Rhymes of a Rolling Stone

Barb-Wire Bill

At dawn of day the white land lay all gruesome-like and grim,

When Bill Mc'Gee he says to me: "We've got to do it, Jim.

We've got to make Fort Liard quick. I know the river's bad,

But, oh! the little woman's sick . . . why! don't you savvy, lad?"

And me! Well, yes, I must confess it wasn't hard to see

Their little family group of two would soon be one of three.

And so I answered, careless-like: "Why, Bill! you don't suppose

I'm scared of that there 'babbling brook'? Whatever you say -- goes."

A real live man was Barb-wire Bill, with insides copper-lined;

For "barb-wire" was the brand of "hooch" to which he most inclined.

They knew him far; his igloos are on Kittiegazuit strand.

They knew him well, the tribes who dwell within the Barren Land.

From Koyokuk to Kuskoquim his fame was everywhere;

And he did love, all life above, that little Julie Claire,

The lithe, white slave-girl he had bought for seven hundred skins,

And taken to his wickiup to make his moccasins.

We crawled down to the river bank and feeble folk were we,

That Julie Claire from God-knows-where, and Barb-wire Bill and me.

From shore to shore we heard the roar the heaving ice-floes make,

And loud we laughed, and launched our raft, and followed in their wake.

The river swept and seethed and leapt, and caught us in its stride;

And on we hurled amid a world that crashed on every side.

With sullen din the banks caved in; the shore-ice lanced the stream;

The naked floes like spooks arose, all jiggling and agleam.

Black anchor-ice of strange device shot upward from its bed,

As night and day we cleft our way, and arrow-like we sped.

But "Faster still!" cried Barb-wire Bill, and looked the live-long day

In dull despair at Julie Claire, as white like death she lay.

And sometimes he would seem to pray and sometimes seem to curse,

And bent above, with eyes of love, yet ever she grew worse.

And as we plunged and leapt and lunged, her face was plucked with pain,

And I could feel his nerves of steel a-quiver at the strain.

And in the night he gripped me tight as I lay fast asleep:

"The river's kicking like a steer . . . run out the forward sweep!

That's Hell-gate Canyon right ahead; I know of old its roar,

And . . . I'll be damned! The ice is jammed! We've got to make the shore."

With one wild leap I gripped the sweep. The night was black as sin.

The float-ice crashed and ripped and smashed, and stunned us with its din.

And near and near, and clear and clear I heard the canyon boom;

And swift and strong we swept along to meet our awful doom.

And as with dread I glimpsed ahead the death that waited there,

My only thought was of the girl, the little Julie Claire;

And so, like demon mad with fear, I panted at the oar,

And foot by foot, and inch by inch, we worked the raft ashore.

The bank was staked with grinding ice, and as we scraped and crashed,

I only knew one thing to do, and through my mind it flashed:

Yet while I groped to find the rope, I heard Bill's savage cry:

"That's my job, lad! It's me that jumps. I'll snub this raft or die!"

I saw him leap, I saw him creep, I saw him gain the land;

I saw him crawl, I saw him fall, then run with rope in hand.

And then the darkness gulped him up, and down we dashed once more,

And nearer, nearer drew the jam, and thunder-like its roar.

Oh God! all's lost . . . from Julie Claire there came a wail of pain,

And then -- the rope grew sudden taut, and quivered at the strain;

It slacked and slipped, it whined and gripped, and oh, I held my breath!

And there we hung and there we swung right in the jaws of death.

A little strand of hempen rope, and how I watched it there,

With all around a hell of sound, and darkness and despair;

A little strand of hempen rope, I watched it all alone,

And somewhere in the dark behind I heard a woman moan;

And somewhere in the dark ahead I heard a man cry out,

Then silence, silence, silence fell, and mocked my hollow shout.

And yet once more from out the shore I heard that cry of pain,

A moan of mortal agony, then all was still again.

That night was hell with all the frills, and when the dawn broke dim,

I saw a lean and level land, but never sign of him.

I saw a flat and frozen shore of hideous device,

I saw a long-drawn strand of rope that vanished through the ice.

And on that treeless, rockless shore I found my partner -- dead.

No place was there to snub the raft, so -- he had served instead;

And with the rope lashed round his waist, in last defiant fight,

He'd thrown himself beneath the ice, that closed and gripped him tight;

And there he'd held us back from death, as fast in death he lay. . . .

Say, boys! I'm not the pious brand, but -- I just tried to pray.

And then I looked to Julie Claire, and sore abashed was I,

For from the robes that covered her, I -- heard -- a -- baby -- cry. . . .

Thus was Love conqueror of death, and life for life was given;

And though no saint on earth, d'ye think -- Bill's squared hisself with Heaven?

"?"

If you had the choice of two women to wed,

(Though of course the idea is quite absurd)

And the first from her heels to her dainty head

Was charming in every sense of the word:

And yet in the past (I grieve to state),

She never had been exactly "straight".

And the second -- she was beyond all cavil,

A model of virtue, I must confess;

And yet, alas! she was dull as the devil,

And rather a dowd in the way of dress;

Though what she was lacking in wit and beauty,

She more than made up for in "sense of duty".

Now, suppose you must wed, and make no blunder,

And either would love you, and let you win her --

Which of the two would you choose, I wonder,

The stolid saint or the sparkling sinner?

Just Think!

Just think! some night the stars will gleam

Upon a cold, grey stone,

And trace a name with silver beam,

And lo! 'twill be your own.

That night is speeding on to greet

Your epitaphic rhyme.

Your life is but a little beat

Within the heart of Time.

A little gain, a little pain,

A laugh, lest you may moan;

A little blame, a little fame,

A star-gleam on a stone.

The Lunger

Jack would laugh an' joke all day;

Never saw a lad so gay;

Singin' like a medder lark,

Loaded to the Plimsoll mark

With God's sunshine was that boy;

Had a strangle-holt on Joy.

Held his head 'way up in air,

Left no callin' cards on Care;

Breezy, buoyant, brave and true;

Sent his sunshine out to you;

Cheerfulest when clouds was black --

Happy Jack! Oh, Happy Jack!

Sittin' in my shack alone

I could hear him in his own,

Singin' far into the night,

Till it didn't seem just right

One man should corral the fun,

Live his life so in the sun;

Didn't seem quite natural

Not to have a grouch at all;

Not a trouble, not a lack --

Happy Jack! Oh, Happy Jack!

He was plumbful of good cheer

Till he struck that low-down year;

Got so thin, so little to him,

You could most see day-light through him.

Never was his eye so bright,

Never was his cheek so white.

Seemed as if somethin' was wrong,

Sort o' quaver in his song.

Same old smile, same hearty voice:

"Bless you, boys! let's all rejoice!"

But old Doctor shook his head:

"Half a lung," was all he said.

Yet that half was surely right,

For I heard him every night,

Singin', singin' in his shack --

Happy Jack! Oh, Happy Jack!

Then one day a letter came

Endin' with a female name;

Seemed to get him in the neck,

Sort o' pile-driver effect;

Paled his lip and plucked his breath,

Left him starin' still as death.

Somethin' had gone awful wrong,

Yet that night he sang his song.

Oh, but it was good to hear!

For there clutched my heart a fear,

So that I quaked listenin'

Every night to hear him sing.

But each day he laughed with me,

An' his smile was full of glee.

Nothin' seemed to set him back --

Happy Jack! Oh, Happy Jack!

Then one night the singin' stopped . . .

Seemed as if my heart just flopped;

For I'd learned to love the boy

With his gilt-edged line of joy,

With his glorious gift of bluff,

With his splendid fightin' stuff.

Sing on, lad, and play the game!

O dear God! . . . no singin' came,

But there surged to me instead --

Silence, silence, deep and dread;

Till I shuddered, tried to pray,

Said: "He's maybe gone away."

Oh, yes, he had gone away,

Gone forever and a day.

But he'd left behind him there,

In his cabin, pinched and bare,

His poor body, skin and bone,

His sharp face, cold as a stone.

An' his stiffened fingers pressed

Somethin' bright upon his breast:

Locket with a silken curl,

Poor, sweet portrait of a girl.

Yet I reckon at the last

How defiant-like he passed;

For there sat upon his lips

Smile that death could not eclipse;

An' within his eyes lived still

Joy that dyin' could not kill.

An' now when the nights are long,

How I miss his cheery song!

How I sigh an' wish him back!

Happy Jack! Oh, Happy Jack!

The Mountain and the Lake

I know a mountain thrilling to the stars,

Peerless and pure, and pinnacled with snow;

Glimpsing the golden dawn o'er coral bars,

Flaunting the vanisht sunset's garnet glow;

Proudly patrician, passionless, serene;

Soaring in silvered steeps where cloud-surfs break;

Virgin and vestal -- Oh, a very Queen!

And at her feet there dreams a quiet lake.

My lake adores my mountain -- well I know,

For I have watched it from its dawn-dream start,

Stilling its mirror to her splendid snow,

Framing her image in its trembling heart;

Glassing her graciousness of greening wood,

Kissing her throne, melodiously mad,

Thrilling responsive to her every mood,

Gloomed with her sadness, gay when she is glad.

My lake has dreamed and loved since time was born;

Will love and dream till time shall cease to be;

Gazing to Her in worship half forlorn,

Who looks towards the stars and will not see --

My peerless mountain, splendid in her scorn. . . .

Alas! poor little lake! Alas! poor me!

The Headliner and the Breadliner

Moko, the Educated Ape is here,

The pet of vaudeville, so the posters say,

And every night the gaping people pay

To see him in his panoply appear;

To see him pad his paunch with dainty cheer,

Puff his perfecto, swill champagne, and sway

Just like a gentleman, yet all in play,

Then bow himself off stage with brutish leer.

And as to-night, with noble knowledge crammed,

I 'mid this human compost take my place,

I, once a poet, now so dead and damned,

The woeful tears half freezing on my face:

"O God!" I cry, "let me but take his shape,

Moko's, the Blest, the Educated Ape."

Death in the Arctic

I

I took the clock down from the shelf;

"At eight," said I, "I shoot myself."

It lacked a minute of the hour,

And as I waited all a-cower,

A skinful of black, boding pain,

Bits of my life came back again. . . .

"Mother, there's nothing more to eat --

Why don't you go out on the street?

Always you sit and cry and cry;

Here at my play I wonder why.

Mother, when you dress up at night,

Red are your cheeks, your eyes are bright;

Twining a ribband in your hair,

Kissing good-bye you go down-stair.

Then I'm as lonely as can be.

Oh, how I wish you were with me!

Yet when you go out on the street,

Mother, there's always lots to eat. . . ."

II

For days the igloo has been dark;

But now the rag wick sends a spark

That glitters in the icy air,

And wakes frost sapphires everywhere;

Bright, bitter flames, that adder-like

Dart here and there, yet fear to strike

The gruesome gloom wherein they lie,

My comrades, oh, so keen to die!

And I, the last -- well, here I wait

The clock to strike the hour of eight. . . .

"Boy, it is bitter to be hurled

Nameless and naked on the world;

Frozen by night and starved by day,

Curses and kicks and clouts your pay.

But you must fight! Boy, look on me!

Anarch of all earth-misery;

Beggar and tramp and shameless sot;

Emblem of ill, in rags that rot.

Would you be foul and base as I?

Oh, it is better far to die!

Swear to me now you'll fight and fight,

Boy, or I'll kill you here to-night. . . ."

III

Curse this silence soft and black!

Sting, little light, the shadows back!

Dance, little flame, with freakish glee!

Twinkle with brilliant mockery!

Glitter on ice-robed roof and floor!

Jewel the bear-skin of the door!

Gleam in my beard, illume my breath,

Blanch the clock face that times my death!

But do not pierce that murk so deep,

Where in their sleeping-bags they sleep!

But do not linger where they lie,

They who had all the luck to die! . . .

"There is nothing more to say;

Let us part and go our way.

Since it seems we can't agree,

I will go across the sea.

Proud of heart and strong am I;

Not for woman will I sigh;

Hold my head up gay and glad:

You can find another lad. . . ."

IV

Above the igloo piteous flies

Our frayed flag to the frozen skies.

Oh, would you know how earth can be

A hell -- go north of Eighty-three!

Go, scan the snows day after day,

And hope for help, and pray and pray;

Have seal-hide and sea-lice to eat;

Melt water with your body's heat;

Sleep all the fell, black winter through

Beside the dear, dead men you knew.

(The walrus blubber flares and gleams --

O God! how long a minute seems!) . . .

"Mary, many a day has passed,

Since that morn of hot-head youth.

Come I back at last, at last,

Crushed with knowing of the truth;

How through bitter, barren years

You loved me, and me alone;

Waited, wearied, wept your tears --

Oh, could I atone, atone,

I would pay a million-fold!

Pay you for the love you gave.

Mary, look down as of old --

I am kneeling by your grave." . . .

V

Olaf, the Blonde, was first to go;

Bitten his eyes were by the snow;

Sightless and sealed his eyes of blue,

So that he died before I knew.

Here in those poor weak arms he died:

"Wolves will not get you, lad," I lied;

"For I will watch till Spring come round;

Slumber you shall beneath the ground."

Oh, how I lied! I scarce can wait:

Strike, little clock, the hour of eight! . . .

"Comrade, can you blame me quite?

The horror of the long, long night

Is on me, and I've borne with pain

So long, and hoped for help in vain.

So frail am I, and blind and dazed;

With scurvy sick, with silence crazed.

Beneath the Arctic's heel of hate,

Avid for Death I wait, I wait.

Oh if I falter, fail to fight,

Can you, dear comrade, blame me quite?" . . .

VI

Big Eric gave up months ago.

But seldom do men suffer so.

His feet sloughed off, his fingers died,

His hands shrunk up and mummified.

I had to feed him like a child;

Yet he was valiant, joked and smiled,

Talked of his wife and little one

(Thanks be to God that I have none),

Passed in the night without a moan,

Passed, and I'm here, alone, alone. . . .

"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.

IX

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.

X

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.

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