Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2011 with funding from The Library of Congress http://www.archive.org/details/poemsofklondykesOOcrew Poems of Klondyke's Early Days and Alaska's Long White Trail by Fred Crewe v Photos of the Klondyke Stampede taken in 1897-98 Printed by The North American Press Milwaukee, Wis. . K JUL 23 '21 ^ ©R.A682319 : Q)edi IlitA tAie & r, cation a in t/iii iooA are ret asiurfrnce f/irri fir.tn ever /, into tAteir m aAe„/,. 31 tie ,%„, JouyA. o-tAt ,if^ c ^„, c t/nir/i/. of "S# MendyAe "/«/W«W al/ectictrt o/ t/ie ot! . -i i mi iwi— wta "AND AS WE ROUND A HIGH, STEEP BLUFF" The Klondykk Stampede 17 There's a stampede on at Stewart and rumors fly around, That five-dollar pans and ten-dollar pans are scattered all over the ground; At Henderson there's another and we're almost tempted to stay When someone shows us a handful of gold that he swore he got in a day. But the spell of the Klondyke's upon us — , we've lain in the trance too long — So with a wave of the hand and a shake of the head we keep on down the Yukon; And as we round a high, steep bluff, almost touching the turquoise skies, The magic city of our dreams spreads out before our eyes. Through mist and spray and sunshine, through the current swift and strong. O'er Klondyke's flashing waters we send our boat along; Misgivings no longer confront us — visions of fortune come fast — And I'm leaving you now to make one for we've got to Dawson at last. The Kobvk Maipen 1 THE KOI3UK MAIDEN. \\There the sun shines bright at midnight all through the month of June, Where the winter sun sheds twilight on the snow and ice at noon, Liv'd a dusky, dark-eye'd maiden with heart all free from care, For she thought not of the morrow as she ate her salmon rare; Her hands and feet were dainty — she could sing the Mission's psalms — Though a little soap and water would have added to her charms; She could run before her dog team and laugh with childish glee — And the waters of the Kobuk rippled onward to the sea. The Kobtjk Maiden - She could paddle her small kyak, she could trail the fox and bear, She could dry the meat for winter, she could hunt and fish and snare; She was handy with the needle — no furrier in his trade — Could sew a beat or patch a skin like this bright-eyed little maid; She had very few acccmplishments — she seldom wiped her nose — And the odor of her mukluks resembled not the rose ; She had many dark admirers, but she heeded not their plea — And the waters of the Kobuk rippled onward to the sea. The Kobuk Maiden - - She was neither tall nor slender as the poet's verses tell, She'd have been far more attractive if she'd had a different smell; She dress'd in skins of animals and wherever she would roam, Many tiny little creatures would make her clothes their heme; Don't lay this up against her for she had never seen Pears soap or insect powder, fine comb or Cameline; No high-born lady in the land had a warmer heart than she — And the waters of the Kobuk rippled onward to the sea. The Koijuk Maiden When the Kotzebue excitement brought a crowd of miners there, There was a sport among them who'd blue eyes and sorrel hair, He was smitten with this lady and he was often seen, Hanging round her little igloo which was anything but clean; Of course it doesn't matter, but I never heard him tell, How he became accustomed to its peculiar smell; He brought her flour and sugar, and hams and beans and tea — And the waters of the Kobuk rippled onward to the sea. The Koetjk Maiden 5 When the sun came back in summer and the winter storms were spent, And the miners left the country where they hadn't made a cent, Empty cabins, rude reminders of the days of '99, Stood all along the river mid stumps of spruce and pine, In her now-deserted igloo sits the maiden all forlorn, "Kabloona kow-kow peluk," all the white man's grub is gone, A blue-eye'd little papoose she's holding on her knee — And the waters of the Kobuk ripple onward to the sea. — Anon. MIDNIGHT SUN AT KEEWAL1K SPIT — JUNE 21 Ot R NORTHIRN LIGHTS - - - OUR NORTHERN LIGHT* Streaming o'er the arch of heaven in blazing sheets of green, Twining round the mountain tops in wreaths of satiny sheen, Dangling in crinkly ribbons of fantastic curve and twist, Raining streams of brilliants from clouds of shimmering mist. Our Northern Lights - - - Drooping in gorgeous clusters of rosy, lace-like light, Folding and unfolding at each breath of the frosty night. Swaying in dainty festoons from the dancing stars on high, Bursting in showers of spangles all o'er the painted sky. Gliding in folds of tinted flame that set the hills aglow, Rolling billows of color across the glistening snow, Flashing streams of silv'ry light on shadows far away, Hunting for the telltale streaks that pilot in the day, Tossing, tumbling and rolling — when night is almost gone — In tinted spray they drift away in the dim of the flickering dawn. "Klondyke Valentine" ■ A KLONDYKE VALENTINE. '"Tonight as I sit in the Klondyke vale, My fancy takes flight over river and rail, To where in those halcyon days gone by We were together — you and I — And I find myself wishing to God that you. In your faraway home under skies of blue, Often think of the boy who so longs for the sight Of your beautiful eyes — and your kisses tonight. MOOSEHIDE HANGING BY MORTE H. CRAIG 'Klondyke Valentine." I light my tobacco, its powers invoke, And presto! your astral shines out of the smoke, A face of sweet beauty, a form of rare grace, Half hidden by billows of shadowy lace; You hover above me, O vision divine, And your dear, dreamy soul passes quickly to mine. So I sit here and silently long for the sight Of your beautiful eyes — and your kisses tonight. A rich, mellow perfume, while memories roll, Brings the flavor of age to the wine in my soul ; You fill up the glass, dainty sweetheart of mine, And I feel like a man who is drunken with wine; Your soft, gentle voice pulses down thro' the air. And I thrill with the thought that it murmurs a prayer- A prayer for the boy who so longs for the sight Of your beautiful eyes — and your kisses tonight. "Klokdyke Valentine" 3 On the breast of your astral, oh, lady o' mine, Let me pin with a nugget my heart's valentine; That the gold in the Klondyke in naught can compare With the velvety meshes of gold in your hair, The wine of your breath and the touch of your hand Seals my senses in sleep in this shadowy land; I slumber, and sleeping I long for the sight Of your beautiful eyes — and your kisses tonight. — Mojte H. Craig. MIDNIGHT BASEBALL GAJIE, FAIRBANKS, JUNE 21 Thirty Years in Alaska - THIRTY YEARS IN ALASKA. I hirty years up here in Alaska, in the spell of this magical land. Delving with pick, pan and shovel, grey-hair'd and wrinkled and tann'd; Growing old and feeble and cranky, broken down with the hard, restless life, Cursing the fateful blunder I made when I shook my chorus-girl wife — Who was pretty as a picture — and though I've never wrote a line To the golden-hair'd girl who bade me farewell with her little hand in mine, Not a single day has pass'd sin ce then but what was a regret For the girl I left behind me who I swore I'd ne'er forget. Thirty Years in Alaska - Thirty years up here in Alaska — the turquoise of its skies — Keeps me always thinking of the blue in her dancing eyes, And off in the silent cabin as the shadows come and go, I fall asleep and dream of the girl- my chum of the long ago — I live the old days over and can't hold back a sigh, As with her arms around my neck she tries to smile goodbye — I hear the songs she used to sing, though far away they seem, And wake to hear the echoes pass with the fleeting dream. Thirty Years in Alaska 3 Emblematic flower of Alaska. Thirty years up here in Alaska — where the *forgetmenots grow — Where roses bloom on the hillsides as the sun melts off the snow; Where in the good old summertime the birds sing night and day. And on frosty nights the Northern Lights hang round the stars and play, Memories all come trooping back of the one I still hold dear, And it always seems to me somehow I feel her presence near. And I wonder as the years roll by and I go sliding down the hill — I wonder if the boy she lov'd lives in her memory still? DAWSON IN EARLY DAYS Ki.ondyke Reminiscences ■ KLONDYKE REMINISCENCES. J stood on the Ogilvie bridge one night where the Klondyke swiftly flows, And wonder'd if ever I'd make a strike in this land of frost and snows? I thought of the thousands who tramp'd the trail bsnt down with a heavy pack, Of where the devil they'd all gone to and if they'd ever come back. •LIKEWISE TO GET OUR MAIL" Klondyke Reminiscences ■ How we used to line up to record a claim, likewise to get our mail ; Of the mosquitos and flies that ate us alive mushing the swampy trail. Of the malamutes deck'd with plumes and bells, that raced through the streets like Hell ; Of tjhe awful messes, they used to eat and their darn'd unearthly yell. Of the mad stampedes we all went on like a lot of bewilder'd geese; Of the blood-red coats and yellow stripes of the Northwest Mounted Police. Of their cowboy hats and tasseled boots, brass buttons and gold lace; Of the Grand Panjandrum twirling his cane as he strutted from place to place. "OP THEIR COWBOY HATS AND TASSELED BOOTS" Ki.ondyke Reminiscences ■ Of the bugle calls heard through the frosty air when all was calm and still ; Of the flapjacks nail'd on cabin doors and the virtues of "Swiftwater " Bill. Of the pokes we handed the sports at the bars who levied a little on each; Of the chechacos haggling with "Waterfront" Brown about the rent of their tents on the beach. Of men and horses loaded with gold that were always passing by; *Of the dogs jumping into the Yukon when we kept up the Fourth of July. Of "Sev.'-come-'leven," and "Little Joe," and "Hit it again" all night; Of the piano's bang and the violins twang and the juicy waltz at its height. * Hundreds of dogs were so scared by the rifle firing that day that they jumped into the Yukon and were drowned. DANCE HALL IN DAWSON Klondyke Reminiscences 4 Of the Ccaloil Johnnies swilling champagne, cf the diamonds the fairies wore; Of the moccascn'd mushers around the stoves and the dogs slinking in at the door. Of the nuggets we used to fling dow n en the stage at the dancer's twinkling feet; Of the burning thirst she always had whenever we chane'd to meet. Of the roulette wheels and the blackjack games and the rattle of ivory chips; Of the dance-hall girls at "Nigger'' Jim's and the pout upon their lips. Of the moral spasms that hit the town and sent her down the lie; Of the psalms and prayers we get instead of the days of Auld Lang Syne. OLD MOUNTED POLICE BARRACKS IN DAWSON Kloxdyke Reminiscences ■ Of the high old times we sure did have when everything came our way; Of Dawson as she used to be and the joke she is today. EARLY FOOTBRIDGE ACROSS KLONDYKE The Yaek of the Faro-Ban t k Dealer 1 THE YARN OF THE FARO BANK DEALER " f low is it I'm not dealing tonight?" said the old Sport as he lit a cigar, "Well, it's because every year this day comes round I'm thinking of Belle Lamar — Beautiful Belle with the golden hair and eyes and lashes of jet, Was a dainty little dance-hall girl, the nicest I ever met. The Yarn of the Faro-Bank Dealer - "At a masquerade ball many years ago, in a mining camp thriving today, She came and raised her domino and sat down at my table to play — Tm leaving for home in the morning, she said, with eyes and cheeks aflame, 'And I've just had a hunch 1 can make a bunch of money at this old game. " 'It's farewell to the life, forever with me; farewell to the dance and the wine ; But hardly farewell to you, old friend, who I'll be thinking of most of the time; Yes! I feel a bit sorry to go away, but — the Queen's a case, you say — I'll play the wench for all she's worth — please copper that bet on the tray'. 'The hunch was a pippin for two or three turns, then she kept losing stack after stack, And when she spoke and said she was broke, I gave her a hundred back; But I knew her heart was breaking as she rose to quit the game. And it was on the tip of my tongue to tell her she could have it all again. The Yarn of the Faro-Bank Dealer "When she snatch'd a gun from Ye Wah Lun, who stood a little apart, There was a flash and a roar and she sank to the floor, with a bullet through the heart; And as the crowd open'd up around her — on the lap of 'Bronco' Moll — I saw steal o'er the lovely face the waxy look of a doll. "I handed over her wallet when the girls asked me to 'come through,' And the hundred she'd left on the table 1 handed that over, too — In the wallet there was nearly ten thousand, a ring and an ivory comb, And in one of the little side pockets the ticket she'd bought for home." The Stranded Sourdough 1 THE STRANDED SOURDOUGH. Y\ /henever I 'm on the beach at Nome My thoughts belong to the time When I chased the golden Will-o' the-Wisp between Barrow and Cape Sabine — How I pann'd and pann'd the ruby sand when the tides were high and low, And waited in vain for the fickle dame to smile on this old Sourdough. The Stranded Sourdoikih - I see the grinding ice again toss high in the bright sunshine, And glaciers veil d in spangled mist play tag in the flashing brine; I see the summer slip away when the North wind starts to blow, And listen to the seagull's scream goodbye to this old Sourdough. I tramp'd that beach from dawn till dark in snowstorm, calm and gale, Trying to make myself believe I saw a distant sail, Not a glimpse, however, did I get and all hopes of going below, Died in every wave that broke at the feet of this old Sourdough. That winter was a hundred years of visions, fogs and fears — The droning silence even yet is pulsing in my ears — I dubb'd it the Land of Makebelieve, and in the whale-oil's glow, Talk'd to my shadow on the wall and thought it an old Sourdough. The Stranded Sourdough 3 I'd sit and watch the Northern Lights gambol in the sky And oft at times I'd seem to hear a murmur or a sigh; I'd watch these pictures in the clouds drifting to and fro, Till they'd fade away in the Milky Way from the ken of this old Sourdough. I'd stare at the painted heavens — stare at them nights and days — And my faith in Revelations grew stronger as I gazed, And this with the sickening silence, the cold and the blinding snow, Never fail'd to get the goat of this stranded old Sourdough. But the seagulls and the ruby sand and the waves rolling in from the sea, On the beach of that shadowy Wonderland have no further charms for me; They re calling, ever calling, but I'll never be tempted to go As long as that jigger on the wall haunts the dreams of this old Sourdough. STAMPEDERS The Flobadoea • THE FLORADORA. T his is the old Floradora, where many and many a time, Hand in hand with the thirsty beauties we've all gone down the line; It's the night of the Frisco Earthquake Fund that most of us recall, And Fancy lands me back again on the floor of the old dance hall. The Floradora - - I whirl through many a juicy waltz with Margie, Kate and Bess, And stake them all to play the wheel with a ten-spot — more or less — I quench the burning thirst they have with cocktails, beer and wine, Till they shake me for some other sport who goes swiftly down the line. I hear the swish of silken skirts and "Ham-Grease" Jimmies bawl, Watch Lottie Oatley's twinkling feet and listen to Fannie Hall ; I see the crowds rush to the bar and hoist their fancy drinks. While I hit the high spots some myself with a bediamon'd little minx. I slip away at break of day mid strains of music clear, And bursts of song and laughter running riot in my ear, I linger just outside the door — bewitch'd it seems to me — With the lilting strains in the frosty air of "Sweet Bessie the Maid of Dundee." The Floradoka 3 It's hard to forget the old dance hall — its wine and women and song — Where 1 monkey'd with roulette and blackjack and anything coming along; I often think of that festive night and the rollicking bunch on the floor, When we boosted the Frisco Fund over the top some fifteen hundred or more. So "Here's to the Floradora and the giddy dance-hall days — Not forgetting the little fairies with their peculiar ways — " Upon their pictur'd faces memory loves to dwell, But as that's all there's to it I may as well say farewell SUN DOGS ON THE KLONDYKE JUST ABOVE MOUTH OF BONANZA Ovek Chilcoot in '97 1 OVER CHILCOOT JN '37. Tn the month of March in '97 With sled and a blanket sail, I found myself at dawn of day On the wind-swept Dyea trail. For many a mile I slipp'd along O'er ice as slick as glass, And the moon was crossing the Summit When I got to the foot of the Pass. Over Ciiilcoot in '97 2 I roll'd up in the sail that night For blankets were somewhat shy, And on the sled soon fell asleep Counting stars in the fathomless sky — I woke in the gaudy moonlight Bewitching the night to day, In a fairy land more wondrous Than I dreamt about on the sleigh. Half dead with cold I take a pack And warm up very soon Climbing Chilcoot in the glamor and glow And glare of the cockey'd moon; I sit down on the ice-cut steps To fix the wobbly load, And on a stick pick'd up on the Summit Slid back to the sleigh a la mode. Sundogs blazed on the mountain tops And rainbows ribb'd the sky, When I lash'd the last pack on the sled And waved Chilcoot goodbye, But I'd no sooner took the geepole Than snow and sleet and hail Combined to bid me welcome Upon the Dawson trail. Over Chii.coot in '97 They quit me at the "Cutoff," The one we used to take, Where we went a mile a minute Through the drifts to Crater Lake; Far out upon the lake I glide And where I stopp'd 1 could see, Down in the ice a man with a pack Who seem'd to be looking at me. Both pick and shovel had gone astray In the drifts I'd just come through. So I took the axe and the goldpan And, I think, the frying-pan, too, And hoping that some passerby Might jog along through the day, I tipp'd the sled for a windbreak And started a hole, anyway. I chopp'd though I knew I was wasting time — Chopp'd till my arms were sore — And I chopp'd while the winds from the Summit Swept the lake with a rush and a roar; I stopp'd when twilight began to fall And shadows darken'd the snow — Just as puffs from the mountain tops Began whispering warnings to go. Over Chii.coot in '97 4 I flagg'd the place with a gunnysack Lash'd to a spare geepole, And it waved in the breeze of heaven From a snowdrift near the hole, And with fingers puff' d and aching And numb with cold and pain, 1 hoisted the old army blanket And hit the trail again. A moment I take to say goodbye Ere the snow covers up the dead, And a glance I give the gunnysack flag That's flopping about overhead, I sidle the sled up into the breeze And hungry, tired and cold, I sprawl across the scanty load Headed for the land of gold. But the wind was fickle and darkness fell While zigzagging to and fro, So I dump'd the sled when 1 struck a drift And burrow'd into the snow — At dawn of day from old Chilcoot There came a gentle breeze, That fill'd the sail and held all right Till I made the stunted trees, Over Chilcoot in '97 5 Many things I forget as the years roll on Since I took in that wild-goose chase, Yet I still have in mind that hole in the ice As well as that frozen face — They live in memories tinged with regret Though they cling to the good old time When at forty below I camp'd in the snow Siwashing above timber line. "^p LANDING IN DAWSON* AT MIDNIGHT, JUNE 21 A Cleary Pioneer - - A CLEARY PIONEER. "V 7 " " talk °f the deeds of the old pioneers and laud them to the skies, But never a word of the woman or the grave wherein she lies, Who's asleep out here on the hillside, where people as they pass, Oft catch a glimpse of the little grave half hidden in the grass, That holds the first white woman who trod this golden land. Who brighten'd the hopes of many by extending the helping hand, Who went through all that you did — camp'd on the same old trail — Mush'd in the lead in the wild stampede and laugh'd at the icy gale. A Cleary Pioneer 2 There's a picket-fence around her, but no sign of slab or stone. To tell the name of the sleeper or explain why she's alone — Alone out here on the hillside in a little fenc'd-off plot, Slumbering on in silence, by everyone forgot, With none to plant a flower or shed a single tear As tribute to the grit and nerve of this Cleary pioneer, Who went through all that you did— camp'd on the same old trail — Mush'd in the lead in the wild stamp and laugh'd at the icy gale. The Oldtime Prospector 1 THE OLD TIME PROSPECTOR. Y\ /hat does the old prospector think of Alaska since she's dry? Does he prefer ice-cream and lemonade to cocktails, beer or rye? Does he think the holdup bingle games better than those he used to play? Or that gambling under cover skins the old familiar way. The Oldtime Prospector 2 Does he sigh for the giddy dance-hall days? does he miss the Floradora? Would he like to whirl o'er the floor again with Margie, Kate or Cora? Would he like the old times back again when everything came his way? Or would he rather bum around the way he does today? What does he think of all the bull that's peddled in his ears, About gold enough in the tailings to run the camp for years? How does the sidepay strike him? does he rub his eyes and stare When he's told the claims are just as rich, in fact richer than they were? And how about the choochoo and the railroad to the sea? Has it got as many charms for him as it has for you and me? Perchance he recollects the same once heralded the decay Of many a placer-mining camp that flourished in his day. The Oldtime Prospector What does the old prospector think, or does he give a rap, For the things that's going to happen to keep Cleary on the map? Does he think he'll get another fling if all this comes to pass Ere they run him in at Sitka and turn him cut to grass? The Cache 1 THE CACHE (~Yi the Arctic slope of the last frontier, close to the rock-fring'd shore, Where eternal silence meets at times the ocean's drone and roar, Nearly hidden in the tundra and sheltered from wind and sea, Lies the cabin of some old whaler fathoms deep in the leaden sea. With grub the place was well nigh filled — a cache for the whaling fleet — A sort of roadhouse, as it were, for one to rest and eat, The Stars and Stripes waved in the breeze and flapp'd against the pole, Beating time to the rythmic waves and the ocean's ceaseless roll. It had a somewhat ancient smell and but a single room, With a window in the doorway looking out en fog and gloom. It was adorned with sailor's gimcracks the names I can't recall — And a famous beauty's picture smiled on you from the wall. I stay'd throughout the winter on this ideal camping ground, Cursing the dopy silence that always linger'd round, Queer shapes appeared in the darkness hanging o'er land and sea — Spooks from the realm of Davy Jones who had it in for me — And in this home of shadows the long months slipp'd away. With the Banshees on the tundra growing bolder day by day, I'd sit at night in the soft moonlight and time and time again, I'd shoo the little devils away frcm the window pane. The Cache - - But I lcng'd fcr the time when I'd bid adieu to the almost endless nights, The Banshees and the little men and the crazy Northern Lights, I could see them from the window set the sky aglow, And trail their tinted shadows miles through the whirling snow. Tonight the wind's a holy fright — the snow piles high in the gale — Fantastic streaks of green and gold tangle up on the drifted trail; The old shack shakes in the icy blast and one almost hears the moan Of the swelling waves that tcpple and break and hiss o'er the beach in foam. But the cabin's bright in the lurid light and glare of the melting sky, Sparks like diamonds flash in air as the proud old moon sweeps by; Clouds of ever-shifting flame dangle o'er the frozen sea, And the pictured beauty on the wall wakens memories of "She.'' I fish for my pipe and tobacco, touch a match to the whale-cil flare, And streams of tinted moonlight dance in the crimson glare — I lay awake in the shadows that pilot in the dawn, Stars hang like lamps in the heavens — but the Northern Lights are gone. So Long u ,