The Old West

Space, eh? From the final frontier to the wild frontier. That's the kind of inventiveness I admire.

*plonks a couple glasses on the counter and fills them to overflowing*

Tell me about your most challenging medical case to date, Doc. I was a surgeon's mate in the Civil War. Always good to swap stories with another professional.

Howdy, Van Cleef. I'm happy to have your input. Alrighty then. I've had to temporarily abandon the seat, and we'll see what comes of it. I'm still hoping Bumpy returns to bail us out long-term. Don't be a stranger.

People who dislike poetry usually take to Robert Service, because first and foremost, Service was a storyteller. Who doesn't love what amounts to a campfire story?

I truly enjoyed the concept of Bumpy's 'Tall Tale Tuesday' even though few of us contributed. It's Thursday rather than Tuesday, ain't it? No matter.

I've posted some Robert Service here before, but don't recall posting my favorite Service ditty. Hope you enjoy The Cremation of Sam McGee. My old man made sure I did. I know it almost entirely by rote.

Robert Service (1874-1958)
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 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.
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 — Oh 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 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.

"Space, eh? From the final frontier to the wild frontier. That's the kind of inventiveness I admire."

You did not see my western-sci-fi combo nation: Maccoy. It was pretty good. That was full of guys riding around the final frontier with shotguns and pistols running ''pushloaders'' across the solar system, transporting miners, and fighting off bandits, etc.

Cleef, I assume it's a slow week? ;)

Seems I recall hearing that one about Pecos Bill when I was knee-high to grasshopper. Thanks for posting! Here's one from my Scouting days.

The Legend of Falling Rock

Once upon a time, An Indian chief by the name of Rising Sun grew increasingly troubled over the encroachment of the white man, who seemed hell-bent on laying claim to every forest, plain, river and rock in America. After giving the matter considerable thought, Rising Sun came up with an idea to save his people from the fate of the Indian reservation.

Rising Sun asked his only son, Falling Rock, to ride across the whole of the country to convince other tribes to join forces and repel the white man's invasion. At the first spring thaw, Falling Rock left with four other braves on his important mission.

When the leaves fell in late summer, one brave returned and reported to Rising Sun that the Southwest nations had agreed to take up the hatchet against the white man. As the snow began to fall, another brave made it back to say that the Great Lakes tribes were on board with the plan. A third brave arrived home a year later as the meadow flowers were in bloom, assuring Rising Sun that the fearsome Rocky Mountain nations were ready. in high summer, the last brave returned from the Eastern tribes with their promises to fight. He told the chief that Falling Rock intended to race from from nation to nation to coordinate a war rally at the Mississippi River to commence the following spring.

Rising Sun's small tribe prepared for battle. When the snow melted, they headed for the Mississippi. There Rising Sun waited through spring and summer, but no other warriors arrived. At summer's end, Rising Sun sent his braves out in all directions to track down Falling Rock.

By snowfall, all the warriors had returned to Rising Sun with disappointing news. Falling Rock had never made it to a single tribe to coordinate the Mississippi rally. Rising Sun fretted something terrible over the information. There was nothing for it but wait out winter at the Mississippi.

When spring appeared, so did a company of white soldiers, who promptly surrounded Rising Sun's tribe. The chief realized there was no hope of escape, and resistance was foolish. He asked to parley with the officer in charge.

Rising Sun promised to peaceably lead his tribe to a reservation if the soldiers would promise to help him find his lost son. To avoid any bloodshed, the company commander agreed to the condition.

It is said that Rising Sun now waits in the Happy Hunting Grounds for Falling Rock's return. To this day, the white man continues to hold up his end of the bargain struck so many moons ago by the banks of the Mississippi. And that is why you see signs along the road asking for your help finding the great chief's wayward son: Watch for Falling Rock