all strewn with golden fleece; And saw his comrade Jack-pot Jim, and touched him with his hand: And then there came into his eyes a look of perfect peace. And as there, at his very feet, the thwarted river raved, I heard him murmur low and deep: "Thank God! the WHISKEY's saved."

Cheer

It's a mighty good world, so it is, dear lass, When even the worst is said. There's a smile and a tear, a sigh and a cheer, But better be living than dead; A joy and a pain, a loss and a gain; There's honey and may be some gall: Yet still I declare, foul weather or fair, It's a mighty good world after all.

For look, lass! at night when I break from the fight, My Kingdom's awaiting for me; There's comfort and rest, and the warmth of your breast, And little ones climbing my knee. There's fire-light and song -- Oh, the world may be wrong! Its empires may topple and fall: My home is my care -- if gladness be there, It's a mighty good world after all.

O heart of pure gold! I have made you a fold, It's sheltered, sun-fondled and warm. O little ones, rest! I have fashioned a nest; Sleep on! you are safe from the storm. For there's no foe like fear, and there's no friend like cheer, And sunshine will flash at our call; So crown Love as King, and let us all sing -- "It's a mighty good world after all."

The Return

They turned him loose; he bowed his head, A felon, bent and grey. His face was even as the Dead, He had no word to say.

He sought the home of his old love, To look on her once more; And where her roses breathed above, He cowered beside the door.

She sat there in the shining room; Her hair was silver grey. He stared and stared from out the gloom; He turned to go away.

Her roses rustled overhead. She saw, with sudden start. "I knew that you would come," she said, And held him to her heart.

Her face was rapt and angel-sweet; She touched his hair of grey; . . . . . BUT HE, SOB-SHAKEN, AT HER FEET, COULD ONLY PRAY AND PRAY.

The Junior God

The Junior God looked from his place In the conning towers of heaven, And he saw the world through the span of space Like a giant golf-ball driven. And because he was bored, as some gods are, With high celestial mirth, He clutched the reins of a shooting star, And he steered it down to earth.

The Junior God, 'mid leaf and bud, Passed on with a weary air, Till lo! he came to a pool of mud, And some hogs were rolling there. Then in he plunged with gleeful cries, And down he lay supine; For they had no mud in paradise, And they likewise had no swine.

The Junior God forgot himself; He squelched mud through his toes; With the careless joy of a wanton boy His reckless laughter rose. Till, tired at last, in a brook close by, He washed off every stain; Then softly up to the radiant sky He rose, a god again.

The Junior God now heads the roll In the list of heaven's peers; He sits in the House of High Control, And he regulates the spheres. Yet does he wonder, do you suppose, If, even in gods divine, The best and wisest may not be those Who have wallowed awhile with the swine?

The Nostomaniac

On the ragged edge of the world I'll roam, And the home of the wolf shall be my home, And a bunch of bones on the boundless snows The end of my trail . . . who knows, who knows!

I'm dreaming to-night in the fire-glow, alone in my study tower, My books battalioned around me, my Kipling flat on my knee; But I'm not in the mood for reading, I haven't moved for an hour; Body and brain I'm weary, weary the heart of me; Weary of crushing a longing it's little I understand, For I thought that my trail was ended, I thought I had earned my rest; But oh, it's stronger than life is, the call of the hearthless land! And I turn to the North in my trouble, as a child to the mother-breast.

Here in my den it's quiet; the sea-wind taps on the pane; There's comfort and ease and plenty, the smile of the South is sweet. All that a man might long for, fight for and seek in vain, Pictures and books and music, pleasure my last retreat. Peace! I thought I had gained it, I swore that my tale was told; By my hair that is grey I swore it, by my eyes that are slow to see; Yet what does it all avail me? to-night, to-night as of old, Out of the dark I hear it -- the Northland calling to me.

And I'm daring a rampageous river that runs the devil knows where; My hand is athrill on the paddle, the birch-bark bounds like a bird. Hark to the rumble of rapids! Here in my morris chair Eager and tense I'm straining -- isn't it most absurd? Now in the churn and the lather, foam that hisses and stings, Leap I, keyed for the struggle, fury and fume and roar; Rocks are spitting like hell-cats -- Oh, it's a sport for kings, Life on a twist of the paddle . . . there's my "Kim" on the floor.

How I thrill and I vision! Then my camp of a night; Red and gold of the fire-glow, net afloat in the stream; Scent of the pines and silence, little "pal" pipe alight, Body a-purr with pleasure, sleep untroubled of dream: Banquet of paystreak bacon! moment of joy divine, When the bannock is hot and gluey, and the teapot's nearing the boil! Never was wolf so hungry, stomach cleaving to spine. . . . Ha! there's my servant calling, says that dinner will spoil.

What do I want with dinner? Can I eat any more? Can I sleep as I used to? . . . Oh, I abhor this life! Give me the Great Uncertain, the Barren Land for a floor, The Milky Way for a roof-beam, splendour and space and strife: Something to fight and die for -- the limpid Lake of the Bear, The Empire of Empty Bellies, the dunes where the Dogribs dwell; Big things, real things, live things . . . here on my morris chair How I ache for the Northland! "Dinner and servants" -- Hell!!

Am I too old, I wonder? Can I take one trip more? Go to the granite-ribbed valleys, flooded with sunset wine, Peaks that pierce the aurora, rivers I must explore, Lakes of a thousand islands, millioning hordes of the Pine? Do they not miss me, I wonder, valley and peak and plain? Whispering each to the other: "Many a moon has passed . . . Where has he gone, our lover? Will he come back again? Star with his fires our tundra, leave us his bones at last?"