When the stars from the skies have fallen And the smoke of the world's cleared away; When Saint Peter marks "30" in Life's Book And we meet there on Judgment Day; When our trials and troubles are ended And we're wise to the best and the worst; When the time has arrived that the wise ones Have told us the last shall be first;

When the men who've made good are rewarded And the losers are turned loose in h.e.l.l; That's the time that a lot will be learning The true reason and cause that they fell.

And I wonder when Peter gets busy As he works out the tenement plan, And when Heaven's thrown free for location Will he confine the locations to man?

If he does, my claim's open for jumping For I can't figure Heaven complete, If the dim distant trails of the sky land Are not pattered by malamutes' feet.

Cause I know it would never seem home-like No matter how golden the strand, If I lose out that pal-loving feeling Of a malamute's nose in my hand.

And it's that way with lots of Alaskans These men of our own last frontier, Who tear into nature unaided And who scarce know the meaning of fear.

Who live on lone creeks all alone here Where the living and dying are hard, And where oft times their only companion Is a malamute pup for a pard.

He's a real chum with things coming easy, He's a pal with things breaking tough, He's a h.e.l.l-roaring fighting companion When somebody starts something rough.

He's a true friend in sorrow and sickness And he doesn't mind hunger or cold, And he's really the only one pardner You can trust when you uncover gold.

He's a guard you can trust at the sluice box, And he'll watch by your cache thru the night, And if some cheechako tries to molest it That cheechako's in for a fight.

As a pardner he's silent, but cheerful With never a kick 'bout the trails And if it wasn't for him in the winter There never would be any mails.

He pulls on our sleds in the winter He's first in the rushing stampede He goes where a horse couldn't travel And besides that he rustles his feed.

He takes a pack saddle in summer And follows us off thru the hills And when we go short on the grub pile He shares up whatever he kills.

'Twas a malamute first scaled the Chilkoot At the time of the great Klondike charge; 'Twas a malamute first saw Lake Bennett And left his footprints at La Barge; They hauled the first mail into Dawson, That Land of the Old Timer's dream, And when Wada first drove in from Fairbanks He was driving a malamute team.

They broke the first trail into Bettles With no guide save the lone Northern Star; They freighted next year to Kantishna And from there to the famed Chandelar.

They know the long trail to Innoko, Tacotna and Iditarod too, For there's never a Camp in the Northland But what these same malamutes knew.

They brought the first sport to the Nome Beach Where they showed up in action and deed That the North dog is game as they make them And besides that has plenty of speed.

He came home with the bacon from Candle Like a bat out of h.e.l.l, thru the snow, And the plunger that cashed in his "out tab"

Was his pardner, the Old Sourdough.

So it seems to me kind of unfair now As we drift toward that permanent Camp Where the angels are running a dance hall And a millionaire grades with a tramp; Where the trails are located on pay dirt And a grub stake can never expire-- Well, if they shut out my dog, they can keep it And I'll "siwash" it, down by h.e.l.l's Fire.

They herald the growth of the Northland And progress is marked by their trail; A railroad now goes where they brought out The Seward-Iditarod mail.

He's first in the growth of Alaska And without him this land would be lost, For there's never a stream in this country That the malamutes' trail has not crossed.

But you can't tell me G.o.d would have Heaven So a man couldn't mix with his friends; That we're doomed to meet disappointment When we come to the place the trail ends.

That would be a low-grade sort of Heaven And I'd never regret a d.a.m.ned sin If I mush up to the gates, white and pearly, And they don't let my malamute in.

UNSATISFIED

Some sigh for the breath of the desert Where the stifling heat waves blow; Some pant for the trackless tundra And the sting of the cold and snow; Some long for the wash of a sultry sea As it breaks on a tropic sh.o.r.e; Some pine for the breeze of the northern seas And the sound of the Arctic's roar.

The things that men love be countless But they're seldom the same with two, For the things I care for most of all Might never appeal to you.

Some men run to wine and woman, Some long for a wife and a home, And he drifts with the tide, unsatisfied, Who leaves these things to roam.

For he hates the sands of the desert And the slimy tropic south, Or his dreams of a northern fortune Are as ashes in his mouth.

He loses the best life holds for man His existence means discontent Still he goes his way, until comes the day When he quits it--a life misspent.

YET

Some sigh for the breath of the desert Where the stifling heat waves blow; Some pant for the trackless tundra And the sting of the cold and snow; Some long for the wash of a sultry sea As it breaks on a tropic sh.o.r.e; Some pine for the breeze of the northern seas And the sound of the Arctic's roar.

THE PROSPECTOR

Where the ragged, snow-capped saw tooth Cuts the azure of the sky And watches o'er the lonely land As ages wander by; Where the sentinel pines in grandeur Murmur to the glacier stream As it, ice-gorged, gluts the canyon, Never brightened by the gleam Of sun at brightest noon day, Nor moon of Arctic night, And whose only link with Heaven Is the fitful Northern Light.

Where the Whistler shrills in triumph And the Big Horn dreams in peace, Where the Brown Bear skulks to cover Up where silence holds the lease; Where the land is as G.o.d left it Nor has known the tread of man, There's a treasure ledge a-waiting-- Go and find it if you can.

If your heart be steeled to triumph Nor beats less at your defeat; Can you watch your whole world melt away And still smiling, fortune greet?

Will your heart and brain and sinew Crowd you on, when hunger's pain Gnaws your belly and you're beaten, Can you lose, and fight again?

Can you raise the cup of fortune To your lips and bravely quaff The draught she has prepared for you And win or lose and laugh?

Can you see the fruits of hardships Centered on one desperate throw And know Fate's dice are loaded Nor curse to see them go?

Then take your burden up again And stagger up the trail, You're bound to make a winning Cause you don't know how to fail.

I, who've spent my youth in following The lure of hidden gold Must pa.s.s the buck to Nature And admit I'm growing old.

And yet each spring I hear it calling And it's music to my ears, The call of lonely places That I've listened to for years.

It's cost me all most men hold dear Some forty years of life, And all the joys that others get In babies, home, and wife.

My life's been all to-morrows And my family only dreams And to the average plodder I've missed it all it seems.

Still, I've never taken orders And I've always liked the game, And if life could be lived over, Why,--I'd live it just the same.

IF

(_A Steal from Kipling_)

If you can hit the trail in zero weather And laugh at frozen hand, or foot or face; If you can eat your dogs, and still keep moving And beat the rest, and hold the stampede's pace; If you can stake and dig alone, unaided And hold your ground, if needs be with a gun And find the gold and have some lawyer steal it, And lose, and start again, and call it fun.

If you can go a year on mouldy bacon And fight the scurvy off with bayo beans; If you can jump your socks and do your washing And smile the while you patch your threadbare jeans; If you can laugh when sordid hunger mocks you And smile while pa.s.sing strangers eat your grub; If you can boost when everybody knocks you And know him wrong who holds you but a dub.

If you can still the pain when Outside calls you And choke back thoughts of friends you still hold dear; If you can still the dreams when night befalls you And wake and strike while eyes and brain are clear; If you can wait and stick it out a-smiling When longing letters come to you from home, And then don't find the taste of "hootch" beguiling You'll like this Land, from Seward up to Nome.

If you can bear the deadly strain of waiting Till your turn comes, and fortune smiles on you; If you can fight and lose and keep on fighting And to your early promises stay true; If you can go thru h.e.l.l to spend the summer And cuss, and freeze, and starve the winter thru And start in broke again another New Year You don't need this Land to make a man of you.

If you can beat the Row, the Game, the Dance-hall And all men's pleasures, that you know are sin; If you can live alone, and not get lonesome Nor heed the "lady" when she says "come in": If you can pick a winner from the "wild cats"

And hold and hope when everything looks blue; If you can give up everything you've ever cared for Then ALASKA IS THE ONLY PLACE FOR YOU.