There are strange things
done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil
for gold;
The Arctic trails have
their secret tales
That would make your
blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have
seen queer sights,
But the queerest they
ever did see
Was that night on the marge
of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam
McGee.
Now Sam McGee was from
Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows.
Why he left his home in the
South to roam 'round the Pole, God only knows.
He was always cold, but the
land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;
Though he'd often say in his
homely way that "he'd sooner live in hell."
On a Christmas Day we were
mushing our way over the Dawson trail.
Talk of your cold! through the
parka's fold it stabbed like a driven nail.
If our eyes we'd close, then
the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn't see;
It wasn't much fun, but the
only one to whimper was Sam McGee.
And that very night, as we lay
packed tight in our robes beneath the snow,
And the dogs were fed, and the
stars o'erhead were dancing heel and toe,
He turned to me, and "Cap,"
says he, "I'll cash in this trip, I guess;
And if I do, I'm asking that
you won't refuse my last request."
Well, he seemed so low that I
couldn't say no; then he says with a sort of moan:
"It's the cursèd cold, and
it's got right hold till I'm chilled clean through to the bone.
Yet 'tain't being dead—it's my
awful dread of the icy grave that pains;
So I want you to swear that,
foul or fair, you'll cremate my last remains."
A pal's last need is a thing
to heed, so I swore I would not fail;
And we started on at the
streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale.
He crouched on the sleigh, and
he raved all day of his home in Tennessee;
And before nightfall a corpse
was all that was left of Sam McGee.
There wasn't a breath in that
land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven,
With a corpse half hid that I
couldn't get rid, because of a promise given;
It was lashed to the sleigh,
and it seemed to say: "You may tax your brawn and brains,
But you promised true, and
it's up to you to cremate those last remains."
Now a promise made is a debt
unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code. (Emphasis Mine)
In the days to come, though my
lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load.
In the long, long night, by
the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring,
Howled out their woes to the
homeless snows— O God! how I loathed the thing.
And every day that quiet clay
seemed to heavy and heavier grow;
And on I went, though the dogs
were spent and the grub was getting low;
The trail was bad, and I felt
half mad, but I swore I would not give in;
And I'd often sing to the
hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.
Till I came to the marge of
Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay;
It was jammed in the ice, but
I saw in a trice it was called the "Alice May."
And I looked at it, and I
thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum;
Then "Here," said I, with a
sudden cry, "is my cre-ma-tor-eum."
Some planks I tore from the
cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire;
Some coal I found that was
lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher;
The flames just soared, and
the furnace roared—such a blaze you seldom see;
And I burrowed a hole in the
glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee.
Then I made a hike, for I
didn't like to hear him sizzle so;
And the heavens scowled, and
the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow.
It was icy cold, but the hot
sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don't know why;
And the greasy smoke in an
inky cloak went streaking down the sky.
I do not know how long in the
snow I wrestled with grisly fear;
But the stars came out and
they danced about ere again I ventured near;
I was sick with dread, but I
bravely said: "I'll just take a peep inside.
I guess he's cooked, and it's
time I looked"; ... then the door I opened wide.
And there sat Sam, looking
cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar;
And he wore a smile you could
see a mile, and he said: "Please close that door.
It's fine in here, but I
greatly fear you'll let in the cold and storm—
Since I left Plumtree, down in
Tennessee, it's the first time I've been warm."
There are strange things
done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil
for gold;
The Arctic trails have
their secret tales
That would make your
blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have
seen queer sights,
But the queerest they
ever did see
Was that night on the marge
of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam
McGee.
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