{"id":7140,"date":"2014-01-28T13:24:02","date_gmt":"2014-01-28T13:24:02","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.vicsocotra.com\/wordpress\/?p=7140"},"modified":"2014-01-28T13:29:07","modified_gmt":"2014-01-28T13:29:07","slug":"the-cremation-of-sam-mcgee","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.vicsocotra.com\/wordpress\/the-cremation-of-sam-mcgee\/","title":{"rendered":"The Cremation of Sam McGee"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"012814-1\"
\n(Robert W. Service, January 16, 1874 \u2013 September 11, 1958).<\/p>\n

Gentle Readers,<\/p>\n

I have to be on the wrong side of the Potomac way too early, and the dog sled is not ready. Accordingly, I am not going to talk about how freaking cold it is out there, or the State of the Union address this evening, which apparently will include some mind boggling assertions on a variety of issues. I will not comment a priori- my pals are agitated in a variety of perfectly rational issues and I will be interested to see how it comes off.<\/p>\n

Nor can I address the matter of the comments on Facebook regarding the photo collections of long ago. No time, but the comments are appreciated. Most were taken when Robert W. Service was still alive.<\/p>\n

So, in the spirit of this very cold morning, I will ask an associate to stand in for the usual fulminations. His name is Robert W. Service, and the Englishman-turned-Canadian was quite the literary figure in his day. His fame resulted from the publication of two best-selling volumes of verse: The Spell of the Yukon (1907) and Ballad of a Cheechako(1909).<\/p>\n

In rollicking rhythms and comical rhymes, Service regaled armchair adventures with gripping yarns of the wild Northwest\u2014rough men braving hardship on the lonely frontier in pursuit of \u201cthe muck called gold.\u201d<\/p>\n

After his time in the Gold Rush he returned to Europe in time for the Balkan unpleasantness followed by the real horror of the Great War. Like Hemmingway, he was turned down for active service but went to the show anyway as a stretcher bearer.<\/p>\n

In the 1930s, he visited the Soviet Union and penned a satiric piece called \u201cThe Ballad of Lenin\u2019s Tomb,\u201d which apparently is why none of his works have been translated into Russian. I may ask Natasha to look into that.<\/p>\n

But despite the origin of his fame, Service chose to spend his declining years in southern California and Monte Carlo.<\/p>\n

It strikes me that he was onto something about the value of commodities in uncertain times, but I am too cold to think about it this morning. Without further ado, here is a masterwork of temperature and doggerel:<\/p>\n

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
\nBy the men who moil for gold;
\nThe Arctic trails have their secret tales
\nThat would make your blood run cold;
\nThe Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
\nBut the queerest they ever did see
\nWas that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
\nI cremated Sam McGee.<\/p>\n

Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows.
\nWhy he left his home in the South to roam ’round the Pole, God only knows.
\nHe was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;
\nThough he’d often say in his homely way that “he’d sooner live in hell.”<\/p>\n

On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail.
\nTalk of your cold! through the parka’s fold it stabbed like a driven nail.
\nIf our eyes we’d close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn’t see;
\nIt wasn’t much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.<\/p>\n

And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow,
\nAnd the dogs were fed, and the stars o’erhead were dancing heel and toe,
\nHe turned to me, and “Cap,” says he, “I’ll cash in this trip, I guess;
\nAnd if I do, I’m asking that you won’t refuse my last request.”<\/p>\n

Well, he seemed so low that I couldn’t say no; then he says with a sort of moan:
\n“It’s the curs\u00e8d cold, and it’s got right hold till I’m chilled clean through to the bone.
\nYet ’tain’t being dead\u2014it’s my awful dread of the icy grave that pains;
\nSo I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you’ll cremate my last remains.”<\/p>\n

A pal’s last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail;
\nAnd we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale.
\nHe crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee;
\nAnd before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.<\/p>\n

There wasn’t a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven,
\nWith a corpse half hid that I couldn’t get rid, because of a promise given;
\nIt was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say: “You may tax your brawn and brains,
\nBut you promised true, and it’s up to you to cremate those last remains.”<\/p>\n

Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code.
\nIn the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load.
\nIn the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring,
\nHowled out their woes to the homeless snows\u2014 O God! how I loathed the thing.<\/p>\n

And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow;
\nAnd on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low;
\nThe trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in;
\nAnd I’d often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.<\/p>\n

Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay;
\nIt was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the “Alice May.”
\nAnd I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum;
\nThen “Here,” said I, with a sudden cry, “is my cre-ma-tor-eum.”<\/p>\n

Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire;
\nSome coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher;
\nThe flames just soared, and the furnace roared\u2014such a blaze you seldom see;
\nAnd I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee.<\/p>\n

Then I made a hike, for I didn’t like to hear him sizzle so;
\nAnd the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow.
\nIt was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don’t know why;
\nAnd the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.<\/p>\n

I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear;
\nBut the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near;
\nI was sick with dread, but I bravely said: “I’ll just take a peep inside.
\nI guess he’s cooked, and it’s time I looked”; … then the door I opened wide.<\/p>\n

And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar;
\nAnd he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said: “Please close that door.
\nIt’s fine in here, but I greatly fear you’ll let in the cold and storm\u2014
\nSince I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it’s the first time I’ve been warm.”<\/p>\n

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
\nBy the men who moil for gold;
\nThe Arctic trails have their secret tales
\nThat would make your blood run cold;
\nThe Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
\nBut the queerest they ever did see
\nWas that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
\nI cremated Sam McGee.<\/p>\n

\"012814-2\"<\/p>\n

Copyright 2014 Vic Socotra
\nPoem courtesy estate of Robert W. Service
\nwww.vicsocotra.com
\nTwitter: @jayare303<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

(Robert W. Service, January 16, 1874 \u2013 September 11, 1958). Gentle Readers, I have to be on the wrong side of the Potomac way too early, and the dog sled is not ready. Accordingly, I am not going to talk about how freaking cold it is out there, or the State of the Union address […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[8],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-7140","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-daily-socotra"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.vicsocotra.com\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/7140","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.vicsocotra.com\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.vicsocotra.com\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.vicsocotra.com\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.vicsocotra.com\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=7140"}],"version-history":[{"count":4,"href":"https:\/\/www.vicsocotra.com\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/7140\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":7145,"href":"https:\/\/www.vicsocotra.com\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/7140\/revisions\/7145"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.vicsocotra.com\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=7140"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.vicsocotra.com\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=7140"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.vicsocotra.com\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=7140"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}