The Project Gutenberg eBook, Derby Day in the Yukon, by Yukon Bill
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
Title: Derby Day in the Yukon
and Other Poems of the "Northland"
Author: Yukon Bill
Release Date: September 19, 2010 [eBook #33758]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII)
***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DERBY DAY IN THE YUKON***
E-text prepared by Bryan Ness, Josephine Paolucci, and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from images generously
made available by Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries
(http://www.archive.org/details/toronto)
Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
file which includes the original illustrations.
See 33758-h.htm or 33758-h.zip:
(http://www.gutenberg.org/files/33758/33758-h/33758-h.htm)
or
(http://www.gutenberg.org/files/33758/33758-h.zip)
Images of the original pages are available through
Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries. See
http://www.archive.org/details/derbydayinyukono00yukouoft
DERBY DAY IN THE YUKON AND OTHER POEMS OF THE "NORTHLAND"
[Illustration: THE MALAMUTE]
DERBY DAY IN THE YUKON
and other Poems of the "Northland"
by
YUKON BILL
Toronto
The Musson Book Company
Limited
Copyright, 1910, by
George H. Doran Co.
So, go you, little broken Song,
And carry to some heart in bitter pain
Only my lute's light laughter; make thou strong
The weak of heart, and bid them smile again!
THESE RHYMES
OF THE NORTHLAND ARE AFFECTIONATELY
INSCRIBED TO MY PARDS, B. AND B.,
WHO HELPED ME TO CARRY MY
PACK OVER LIFE'S TRAIL.
Y. B.
On the Trail, 1910.
CONTENTS
Page
GREETING 11
DERBY DAY IN THE YUKON 17
THE MALAMUTE 23
RED-JACKET 29
UP AGAINST IT 35
HOW SLIPPERY PLAYED THE GAME 39
HEROES 47
LOWER-FLAT ANNALS 53
THE TRAIL 61
THE KING OF THE KLONDIKE 67
GHOSTS 75
AN ANGEL 81
BILLY BIRD'S CELEBRATION 87
INVITATION 93
JIM 97
TALE OF THE CHE-CHA-KO 107
ST. BONIFACE FIRE BRIGADE 113
WINDY 119
MY SONG 127
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
THE MALAMUTE Frontispiece
RED-JACKET, BULLY BOY HE IS facing p. 29
WHEN I MET WITH JIM ALONG THE DAWSON TRAIL 97
PRAY, SIR, HAVE YOU SEEN MR. MARMADUKE? 121
GREETING
TO ROBERT W. SERVICE
GREETING
Shake, Pard! I'm mighty proud o' you!
(I'm know'd as "Yukon Bill");
You blazed th' trail an' blazed it true;----
Some o' my friends I see y' knew
On old Che-cha-ko Hill;
But say, old man, y' clean forgot my friend, "Swiftwater Bill!"
You was a kid in pettic'uts
When I went in, a man;
Grub-stakin' with two other goats----
We sow'd th' last of our wild oats
An' th' new, clean life began;
We was th' fu'st (an' p'raps th' wu'st) Five Fingers' Rapids ran.
I staked out Eldorado crick
Long 'fore th' world was told
Them hills from Hunker to St. Mick
Groaned f'r th' drill an' f'r th' pick,
The'r bellies achin' GOLD!
Where many a night th' moon pale white saw me in blankets rolled.
At Magnet Gulch I lit my pipe----
Got drunk upon Gold Hill;
I hoofed it cle'r t' Kokusqum----
'Twas ther' I lost my Siwash chum
(She drownded in a spill),
An' Love an' Luck together went from pore old Yukon Bill!
Big Skookum claim might a-bin mine,
But fortune ther' I missed;
For all I got a-though I sought----
I starved an' thirsted, dug an' fought,
Was d---- plumbago schist!
Ten years of toil, of muck an' spoil; then on th' "Failure list."
Labarge; th' Canyon; I was there;
I clumb th' Glacier mound.
I might a-bin a millionaire----
God! think of it, and see me--WHERE?
A bum on Puget Sound!----
At night my roof th' open sky--my pillow th' cold ground.
Me for th' trail at seventy!
I'm longin' f'r th' track:
I'll try again--no, I'll not fail----
I hear them "Little Voices" wail:
"Come back! come back! come back!"
O, God! how Mem'ry knifes me now an' puts me on th' rack.
Yes, yes--I failed! Yes, yes, a drink!
An' then my pipe I'll fill.
Boy, here's t' you--y'r picter's true
Of them old sinners that I knew
On old Che-cha-ko Hill;
But say, old man, y' overlooked my friend, "Swiftwater Bill!"
DERBY DAY IN THE YUKON
Talk of England's Derby Race; of Kentucky's blue-grass chase;
Epsom Downs an' Frisco "Tanforan" t' boot;
I don't say they ain't done well, but I tell y' even h--ll
Couldn't match th' Yukon racin' malamoot.
How them dogs they love th' Race! Y' kin see it in th' face
Of th' starvin' scut that hangs aroun' th' claim;
F'r he knows, like you an' me, that th' Derby Day'll be
Th' big jag day--th' glad rag play, that brings th' Yukon fame.
It was Fool's Day f'r th' Race; every husky in his place;
Wasky's dogs was runnin' Billy Brown of Nome;
But at th' Starter's line ranged up Jake Berger's Nine,
Ten t' one THEY'D bring th' Derby money home!
Thousands hit th' trail that night; we was out t' see th' sight;
Th' stakes, eleven-thousand-plunks in gold!
Th' thermometer on strike--every bench-claim on th' hike----
An' them leaders b' th' leash y' couldn't hold.
Oh, th' run was cruel hard--th' white frost how it scarred
As they galloped down th' long, unending trail;
The whip cut like th' wind, an' Carey's dog, snow-blind,
Joined his howlin' t' th' screeches of th' gale.
Down where Candle's bonfires glow see th' racin' huskies go,
All keen t' win--McCarthy's purp drops dead----
He's thrown out upon th' track f'r th' lean an' hungry pack
Of grey wolves follerin' th' flyin' sled.
Two-an'-eighty hours they raced--an' four hunderd-miles they paced,
Them dogs never paused f'r frozen fish 'r drink;
Hung with icicles of foam, the'r lithe bodies stretched whale-bone,--
BUT THEY BROKE THE RECORD MADE BY JIMMIE FINK!
Cursed, an' kicked, an' whipped ahead, th' dumb brutes, staggerin', bled
Where th' whip cut cruel in; but comes th' feast
When at Nome t'morrow night there'll be brawl an' drink, an' fight;
An' no tellin' which is man an' which is beast.
Then th' dumb an' winded brute--th' blood-blinded malamoot,
All frosted foam is gaspin' upon th' bar-room floor;
He, the WINNER OF TH' RACE! in th' glory has no place;
He's jes' a slinkin' malamoot when Derby Day is o'er!
THE MALAMUTE
Hi, there! Into your harness of thong!
(Whip.) You get into your place;
Give him the lash, Bill. Eh? What's wrong?
See that look in the mal'mute's face:--
Is it devilish cunning o'ermastering pain?
Some lost soul reincarnate again,
Running Sin's last race.
Come skulkin' into the camp last June,
A leprous, mangy cur;
Reasty and rotten--bayed at th' Moon
As if you'd a grudge 'gainst her.
All fester and soil--corruption and boil;
Your evil face like some carved gargoyle,
And you refused to stir
Though I broke th' lash on your back,
YOU subjugated me:--
You proved the master--I proved the hack,
For, plainly I could see
You'd been sent back to earth to work out y'r sin,
And y' came straight t' me, a larrikin;
An' why did you come to me?
What were you There? Unregenerate thief,
A derelict from your birth?
Were you a church-going pharisee,
That Belial of this earth?
Was your lecherous, lutish, animal mind
Drawn to me as one of your kind?
Your grin betrays your mirth.
Well, me an' you, Mal'mute, stand chums;
We won't each other despise;
The camp may call us a couple o' bums
But we hold our own assize:
We stand for Arbitration straight--
An' mebbe' some day, at St. Peter's Gate
We'll look in each other's eyes.
Ah, you leprous devil! you taught me how
To fumigate my soul
From wanton ways and dicing days,
And lush of the flowing bowl:
I'm steeped in guilt right up to the hilt,
Worshipped in temples of Shame I've built,
And Pleasure's been my goal,
But here with you in th' hinter-world
Where there's nothing pure but snow,
Some words long dumb t' my lips have come,
A prayer that I used to know:--
"OUR--FATHER!"--I wonder will HE refute
A fellow that learns of a malamute
T' take th' kick an' blow?
Oh, down here below we may go th' pace,
Loot, gut, palter, prey, maraud;
But here or There comes settling day,
For y' can't bamboozle God----
He'll send us back, like you, mal'mute,
Mangy an' whining--black with hell-soot----
Say, Bill, did y' see him nod?
[Illustration: RED JACKET, BULLY BOY HE IS]
RED-JACKET
Where it's eighty below zero, there you'll find the Northland hero,
Red-Jacket; bully Boy he is--sure thing he fills the bill!
In that trackless waste of snow, where the Northern Lights hang low,
He is doing deeds of daring that would make your pulses thrill:--
AN' WE'LL DRINK T' YOU, RED-JACKET;
THE EQUATOR OF YOUR VEST
BUNCHES ALL THE PRIDE AN' GLORY
OF TH' WILD AN' WOOLLY WEST!
Red-Jacket does no askin', but he's ready for th' taskin'
When they sling him out his orders, with a hunk o' pemmican;
An' he'll travel day an' night after Red-man or bad white,
An' he'll go through hell-an'-blazes, BUT HE'LL NEVER MISS HIS MAN!
HE LAUGHS AT DEATH AN' DANGER,
FOR TH' CHIN-STRAP ON HIS JAW
IS TH' LINK THAT BINDS CREATION:--
BRITISH FAIR-PLAY, AN' TH'--LAW!
The spur hitched to his heel--at his hip th' gleam of steel,--
With his belly-band strapped tighter his hunger to forget,
He may drop upon th' track BUT YOU BET HE WON'T TURN BACK--
For it's duty, Duty, DUTY! That's Red-Jacket's am-u-let!
AN' IT'S "HI! YOU SKULKIN' HUSKY"!
O'ER TH' WINTRY, WIND-SWEPT GROUND,
THE DOG HIS LONE COMPANION--
AND THE SILENCE THAT IS SOUND!
Oh, the Arctic wilds are weary, and the Arctic nights are dreary;
And Red-Jacket sometimes wonders why he's livin' th' wild life?
Then he eyes th' British Flag; says: "GOD BLESS YOU, YOU OLD RAG!
It's through courtin' YOU I've neither child nor wife"!
THEN A SHAMED AN' SILENT TEAR
FALLS UPON THE ARCTIC SNOWS;
AN' THE ANGUISH OF HIS HEART,
GOD--AN' RED-JACKET, KNOWS!
Now, you folks, don't get hard thinkin' when Red-Jacket starts a-drinkin',
An' he busts th' Ten Commandments into five-an'-twenty bits;
When he hears th' bugles sound, ain't he fu'st upon th' ground?
An' don't his "powders" cure 'em of the'r hell-damnation fits?
SO WE'LL DRINK T' YOU, RED-JACKET!
GOD'S BLESSIN' ON Y'R HEAD;
YOU'RE TH' BRITISH CON-STI-TOO-SHUN
BOUND IN YELLA' STRIPES, AN' RED!
UP AGAINST IT
When y're up against it, don't get feelin' blue;
Somewher' in this world of ours ther's a place f'r you.
Y'r jes' a round peg in a squar', y' ain't th' proper fit;
Keep turnin', twistin' every way--an' rise a little bit.
If we'd all we wanted in this whirlin' globe we're on,
W'y we'd all begin t' grouch--then begin t' yawn;
We'd get dead sick o' summer without a tech o' frost,
An' Ex-pe-ri-ence we got t' hev' regardless of th' cost.
Oh, th' smell o' fightin' powder, that's th' perfume f'r th' nose;
Without th' thorn in hidin' who'd care t' pluck th' Rose?
An' th' tears that wet y'r pillo' at night when y' go t' bed,
They'll wash away y'r troubles--an' y'r sins, tho' ruby red.
Boy, when y'r up against it, get y'r back agin' a fence
An' swing that good ol' we'pon we used t' call "horse sense":
Pitch off y'r coat--go at it jes' like a fightin' man;
Throw up y'r head--glad y' ain't dead--
Then sluice y'r bench--an' pan!
Say, when y'r up against it, don't get feelin' blue;
Ther's room t' spare, ther's plenty air; ain't that enough f'r you?
Every bed-rock wash-up ain't all gold t' th' pan,
But life CAN'T be a "failure" if y' play th' game a MAN!
HOW SLIPPERY PLAYED THE GAME
NO, TH' STORY AIN'T NEVER BIN TOLD AFORE, AS I'M TH' ON'Y MAN SEED TH'
GAME PLAYED ON TH' DANCE-HALL FLOOR. I WAS THER' WHEN THE FUN BEGAN. AN'
WHAT I SEE I TELL YOU STRAIGHT--TELL IT AS MAN TO MAN.
HOW SLIPPERY PLAYED THE GAME
"Lost ag'in!" yelled Slippery Jim,
"Never a mo'sel o' luck in m' life!
Yankee, you're on th' velvet agin!"
Says Yankee: "Jim, let's play f'r a wife!
There's Bonanza Pearl, she's sweet on you;--
Fairer 'card' no gambler ever drew!"
Slippery Jim staked high that night,
The game was poker,--rake-in keeps----
Yankee Pete hilarious, ready t' fight----
Rakin' th' gold-dust up in heaps.
Jim's last poke throw'd on th' table, so;
"It's my last ounce, boys! Well, let 'er go!"
He had staked the dance-hall--staked the bar--
Then, reckless, staked the "Wonder" mine,
Known on Bonanza near an' far
As the lucky strike of Eighty-nine.
Jim had played it all--an' lost! The sweat
Come when he gasps: "It's my last--bet!"
"You've got Pearl left," grins Yankee Pete,
"Don't funk now, Jim: make her th' stake."
With a howl of hate Jim was on his feet----
But a voice rings out: "THAT BET WE'LL TAKE!"
And Bonanza Pearl steps up t' me,
"You'll see this game played square!" says she.
Says Yank. "I stake my all 'gainst th' Girl."
(Then I see th' flame le'p in his eyes)
"An' if I win you, Bonanza Pearl,
Your soul an' body no man denies
B'longs t' me!" He stacked his gold,
As a groan from Jim his agony told.
Now, Jim was a MAN. He funked no game;--
Says he: "I'll stake blood, bone an' life,
But I'll put no woman to th' shame
Of bein' played 'a chip' in tin-horn strife!"
But Bonanza, she steps up t' him
An' she says: "Y' COULDN'T LOSE ME, JIM!"
"Come," says Bonanza, "Turn up th' pack";
She skinned the bunch with a laughin' eye;
I gets close up ahind Jim's back
Ready t' let th' bullets fly.
Th' two men playin' a round 'r so,
An' the luck agin' Slippery seem'd t' go.
"Straight flush o' di'monds--Ace at th' head;"
In a whirlwind play Yank takes the pot.
Slippery's eyes was now blood-red----
His lips crack'd dry--his breath comin' hot;
The last deal ended the game, I saw
'Twas Yankee Pete's first play--an' draw.
Jim's hand? cripes! 'Twas a reg'lar prize;
Luck had turned--he had aces t' burn!
But he sot there starin' with bloodshot eyes,
An' what I saw then gev' ME quite a turn----
F'r th' divil's own luck was at his heel,
He'd an EXTRA CARD--'twas a clear MISDEAL!
I let my hand t' th' trigger go----
Jim's throat gev' a sickish kind o' laugh;
An' he says: "I'm dry as h--ll, so,
W'ot d'ye say to a shandy-gaff?
An'," says Jim, "I'll hev' a bite t' eat;
Pearl, fetch me a sangwich o' bread an' meat"!
I felt like shootin' that gol-durn Jim,
Losin' th' game with a stake like that;
Wanted t' up an' lambaste him
Chawin' of meat like a hungry cat:
When, all at onct, sort o' swallerin' hard,
I PERCEIVES JIM EATIN' THAT EXTRA CARD!
"Locoed!" yelled Yankee, quittin' th' game,
Handin' over th' stakes. But Slippery Jim
Hunchin' up of his powerful frame
Giv' a kind of a grin o' hate at him.
"D----n y'r gold!" he says, "Slippery Jim to-night
Will begin t' live like a man born white!"
Now, perhaps you'd say the game warn't square----
An' some might call it a bunko trick;
But if you loved a ga'l an' she stood there,
Wouldn't y' swap souls with old Nick
Rather'n let her go t' Yankee Pete
An' play her game on Bonanza street?
NO, TH' STORY AIN'T NEVER BIN TOLD AFORE. I SAW IT FINISHED--SAW IT
BEGAN. SAW IT PLAY'D OUT ON TH' DANCE-HALL FLOOR. IT'S BETWIXT US, MAN
T' MAN!
HEROES
If ye run up ag'in Carnegie, I'd kind o' thankful be
If he gets a-talkin' of heroes, you'd ring in Sandy McPhee.
Now, Mac don't want no medals--he ain't th' braggin' set;
But what he done back in eighty-one, he's livin' t' tell; you bet!
We was trekin' th' trail t' Forty-Mile; sleepin' in snow-b'ilt caves,
An' the great White Trail we hoofed it on was milestoned jest by graves.
Mac shot on ahead with his dog--itchin' t' make his pile;
Carried his grub-stake on his back. Got there? I should smile!
But th' blizzard struck him; th'r he was, him an' his dog alone----
A week passed by--then his grub give out; but he never made no moan.
His husky died an' he e't his guts; tho't his brain 'ud go----
Then he 'member'd his wife an' kids at home. Who'd hoe their row?
Both feet fruz cle'r int' th' bone! Says he "Fac's is fac's";--
Gangrene sot in--black t' th' knees. Then he ups an' eyes his axe:--
"I ain't," says he, "no great M.D., but I kinder calcalate
To meet this here e-mergency as was sent b' a unkind Fate."
So he humped hisself up ag'in a rock in a little bunch o' trees,
A couple o' hacks with that there axe, an' off went his laigs at
th' knees!
And he stumped it int' Forty-Mile! What's that? It ain't true?
It's hard t' b'leeve, I kin onderstand, b' a white-livered skunk
like YOU!
But, if old Skibo is huntin' a hero, ther's somethin' in my mind
Says that, if he don't see McPhee, HE MUST BE GOL-DURN'D BLIND!
LOWER-FLAT ANNALS
When we lived in Lower-Flat us folks know'd where we was at;
But them Eastern folks come, puttin' on great style:
Us Old-Timers, we all said we was better we was dead,
F'r th' way they talked an' acted, raised our bile.
They interduced new dances--thing-a-me-bobs called--"Lance's"----
Where they traipsed up an' down upon th' floor,
A-bowin' and a'scrapin' (lords an' ladies they was apin'),
Th' Red River Jig? 'Twa'n't never danced no more!
Sniffed at bannock--sniffed at bacon; then, dried apples, they was taken;
An' that good old dish "plum-duff" went out th' door;
Then "part singin'" in th' church--"A Choir" up in a perch----
And a "Tenner" frum th' city. Say, y' should a-heard HIM roar!
Then the pretty little crea'cher, boardin' 'round, th' country Teacher;
(Her we fought about f'r dances in th' barn)
SHE went out o' date; a "perfesser" come t' prate
About ologies an' colleges; things childern COULDN'T larn.
Then they started "makin' calls," ketched Pa in his over-alls;
But he met 'em with a "How'dy!" at th' door;
The place was in a clutter--Ma, she was churnin' butter,
An' Pa fetch'd 'em in th' kitchen, an' they didn't "call" no more.
That was Mrs. Mumble-Mumps. Say, she DID put on humps;
Took her daughter Gwendolina t' furrin lan's,
An' they say paid out shin-plasters t' one o' them Old Masters
F'r t' make a bust of Gwendolina's hands!
Gone was th' good old days, and gone th' good old ways
When an invitation meant th' fambly all;
When th' little an' th' big would crowd into th' rig,
An' th' fiddle livened up th' Chris'mus Ball.
It was "Welkim, welkim, Boys!" Lots of laughin', lots of noise;
With the babies piled like cordwood on th' floor;
Boys an' girls all dancin'--old folks too got prancin'----
An' th' supper? Say, we'd eat ontil we couldn't hold no more.
But them Eastern folks fetched "Style"; changed all that in a while;
Printed tickets told th' folks they was "to-home";
Served the supper frum "a buffey," an' they acted kind o' huffy
When our childern round the parler used t' roam.
House was full of bricky-brack; china tea-pot with a crack,--
An' they sort o' boasted of it; set it out t' common view;
Talked about the'r "Fambly Tree"--good land! why, they know'd that we
Had ninety acres of 'em--scrub-oak bluff--an' poplars too!
Then Miss Mary Ellen Jones (her that come from Pile-o'-Bones)
Lived in nothin' but a mud-shack all her life,
She got puttin' on some airs, an' her nose jes' said, "Who cares?"
And th' District Member picked HER f'r a wife.
She did cut a silly caper: had her envelopes an' paper
Painted with a little brand in blue sot up on top;
When th' Flat laugh'd, I'll be blest! she said, "It's Poppa's crest"!
Well! Providence, that year, hailed out their crop.
But Mary Ellen's fall come when they gave th' weddin'-ball;
Invited all th' stylish folks--gave us th' glassy eye;
But says Pa, "Th' next election we'll bust th' damn connection,
F'r th' District Member goes out on th' fly!"
He he'er'd that. He wanted votes. So them stylish printed notes
Come trailin' in t' us who'd been rejected;
But Mary Ellen said (underlined in ink bright red),
"PLEASE UNDERSTAND NO CHILDREN IS EXPECTED"!
That joke went far an' wide, us folks laugh'd ontil we cried;
But Retribution it was on th' District Member's shins,
F'r that sassy little bride who behaved so very snide,
Inside a year perduced a pair of TWINS!
Since that time we get on better. Mary Ellen wrote a letter
T' th' weekly paper, statin' "District Member liked our ways";
Yes, Lower Flat's grow'd quite a place, runnin' other towns a race;
But ther' ain't th' fun we had them good old days!
THE TRAIL
It measures the boundless distance,
Led by wild ways that run
Hither and thither in chase of the Winds
That worship the Northern Sun:
The Trail! which, never ending, was never yet begun.
In the dip of the far horizon
Trembles the Morning Star;
To the heights of the fathomless ether
Nor lock, nor bolt, nor bar;
The Trail! God's finger beckoning to the new Home afar.
No sound in that void of Silence
Save call of bird to its mate,
Or cry of the lone coyote
At the bars of hunger's gate;
And the heart is drawn by the wond'rous dawn, or some mysterious Fate.
The Trail hath a storied splendor:
Tepee and Indian Mound;
Where the glory of God is chanted
By no sacrilegious sound;
Where the dumb brute bays HIS praise through Nights profound!
Here the haunts of men are bounden
By the links of Custom's chain;
There you find embosomed freedom
In the heart's exquisite pain,
And thereafter will be heard the cry, "O, give me the wilds again!"
The Trail hath no languorous longing;
It leads to no Lotus land;
On its way dead Hopes come thronging
To take you by the hand;
He who treads the Trail undaunted, thereafter shall command!
THE KING OF THE KLONDIKE
We called him the King of the Klondike; but
He really was "Mac."
He walked int' Dawson in tatters an' rags,
His frozen feet tied in a pair of ol' bags,
An' perceeded t' go on a couple of jags;
Pack on his back.
He worked empty-bellied f'r many a day,
Pore old Mac!
Stuck tight t' his diggin as if it was play;
With a good game of poker 'till daylight he'd stay----
An' a gun he could han'le. I also might say
He would crack
A fine joke. But he never was known
Wasn't Mac.
T' refuse man 'r dog a crust 'r a bone.
He kep' t' hisself; perferred livin' alone----
An' ther' was a sort o' respectable tone
'Bout his shack.
He said of them "girls" that defied Law an' ban,
(Humpin' his back):
"Pore kids! fetched low b' some skunk of a man----
Boys, give 'em a hand-up wheniver y' can;"
(On the'r 'count Soapy Smith out of Dawson he ran
With Black Jack!)
He lived like a prince and he spent like a king,
Did old Mac.
Whatever he said 'r he did had th' ring
Of pure gold; but one day in th' spring
Struck a vein in th' rock that made us all sing,
"'Rah f'r Mac!"
But th' fortin' he made was th' fortin' he spent
In a crack.
Paid all he owed t' th' very las' cent----
Then, off on a h---- of a spree we all went----
An' th' gold? why, he wasted it, gev' it an' lent
B' th' sack.
Nex' mornin' he woke up as pore as a mouse,
Boozer Mac.
Another chap, who had th' heart of a louse,
Would a-blow'd off his head 'r burnt down th' house,
'R int' th' river a-taken a souse,
Things goin' slack.
But he stuck t' th' diggin' like hound t' th' trail,
Worn ol' Mac.
Jes' like an ol' farmer a-swingin' his flail,
Jes' like ol' Abe Linco'n a-splittin' his rail;
D'ye think a MAN like him c'd ever spell f-a-i-l,
'R fall back?
No, Sir! He worked till he struck a new vein,
Brave ol' Mac!
This time he held tight th' "millionaire" rein;
Swore as he'd never be foolish again;
Then he got drunk. I tell it with pain,--
Scooted back
East. An' I read in them Papers one day,
Klondike Mac
Had gone t' them "diggin's" anunder th' clay;
An' he was a pauper ag'in! Talk of Play----
"Life's jes' a stage!" as Spokshare mought say;
That's a fac'!
Most of 'em Kings as I've heer'd on went bust,
Jes' like Mac.
None of 'em carries the'r crowns int' dust;--
They sport 'roun' a while, but die they all must;--
An' I don't know as one of th' king-bunch I'd trust,
Lookin' back,
Like th' King of th' Klon! Him we knew
As ol' Mac.
Rulers like him y'll find ther's d----n few;
Ther's lots of 'em sportin' a Crown ain't true blue.
But Mac? he was royal--a King through an' through,
An' no "Jack"!
Up No'th they'll 'member him an' things he done
Way back.
We won't give his Crown t' no Son-of-a-gun;
Ther's no entail on Kings t'other side of th' sun,
An' pre-ce-dence ther' will go, ten t' one,
T' King Mac!
GHOSTS
Deep lies the snow on the white, white plain,
And frosted the fretwork on window-pane.
The Storm King has laid his icy clasp
On th' lock o' th' Year: 'tis an iron hasp.
The camp fire gleams, and its ruddy glow
Throws shadows quaint on the drifting snow;
My heart leaps up, for I see a form
That makes the blood in my veins run warm:
A woman is standing beside my bed,
And these are the words, I swear, she said:--
"YOU MAY WANDER AFAR; BUT, GO WHERE YOU WILL,
THE GHOSTS OF THE PAST WILL FOLLOW YOU STILL!"
Another comes--a girl-face, worn,
And of every good resolution shorn,--
She utters no word; but her eyes of blue
Are burning, piercing me through and through!
Yet another comes and takes Her place----
I close my eyes lest I see HER face----
For the flush of youth on the girlish brow
Is lost in the wanton woman now--
And I was to blame! God, let me forget!
And I wipe away the beads of sweat
That lie on my brow like blood-red rain----
And I try to pray--but words are vain;--
For I know that the ghosts of my sins are here
To mock me at this, the end o' th' Year!
AN ANGEL
Th' angils ain't all up in Heaven.
Not by a long shot. Say,
Ther's angils a-livin' an' breathin'
Right here in th' camp to-day.
An' th' crown of one, I kin tell ye
Is on'y a tangle of hair,
But the halo that lingers around it
Is brighter than any up There.
One of her laigs goes a-limpin',
Her langwige ain't grammar of books,
An' she ain't airned th' title "A Angil"
Along of her beauty of looks;
'Nless y' saw her as I did----
'Nless y' saw her, like me,
Le'p int' hell-flame f'r t' rescue
Th' baby of drunken Magee.
Magee in th' cellar was hootchin';
Th' gal was a-sloppin' at chores,
Washin' bottles an' kegs f'r th' bar-man,
Slingin' cocktails ahind th' baize-doors.
Of a suddent a wild cry of "F-i-r-e," come
With a lick o' th' flame, left an' right;
The boozers they scooted f'r safety
An' th' baby was left in th' fright.
One wild cry above th' fierce cracklin'----
A yell of despair in the din:
"My BABY! O, GOD, SEND AN ANGEL!"
He did. And the Angel went in
While us men stood a-shakin' an' shame-faced;
The manhood in us not quite dead----
We was drunk--dazed with horror an' whisky
'R we'd foller'd th' gal where she led
Into that hell-gate of red flame----
Int' th' whirl of th' fire;
And we all held our bre'th, knowin' well it was death
Come a-nigher an' nigher.
But no! What we all saw a-comin'
Was th' Angil of Life:--at her breast
That damn kid of Magee's snug an' snorin',
As if in th' cradle at rest.
But th' gal? Her face out of resemblance
T' anythin' human, you'd say,
She come staggerin', gaspin' an' blinded----
(Us men turned our faces away);
Then, "Lame Mary!" we busted a-shoutin',
Goin' mad f'r a minit with joy;
Magee, he was dancin' a hornpipe
An' his Missis was huggin' th' Boy.
But the gal as I christen'd "A Angil"
We was shoutin' her name somethin' wild----
Swings 'roun' on her game foot,
Says: "Shet up, y' galoot,
An' don't be f'r wakin' th' child!"
You bet she was game, was th' Angil:----
Tho' she wasn't f'r playin' no harps,
Sittin' on a damp cloud a-slingin' th' crowd,
A-thumpin' th' flats an' th' sharps;
SHE WAS STRAIGHT ON HER JOB, was th' angil;
Wantin' nothin' down here but her share;
An' my biler 'ud bust if I thought any "Trust"
Side-tracked my Angil up--There!
BILLY BIRD'S CELEBRATION
Billy Bird was know'd as a bar-room bum;
Be'n a trader out on th' plains;
Be'n a timber rafter, a fourth-ward grafter,
Hadn't no conshunce, hadn't no brains;
But was well perserv'd in Rum.
He hailed frum Mi-sou-ri 'r Michi-gan;
Was cook in a lumber camp;
Run a Wild West show, then turn'd hobo,
Was an all-roun' fu'st class tramp;--
'N y' couldn't call him a "man."
He'd b'en kicked an' cussed like a mongrel pup,
An' a cock-fight was his creed;
An' eye out o' joint was another bad point,
But with th' one left he see'd
Far enough t' hit th' cup!
He'd th' wanderin' itch in his lazy heels
(With th' luck that comes t' sich);
F'r one day, dead drunk, that mis'ble skunk
Struck a vein that made him rich.
Y' sh'd hear Billy Bird's squeals:--
"I'm richer'n Creesus!" (this he howled);
"I've th' biggest strike aroun';
I'm a reg'lar gent!" (Here his bre'th was spent
An' he tumbles upon th' groun');
B' his luck Billy Bird got fouled.
Clumb up on a kag t' make a speech.
Says he: "I'm th' Turrible Turk!
I'm a millionaire, an' I'll curl th' hair
Of th' man says I need work!
Me? I'm a rainbow out of reach!
"I'm off t' Noo York t' get int' th' swirl;
Tip them waiters ten-dollar bills;
I'm a millionaire! Don't I wear th' air
That goes with th' pace that kills?
An' I'm goin' t' pick my Girl!
"I'll buy her di'mon's t' blaze her front,
An' th' best champagne we'll spill;
An' I'll murder th' man as says what he can
See I ain't no gent! Me, Bill!
An' I tell y' that's MY stunt!
"I'll buy a floor in th' big ho-tel;
I'll dazzle th' chamber-maids;
Fifth Avenoo style in my auto-mo-bile
I'll speed her up with my jades;
I'll show 'em a Yukon swell!
"I'll dine on snakes fried in burnin' oil,
An' dance till th' cows come home;
As an aftermath take a champagne bath
An' shampoo with a curry-comb;
All done up accordin' t' Hoyle.
"Then I'll hike t' bed with a great, big, head,--
Yellin': 'CALL WHEN THE CLOCK HITS FOUR!'
An' I'll wait with a grin till th' 'call' comes in,
An' Brass Buttons knocks at th' door,
An' he thinks I'm sleepin' dead!
"Brass buttons 'tap, tap, tap' on th' door:--
'Millionaire, it is four A. M.!'
An' I'll bust that door with a Yukon roar:
Howlin: 'Say! d'ye know WHO I AM?'
An' I'll rouse 'em on every floor!
"W'en th' house comes runnin' up I'll yell:--
'WOW! I'm a millionaire!
I DON'T HEV' T' GET UP, y' blankety Pup!'
An' the'r eyes stickin' out 'll stare,
While I send 'em plumb t' h----ll!"
* * * * *
P. S.--BILLY BIRD, MILLIONAIRE, REACHED WINNIPEG,
WHERE PEROXIDE BLONDES PULLED BILLY BIRD'S LEG.
YOU'LL FIND HIM TO-DAY IN A YUKON S'LOON
SLUSHIN' BEER TO TH' SAME OLD PLAYED-OUT TUNE:--
"O! THEM GURLS THEY PULLED MY LAIG!"
INVITATION
I bring you a prairie greeting
Crested with sunlight sheen,
A picture of mountains rising
To snow-capped heights of green;
A call from the happy home-land
Where human hearts beat warm,
Where western corn-fields beckon
And shelter from life's storm.
London, thy heart of riches
Hath the pulse-beat of unrest,
Where the many know no shelter,
Where the babe weeps at the breast
All bared to the winter shiver,
Where the hearth-fire, cold and dead,
Is darkened by the shadow
And Shapes of the underfed.
Oh, the hopeless, heavy-burdened
Bearers of woe and pain,--
Mere human stones in the highway
Of London's greed and gain.
There weeps the child whom sadness
And want have made their own;
There weeps the old, whom gladness
Is a stranger, and unknown.
Oh, come to the land of Plenty
Where the gates swing open, wide;
Where all mankind stand equal----
Where toil is a boast--a pride:
Where the silken palm clasps the horny hand
When the long day's work is done,
Where new life is born in the growing corn
In the land of the Setting Sun.
NOTE.--Written in January, 1907, after seeing 700 men and women fed by
Charity on the Thames embankment as "Big Ben" struck ONE A. M.
JIM
[Illustration: WHEN I MET WITH JIM ALONG THE DAWSON TRAIL]
JIM
'Twas th' days of th' stampede--I was of th' hobo breed----
When I met with Jim along th' Dawson trail;
F'r Bonanza I was strikin'; an' Jim? well, he was hikin'
Along th' road t' Anywhere--Jerusalam or jail.
Seemed t' me how all th' people had got soured in his steeple,
But for wimmin most of all he'd bitter thoughts;
But we got on quite congenial, him a gen'leman--me menial,
And I got t' kind of likin' Jim----in spots!
But he wouldn't stick t' minin'. He was always drunk an' whinin';
An' th' boys was glad the day he quit th' camp;
Next I see him with th' crowd down at Dawson, an' I 'lowed
I never see a bigger, low-down scamp.
Was he single? Was he marri'd? I dunno', but sure he carried
A little bit of locket on his breast,
And onct I see him open it--but that was in a dopin' fit----
An' I laugh'd t' see Jim's mouth ag'in it pressed!
But a fella' will act loony when he's full an' feelin' spoony,
Howsumever, Jim an' me went differ'nt ways;
Me an' th' boys with pans a-washin' cricks on old Bonanza,
An' when I met with Jim ag'in 'twas after many days.
Bad hootch an' rotten food fetched th' scurvy quick an' good,
An' tho' I'd made my millions it didn't help me out;
I was side-tracked by th' fever, in th' hands of God's Receiver,
An' th' sexton he most had me b' th' snout!
But them dandy little Sisters, them as cooked us with the'r blisters,
Made us swaller swill we hated "'cos th' Doctor said 'twas good";
One I liked called "Sister Mary"--she was tiny as a Fairy--
'Twas a sin to hide her beauty anunder a black hood.
Her face, tho' never smilin', had a look that was beguilin';
Her blue eyes they would wander far away,
Jes' as if her heart was crawlin' to some Voice as was a-callin':
"MARY, LITTLE MARY!" night an' day.
This was my fool-brain a-ravin'; I couldn't be behavin'
For th' fever to my guts was eatin' in;
But her hand upon th' pillo' was like foam upon th' billo',
When she spoke t' us of One who pardon'd sin.
Lord, how th' fever got 'em! Lord, how th' Doctors fought 'em!
How them Sisters stood th' racket night an' day:
Talk of Angils? Up in heaven don't believe as you'd find Seven
Could beat them a-makin' plasters, or beat 'em on the Pray!
Well, one mornin' when I waken I see th' next bed taken
By a feller, as was ravin' like a loon;
Sich a face! All hair an' blotches (th' kind th' fever scotches)----
An' I says, says I: "His Nibs'll ketch you soon!"
If they'd fine-tooth-combed creation f'r my personal elation
To rake in a friend an' leave him lyin' there,
Why, they couldn't a-done better with a Dawson lawyer's letter,
F'r'twas JIM beneath th' blotches an' th' hair!
He was ravin', he was mutterin'; he was swearin', he was stutterin';
Sister Mary trippin' round him like a little drift o' snow,
An' she hovered as a dove might with flutterin' wings of white light,
So softly that you'd wonder did she come or did she go?
One night, I wasn't sleepin'--Sister Mary night watch keepin',
Jim, weak as a babby, lyin' there upon th' bed,
Says: "Sister,--you remind me--of a--Girl--I left behind me"----
She gev' a little shiver, sayin': "HSH! THAT--GIRL IS--DEAD!"
Then I he'erd old Jim a-gaspin'--her han's his han's was claspin',
Callin' "MARY, Oh, God, MARY!" eyes a-bulgin' in his head;
She was lookin' down at him, but she on'y whisper'd "J--im!"
But her face was like the face of some one dead.
The'r han's was locked a minute--ther' wasn't no wrong in it----
They spoke no words, but eyes looked into eyes----
Then, without a word of talkin' she went, like one sleep-walkin',
An' I he'erd Jim groanin' tur'ble 'twixt his sighs.
But nex' mornin' little Sister hikes along with a big blister,
Jest as dinky an' as smilin' as before;
But Jim? he lay there blinkin', I guess HE was a-thinkin'
How them little fingers trimbled takin' down his fever score.
Doc. said old Jim was dyin'. That night I he'erd him sighin',
An' he up an' says: "Say, Pard, when I'm--at rest----
Will you see this--little locket--goes with me--in the pocket
Of the heart that's lyin' broken--in my breast?"
And if you're no doubtin' Thomas you'll believe I kep' that promise;
And the Face inside the locket, HUMAN EYE SHALL NEVER SEE;
P'raps it was, or wasn't Sister, her we called "Saint Mustard Blister,"
When she pumped th' pills an' quinine int' pore old Jim an' me!
TALE OF THE CHE-CHA-KO
Che-cha-ko arrived from London Town
Wearing a sort of superior frown;
Registered, "Bellingham-Bolingbroke-Browyne"
(Hyphenating himself in the middle).
He carried of "boxes" just twenty-four,
Voted the country "A beastly boah";
Laughed at the "shops," which he roundly swore
"Weren't worth a Ta-ra-diddle!"
He purchased of farm lands some sections six,
Said: "With those common fawmahs I shan't mix!"
Then he started in with his La-de-dah tricks
And built him a "Countwy Seat."
Now, a "country seat" in this western land
Is top rail of a fence, or a pile of sand,
But Che-cha-ko's daily, diurnal demand
Was, "The best people I must meet."
They met him half way, for they cleaned him out,
Drank his "extra dry" every ball and rout;
His poor working-man neighbour he called "a lout,"
And laughed at the "countwy daunce."
His amazement was great to learn we "digged wells";
Said, "We don't do it around Bow Bells";
And, describing the life of the London swells,
Sighed: "Pore devils! you haven't a chaunce!"
He played "Gentleman Fawmah" a year or two,
His cash was all spent (his friends went too)
And then he wanted to "borrow a few
Pounds" from his own hired man.
But the rough fellow said, "My London Cock,
When you learn to work, quit your bally talk,
You'll float your Ship-of-State off th' rock!"
(And he winked, did the hired man.)
He considered the matter, did B. B. Browyne,
Quit every reference to "Deah London Town,"
And his neighbour, "the Lout," why, he came right down
And did what we all expected:
Lent B. B. seed-grain for his season's crop;--
Said: "Hang on, m' Boy, y'll come out on top."
He did. The Che-cha-ko never cried "stop"
Till for parliament he was elected!
So down at Ottawa now he sits
Where he spits and smokes, and smokes and spits;
In government circles he splendidly fits,
And he's known as "Bully Boy Brown"!
For he was a man that took his chance----
He got right down to his Song-and-Dance----
Let out "London Pride" with his workman's lance,
Tried the smile instead of the frown.
For the "Browyne" who would win out in the west
Is the Brown with common sense that's blest;
Leaves "Grandpa" at home with the Family crest,
Puts hand to the plow; and then----
Follows the furrow as straight as a die,
Stout heart, steady hand, with a watchful eye;
He'll come to his own, and I'll tell you why:----
The west is calling for MEN!
ST. BONIFACE FIRE BRIGADE
W'en you come wes' from de oder place
An' you want sometings for see;
Jus' come an' see St. Boniface
An' I show you sometings, me:--
Dar's de Mission Church dat W'ittier sing----
"Turrets twain," wher' de peoples prayed;
But dar's sometings we got better still----
Da's St. Boniface Fire Brigade!
Da's a g-rea-t Brigade;--has mans tree, four----
Married mans wit be-eg fam-i-lee;
Champeau, Dorien, petite Lafleur,
An' Jean Perriault (da's ME).
Us mans we work like h--ll all day
Wit de saw, de hammer an' de spade,
But by gar, w'en de fire-bell she goes "ring,"
Da's de t'am we don't was 'fraid.
You hear dat ting 'bout d' beeg oil-house;
Tree hundre' bar'ls cotch de fire?
De smoke, mon Dieu! wit de flame go hup
To de top of de be-eg church-spire;--
Lafleur's femme, she take de fit hon de floor----
Ma femme, she scre-ee-ch, "Saint Marie!"
Hevery one yell--dat place look like he--ll,
Ontil Dorien, Champeau, an' ME----
We fill hup de tank in de Red Rivaire----
Sacre! how de mans per--s--pire;
De peoples go cra--ss--y; Winnipeg despaire;
An' de bells dey ring, "F-i-r-e!--F-i-r-e."
W'at you t'ink happens? You nevaire don't guess----
Notings like dat happens sence;--
De horse runs away--de hose it go burs'----
But we save de dog-poun' fence!
You hear w'at 'appens once in de place?
W'en d' King's son he come Wes',
All d' womans dress hup, wash d' baby face;
An' d' mans put hon he's bes'.
Winni-peg bow down t' George d' Prince;--
Put d' soldier-mans hon parade;
But de Prince, he sick of d' whole dam' show,
Hask: "WHER' ST. BONIFACE FIRE BRIGADE?"
Y--as, an' w'en d' heartquake shake Frisco,
"Hend of d' worl'!" some sa-aid;
I send telegraff (cos' me tree dollaire),
"You like have my Fire Brigade?"
Hon d' las' Election, in d' Town-Hall
Laurier sp'ik; He sa--aid:--
"Gentilhomme! if--you--want--put--dat--bad--Tory--hout,
Get St. Boniface Fire BRIGADE!"
"WINDY"
Lady Marmaduke Montague-Marlinford-Dunne
Came out to the Yukon in search of her son;
Heir to vast estates and to lands long entailed,
Handed down by great grandpapa's fist (which was mailed).
The young man had mushed in by the lone Chilcoot Pass
And was known to the boys as "That titled young Ass."
For the stuff he wrote home took Belgravian breath:
"Dear Monty with savages!"--"mushing!"--"to death"!
They were shocked at the mention "pay-dirt"; and "the pan,"
They fully explained, was "held by Monty's man!"
At St. James, The Carlton, The Ritz, it was told
How "Monty owns mountains and canyons of--Gold!"
Came a lapse in the years and the letters. Despair
Seized the hearts in Belgravia--no word from the heir;
For the lure of the Northland--the life of the camp,
Had Monty the Beau transformed into a--tramp
Who had drifted, like jetsam, the breakers among,
And had almost forgotten his own mother-tongue.
* * * * *
[Illustration: PRAY, SIR, HAVE YOU SEEN MR. MARMADUKE]
In the year ninety-eight arrived per Dawson stage
In December, a lady, a maid, and a page;
One clearly of rank. With the air of a queen
She stepped up to the desk, asking: "Pray, have you seen
Mr. Marmaduke Montague-Marlinford-Dunne?"
Adding proudly,--"The gentleman, Sir, is my son."
The clerk at the desk stared and stammered, then said:--
"No gent be that name in this shack has his bed;
But mebbe' th' Boys"--Here he calls to a bunch,
"Say, has any o' youse seed a kid with a hunch
That sounds like--Ma'am, wot was th' name o' y'r son?"
She faltered, "Sir! Montague-Marlinford-Dunne!"
Nobody knew him--worse, nobody cared--
But the bar-keep speaks up (while his quid he prepared),
"Say, w'ot was th' kid like?"--one stared at the other----
"Warn't he a pardner of Billy Bird's brother?
An' had he a bench-claim know'd as 'Bloody Jim'?
'Cos if he had ther's a warn't out f'r HIM!"
"I'll describe him, good sirs," said the lady in tears:
"He left home just of age, namely twenty-one-years.
His hair, sunny gold, is inclined to up-curl----
His complexion is peach-like--he's fair as a girl.
He has large, soulful eyes, they are beaming and kind,--
A soft, bird-like voice--and an artistic mind.
"Military in bearing--broad-shouldered and tall;
Speaks languages seven--a 'linguist,' you'd call.
Paints, sings, rides to hounds; he dresses with care;
A de-lightful manner, with most restful air:--
Oh! prithee, good gentlemen, find me my son,
Whom all London once knew as 'THE DASHING BEAU-DUNNE!'"
The lady was weeping in 'kerchief of lace
And she saw not the smile on the rough miner's face,--
Who said: "Ma'am, y' won't find y'r angel up here,--
Them pertickler brands--with 'wings'--disappear!
But here's 'Windy' comin'--he knows, th' ol' tramp,
Every Jack on th' trail, every Jill in th' camp!"
"Bing-bang!" The door opens and "Windy" appears,
A be-whiskered, a pimple-pocked tough to his ears:
His jeans all in tatters, his muck-a-lucks worn;
His parka was dirty, and mud-splashed and torn.
His greeting: "WOW! HAND OUT A HOOTCH! DURN MY GIZZARD
IF I WARN'T COTCHED IN A HUNKER CRICK BLIZZARD!"
The lady turns pale. Then the bar-keep behind
Hollers: "Windy, ol' cock! can YOU call t' y'r mind
A chump 'round this camp----Ma'am, wot was th' same
Double-decker y' called b' th' telescope name?"----
But the lady, eyes staring, was shrieking, "MY SON!"
Lo! "Windy" be-whiskered was "DASHING BEAU-DUNNE!"
MY SONG
I could not sing unless my song
Had in its symphony one broken string;
I could not say the thoughts that in me rise
Unless my heart had been a broken thing.
Why is it that the voice of Song so yields
Mute music till the heart hath bled?
Why should we find most fair and far-off fields
By thorny by-paths led?
But if this little weakling song of mine
Might carry cheer to one, lone, grieving soul,
Most gladly would I offer Hope's bright wine
And, smiling, drink the lees left in the bowl:
For I have in the darkness found some light,--
Some sunshine seen in shadowed evening hours,
And I have found throughout the lonely night
Some perfumed breathings from wild garden bowers.
And I were ingrate not to send it on,
Such echo of what music in me lies,
For it may bring to some o'er darkened dawn
The brightening glow that comes with morning skies.
So, go you, little broken Song,
And carry to some heart in bitter pain
Only my lute's light laughter. Make thou strong
The weak of heart and bid them smile again.
***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DERBY DAY IN THE YUKON***
******* This file should be named 33758.txt or 33758.zip *******
This and all associated files of various formats will be found in:
http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/3/3/7/5/33758
Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions
will be renamed.
Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no
one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation
(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without
permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules,
set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to
copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to
protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project
Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you
charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If you
do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the
rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose
such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and
research. They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do
practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks. Redistribution is
subject to the trademark license, especially commercial
redistribution.
*** START: FULL LICENSE ***
THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE
PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK
To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free
distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work
(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project
Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project
Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at
http://www.gutenberg.org/license).
Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic works
1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to
and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property
(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all
the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy
all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession.
If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the
terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or
entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.
1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be
used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who
agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few
things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works
even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See
paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement
and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
works. See paragraph 1.E below.
1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the Foundation"
or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the
collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an
individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are
located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from
copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative
works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg
are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project
Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by
freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of
this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with
the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by
keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project
Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others.
1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern
what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in
a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check
the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement
before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or
creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project
Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning
the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United
States.
1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:
1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate
access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently
whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the
phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the phrase "Project
Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed,
copied or distributed:
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived
from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is
posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied
and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees
or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work
with the phrase "Project Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the
work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1
through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the
Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or
1.E.9.
1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted
with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution
must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional
terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked
to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the
permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work.
1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm
License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this
work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm.
1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this
electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without
prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with
active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project
Gutenberg-tm License.
1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any
word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or
distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than
"Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official version
posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org),
you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a
copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon
request, of the work in its original "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other
form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm
License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.
1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,
performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works
unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.
1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing
access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided
that
- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from
the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method
you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is
owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he
has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the
Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments
must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you
prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax
returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and
sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the
address specified in Section 4, "Information about donations to
the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation."
- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies
you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he
does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm
License. You must require such a user to return or
destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium
and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of
Project Gutenberg-tm works.
- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any
money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the
electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days
of receipt of the work.
- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free
distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works.
1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set
forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from
both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael
Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the
Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below.
1.F.
1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable
effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread
public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm
collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain
"Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or
corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual
property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a
computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by
your equipment.
1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right
of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project
Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all
liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal
fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT
LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE
PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE
TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE
LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR
INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH
DAMAGE.
1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a
defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can
receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a
written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you
received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with
your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with
the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a
refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity
providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to
receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy
is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further
opportunities to fix the problem.
1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth
in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS', WITH NO OTHER
WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO
WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTIBILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.
1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied
warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages.
If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the
law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be
interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by
the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any
provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions.
1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the
trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone
providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance
with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production,
promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works,
harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees,
that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do
or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm
work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any
Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause.
Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm
Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of
electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers
including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists
because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from
people in all walks of life.
Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the
assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's
goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will
remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure
and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations.
To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4
and the Foundation web page at http://www.gutenberg.org/fundraising/pglaf.
Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive
Foundation
The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit
501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the
state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal
Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification
number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent
permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws.
The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S.
Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered
throughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at
809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email
[email protected]. Email contact links and up to date contact
information can be found at the Foundation's web site and official
page at http://www.gutenberg.org/about/contact
For additional contact information:
Dr. Gregory B. Newby
Chief Executive and Director
[email protected]
Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation
Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide
spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of
increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be
freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest
array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations
($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt
status with the IRS.
The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating
charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United
States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a
considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up
with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations
where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To
SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any
particular state visit http://www.gutenberg.org/fundraising/donate
While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we
have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition
against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who
approach us with offers to donate.
International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make
any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from
outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.
Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation
methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other
ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations.
To donate, please visit:
http://www.gutenberg.org/fundraising/donate
Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
works.
Professor Michael S. Hart is the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm
concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared
with anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project
Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support.
Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed
editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S.
unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily
keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.
Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility:
http://www.gutenberg.org
This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm,
including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to
subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.
