{"id":25,"date":"2013-01-06T23:28:38","date_gmt":"2013-01-07T07:28:38","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/stickpersonpoetry.com\/spp\/?p=25"},"modified":"2022-01-28T10:21:15","modified_gmt":"2022-01-28T18:21:15","slug":"0106","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/stickpersonpoetry.com\/spp\/2013\/01\/06\/0106\/","title":{"rendered":"0106"},"content":{"rendered":"

<\/p>\n

0106
\nThere are strange things done in the midnight sun.<\/p>\n

The Cremation of Sam McGee<\/strong>
\nBy Robert W. Service<\/p>\n

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
\nBy the men who moil for gold;
\nThe Arctic trails have their secret tales
\nThat would make your blood run cold;
\nThe Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
\nBut the queerest they ever did see
\nWas that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
\nI cremated Sam McGee.<\/p>\n

Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows.
\nWhy he left his home in the South to roam ’round the Pole, God only knows.
\nHe was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;
\nThough he’d often say in his homely way that “he’d sooner live in hell.”<\/p>\n

On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail.
\nTalk of your cold! through the parka’s fold it stabbed like a driven nail.
\nIf our eyes we’d close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn’t see;
\nIt wasn’t much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.<\/p>\n

And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow,
\nAnd the dogs were fed, and the stars o’erhead were dancing heel and toe,
\nHe turned to me, and “Cap,” says he, “I’ll cash in this trip, I guess;
\nAnd if I do, I’m asking that you won’t refuse my last request.”<\/p>\n

Well, he seemed so low that I couldn’t say no; then he says with a sort of moan:
\n“It’s the curs\u00e8d cold, and it’s got right hold till I’m chilled clean through to the bone.
\nYet ’tain’t being dead\u2014it’s my awful dread of the icy grave that pains;
\nSo I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you’ll cremate my last remains.”<\/p>\n

A pal’s last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail;
\nAnd we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale.
\nHe crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee;
\nAnd before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.<\/p>\n

There wasn’t a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven,
\nWith a corpse half hid that I couldn’t get rid, because of a promise given;
\nIt was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say: “You may tax your brawn and brains,
\nBut you promised true, and it’s up to you to cremate those last remains.”<\/p>\n

Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code.
\nIn the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load.
\nIn the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring,
\nHowled out their woes to the homeless snows\u2014 O God! how I loathed the thing.<\/p>\n

And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow;
\nAnd on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low;
\nThe trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in;
\nAnd I’d often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.<\/p>\n

Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay;
\nIt was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the “Alice May.”
\nAnd I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum;
\nThen “Here,” said I, with a sudden cry, “is my cre-ma-tor-eum.”<\/p>\n

Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire;
\nSome coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher;
\nThe flames just soared, and the furnace roared\u2014such a blaze you seldom see;
\nAnd I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee.<\/p>\n

Then I made a hike, for I didn’t like to hear him sizzle so;
\nAnd the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow.
\nIt was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don’t know why;
\nAnd the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.<\/p>\n

I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear;
\nBut the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near;
\nI was sick with dread, but I bravely said: “I’ll just take a peep inside.
\nI guess he’s cooked, and it’s time I looked”; … then the door I opened wide.<\/p>\n

And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar;
\nAnd he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said: “Please close that door.
\nIt’s fine in here, but I greatly fear you’ll let in the cold and storm\u2014
\nSince I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it’s the first time I’ve been warm.”<\/p>\n

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
\nBy the men who moil for gold;
\nThe Arctic trails have their secret tales
\nThat would make your blood run cold;
\nThe Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
\nBut the queerest they ever did see
\nWas that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
\nI cremated Sam McGee.<\/p>\n