Stories from the Stringam Family Ranches of Southern Alberta

From the 50s and 60s to today . . .



Monday, November 6, 2017

COLD

The theme for Poetry Monday is 'Cold'. It seems apropos, as winter has hit my northern Canadian climes with a vengeance.
And I can't think of any better tribute than that penned by our own Robert W. Service (1874-1958) back in 1907.
Here it is, one of the best poems ever on the subject of COLD!

The Cremation of Sam McGee

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 curs├Ęd 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.
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.

Mondays do get knocked a lot,
With poetry, we three besought,
To try to make the week begin,
With gentle thoughts--perhaps a grin?
So Jenny and Delores, we,
Now post our poems for you to see.

And when you’ve read what we have brought,
Did we help? Or did we not . . .

Next week for daughters and for sons,
We're REMEMBERING the deeds they've done.

18 comments:

  1. I always liked that poem...I think every school kid in our day had to memorize at least part of it.

    ReplyDelete
  2. Brrr, makes my blood run cold! I have never heard this tale, it is a good one. I know in this day of fabric technology the only reason to be cold is not enough money or a poor choice of clothing. Investing in a good warm coat and boots and hat and gloves is worth it!

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Up here, every single person's main investment from October through March is warmth! My personal winter coat was purchased for me up in the Yukon. It's the only reason I can survive the winter!

      Delete
  3. I've never been much of a poet (although there was a time I put a toast to the bride to verse) but I've always enjoyed a good story, done in rhyme.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Come on! I've heard you recite innumerable times! Oh, wait . . . maybe that was Mad Magazine . . .

      Delete
  4. Well that's certainly a new one on me. Bet I'd have heard of it if I'd have grown up one country to the north.

    ReplyDelete
  5. I know this poem, too - our grandfather used to recite parts of it to us :) Definitely a classic!

    ReplyDelete
  6. It is new to me (I think) and I thank you for the education.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Thanks, EC! How do you describe cold to a person who's never seen it?! :) (Of course I'm kidding. You do get winter, right?)

      Delete
    2. In my part of Oz we get winter. Wimpy by your standards but winter none the less. We get frost, and occasionally snow.

      Delete
  7. I used Robert Service in some of my middle school language arts classes. The kids liked his poetry, but service wouldn't call what he wrote poetry. He called it "doggerel"

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Yep. It's official. I like doggerel! :)

      Delete
  8. I can't imagine cold like that - it just blows my little Aussie mind!

    ReplyDelete

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