Part 8

"I've got to kill you, Dick. Your life for mine, you know. Better to do it quick, A swift and sudden blow. See! here's my hand to lick; A hug before you go -- God! but it makes me sick: Old dog, I love you so. Forgive, forgive me, Dick -- A swift and sudden blow. . . ."

VII

Often I start up in the dark, Thinking the sound of bells to hear. Often I wake from sleep: "Oh, hark! Help . . . it is coming . . . near and near." Blindly I reel toward the door; There the snow billows bleak and bare; Blindly I seek my den once more, Silence and darkness and despair. Oh, it is all a dreadful dream! Scurvy and cold and death and dearth; I will awake to warmth and gleam, Silvery seas and greening earth. Life is a dream, its wakening, Death, gentle shadow of God's wing. . . .

"Tick, little clock, my life away! Even a second seems a day. Even a minute seems a year, Peopled with ghosts, that press and peer Into my face so charnel white, Lit by the devilish, dancing light. Tick, little clock! mete out my fate: Tortured and tense I wait, I wait. . . ."

VIII

Oh, I have sworn! the hour is nigh: When it strikes eight, I die, I die. Raise up the gun -- it stings my brow -- When it strikes eight . . . all ready . . . NOW --

* * * * *

Down from my hand the weapon dropped; Wildly I stared. . . . THE CLOCK HAD STOPPED.

Phantoms and fears and ghosts have gone. Peace seems to nestle in my brain. Lo! the clock stopped, I'm living on; Heart-sick I was, and less than sane. Yet do I scorn the thing I planned, Hearing a voice: "O coward, fight!" Then the clock stopped . . . whose was the hand? Maybe 'twas God's -- ah well, all's right. Heap on me darkness, fold on fold! Pain! wrench and rack me! What care I? Leap on me, hunger, thirst and cold! I will await my time to die; Looking to Heaven that shines above; Looking to God, and love . . . and love.

Hark! what is that? Bells, dogs again! Is it a dream? I sob and cry. See! the door opens, fur-clad men Rush to my rescue; frail am I; Feeble and dying, dazed and glad. There is the pistol where it dropped. "Boys, it was hard -- but I'm not mad. . . . Look at the clock -- it stopped, it stopped. Carry me out. The heavens smile. See! there's an arch of gold above. Now, let me rest a little while -- LOOKING TO GOD AND LOVE . . . AND LOVE. . . ."

Dreams Are Best

I just think that dreams are best, Just to sit and fancy things; Give your gold no acid test, Try not how your silver rings; Fancy women pure and good, Fancy men upright and true: Fortressed in your solitude, Let Life be a dream to you.

For I think that Thought is all; Truth's a minion of the mind; Love's ideal comes at call; As ye seek so shall ye find. But ye must not seek too far; Things are never what they seem: Let a star be just a star, And a woman -- just a dream.

O you Dreamers, proud and pure, You have gleaned the sweet of life! Golden truths that shall endure Over pain and doubt and strife. I would rather be a fool Living in my Paradise, Than the leader of a school, Sadly sane and weary wise.

O you Cynics with your sneers, Fallen brains and hearts of brass, Tweak me by my foolish ears, Write me down a simple ass! I'll believe the real "you" Is the "you" without a taint; I'll believe each woman too, But a slightly damaged saint.

Yes, I'll smoke my cigarette, Vestured in my garb of dreams, And I'll borrow no regret; All is gold that golden gleams. So I'll charm my solitude With the faith that Life is blest, Brave and noble, bright and good, . . . Oh, I think that dreams are best!

The Quitter

When you're lost in the Wild, and you're scared as a child, And Death looks you bang in the eye, And you're sore as a boil, it's according to Hoyle To cock your revolver and . . . die. But the Code of a Man says: "Fight all you can," And self-dissolution is barred. In hunger and woe, oh, it's easy to blow . . . It's the hell-served-for-breakfast that's hard.

"You're sick of the game!" Well, now, that's a shame. You're young and you're brave and you're bright. "You've had a raw deal!" I know -- but don't squeal, Buck up, do your damnedest, and fight. It's the plugging away that will win you the day, So don't be a piker, old pard! Just draw on your grit; it's so easy to quit: It's the keeping-your-chin-up that's hard.

It's easy to cry that you're beaten -- and die; It's easy to crawfish and crawl; But to fight and to fight when hope's out of sight -- Why, that's the best game of them all! And though you come out of each gruelling bout, All broken and beaten and scarred, Just have one more try -- it's dead easy to die, It's the keeping-on-living that's hard.

The Cow-Juice Cure

The clover was in blossom, an' the year was at the June, When Flap-jack Billy hit the town, likewise O'Flynn's saloon. The frost was on the fodder an' the wind was growin' keen, When Billy got to seein' snakes in Sullivan's shebeen.

Then in meandered Deep-hole Dan, once comrade of the cup: "Oh Billy, for the love of Mike, why don't ye sober up? I've got the gorgus recipay, 'tis smooth an' slick as silk -- Jest quit yer strangle-holt on hooch, an' irrigate with milk. Lackteeal flooid is the lubrication you require; Yer nervus frame-up's like a bunch of snarled piano wire. You want to get it coated up with addypose tishoo, So's it will work elastic-like, an' milk's the dope for you."

Well, Billy was complyable, an' in a month it's strange, That cow-juice seemed to oppyrate a most amazin' change. "Call up the water-wagon, Dan, an' book my seat," sez he. "'Tis mighty queer," sez Deep-hole Dan, "'twas just the same with me." They shanghaied little Tim O'Shane, they cached him safe away, An' though he objurgated some, they "cured" him night an' day; An' pretty soon there came the change amazin' to explain: "I'll never take another drink," sez Timothy O'Shane. They tried it out on Spike Muldoon, that toper of renown; They put it over Grouch McGraw, the terror of the town. They roped in "tanks" from far and near, an' every test was sure, An' like a flame there ran the fame of Deep-hole's Cow-juice Cure.

"It's mighty queer," sez Deep-hole Dan, "I'm puzzled through and through; It's only milk from Riley's ranch, no other milk will do." An' it jest happened on that night with no predictive plan, He left some milk from Riley's ranch a-settin' in a pan; An' picture his amazement when he poured that milk next day -- There in the bottom of the pan a dozen "colours" lay.

"Well, what d'ye know 'bout that," sez Dan; "Gosh ding my dasted eyes, We've been an' had the Gold Cure, Bill, an' none of us was wise. The milk's free-millin' that's a cinch; there's colours everywhere. Now, let us figger this thing out -- how does the dust git there? 'Gold from the grass-roots down', they say -- why, Bill! we've got it cold -- Them cows what nibbles up the grass, jest nibbles up the gold. We're blasted, bloomin' millionaires; dissemble an' lie low: We'll follow them gold-bearin' cows, an' prospect where they go."

An' so it came to pass, fer weeks them miners might be found A-sneakin' round on Riley's ranch, an' snipin' at the ground; Till even Riley stops an' stares, an' presently allows: "Them boys appear to take a mighty interest in cows." An' night an' day they shadowed each auriferous bovine, An' panned the grass-roots on their trail, yet nivver gold they seen. An' all that season, secret-like, they worked an' nothin' found; An' there was colours in the milk, but none was in the ground. An' mighty desperate was they, an' down upon their luck, When sudden, inspirationlike, the source of it they struck. An' where d'ye think they traced it to? it grieves my heart to tell -- In the black sand at the bottom of that wicked milkman's WELL.

While the Bannock Bakes