Rhymes of a Rolling Stone | Page 5

on the bank
they squatted like
bumps on a log.
For acres around there wasn't a sound, not even the
howl of a dog. When out of the horn there sudden was born such a
marvellous elegant tone; An' then like a spell on that auddyence fell

the voice of its first grammyfone.
"BAD MEDICINE!" cried Old Tom, the One-eyed,
an' made for to
jump in the lake;
But no one gave heed to his little stampede,
so he
guessed he had made a mistake.
Then Roll-in-the-Mud, a chief of the
blood, observed in choice Chippewayan: "You've brought us canned
beef, an' it's now my belief
that this here's a case of `CANNED
MAN'."
Well, though I'm not strong on the Dago in song,
that sure got me
goin' for fair.
There was Crusoe an' Scotty, an' Ma'am Shoeman Hank,


an' Melber an' Bonchy was there.
'Twas silver an' gold, an'
sweetness untold
to hear all them big guinneys sing;
An' thick all
around an' inhalin' the sound, them Indians formed in a ring.
So solemn they sat, an' they smoked an' they spat,
but their eyes sort
o' glistened an' shone;
Yet niver a word of approvin' occurred till that
guy Harry Lauder came on. Then hunter of moose, an' squaw an'
papoose
jest laughed till their stummicks was sore;
Six times Eddie
set back that record an' yet
they hollered an' hollered for more.
I'll never forget that frame-up, you bet; them caverns of sunset agleam;
Them still peaks aglow, them shadders below,
an' the lake like a
petrified dream;
The teepees that stood by the edge of the wood;
the
evenin' star blinkin' alone;
The peace an' the rest, an' final an' best, the
music of Ed's grammyfone.
Then sudden an' clear there rang on my ear a song mighty simple an'
old; Heart-hungry an' high it thrilled to the sky,
all about "silver
threads in the gold".
'Twas tender to tears, an' it brung back the years,

the mem'ries that hallow an' yearn;
'Twas home-love an' joy, 'twas
the thought of my boy . . .
an' right there I vowed I'd return.
Big Four-finger Jack was right at my back, an' I saw with a kind o'
surprise, He gazed at the lake with a heartful of ache,
an' the tears
irrigated his eyes.
An' sez he: "Cuss me, pard! but that there hits me
hard;
I've a mother does nuthin' but wait.
She's turned eighty-three,
an' she's only got me,
an' I'm scared it'll soon be too late."

On Fond-du-lac's shore I'm hearin' once more
that blessed old
grammyfone play.
The summer's all gone, an' I'm still livin' on
in
the same old haphazardous way.
Oh, I cut out the booze, an' with
muscles an' thews
I corralled all the coin to go back;
But it wasn't to
be: he'd a mother, you see,
so I -- SLIPPED IT TO FOUR-FINGER

JACK.
The Land of Beyond
Have ever you heard of the Land of Beyond,
That dreams at the gates
of the day?
Alluring it lies at the skirts of the skies,
And ever so far
away;
Alluring it calls: O ye the yoke galls,
And ye of the trail
overfond,
With saddle and pack, by paddle and track,
Let's go to the
Land of Beyond!
Have ever you stood where the silences brood,
And vast the horizons
begin,
At the dawn of the day to behold far away
The goal you
would strive for and win?
Yet ah! in the night when you gain to the
height,
With the vast pool of heaven star-spawned,
Afar and agleam,
like a valley of dream,
Still mocks you a Land of Beyond.
Thank God! there is always a Land of Beyond
For us who are true to
the trail;
A vision to seek, a beckoning peak,
A farness that never
will fail;
A pride in our soul that mocks at a goal,
A manhood that
irks at a bond,
And try how we will, unattainable still,
Behold it,
our Land of Beyond!
Sunshine
I
Flat as a drum-head stretch the haggard snows;
The mighty skies are
palisades of light;
The stars are blurred; the silence grows and grows;

Vaster and vaster vaults the icy night.
Here in my sleeping-bag I
cower and pray:
"Silence and night, have pity! stoop and slay."
I have not slept for many, many days.
I close my eyes with weariness
-- that's all.
I still have strength to feed the drift-wood blaze,
That
flickers weirdly on the icy wall.
I still have strength to pray: "God
rest her soul,
Here in the awful shadow of the Pole."

There in the cabin's alcove low she lies,
Still candles gleaming at her
head and feet;
All snow-drop white, ash-cold, with closed eyes,

Lips smiling, hands at rest -- O God, how sweet!
How all unutterably
sweet she seems. . . .
Not dead, not dead indeed -- she dreams, she
dreams.
II
"Sunshine", I called her, and she brought, I vow,
God's blessed
sunshine to this life of mine.
I was a rover, of the breed who plough

Life's furrow in a far-flung, lonely line;
The wilderness my home,
my fortune cast
In a wild land of dearth, barbaric, vast.
When did I see her