He put gold nuggets in all the streams
To lure men on in dreams! In dreams!
He hid them deep in the glacial ice,
As a glittering city hides its vice!
Then he bade Dame Rumor spread the news
Throughout all the world to its motley crews
That there was gold in piles and piles,
Of every color and in all styles!
Then he grinned a grim, sardonic grin,
And said: "Now watch the fools rush in!
They'll fight for gold. They'll steal and slay!
But in the end I'm the one they'll pay!"
'Tis a fine hell this that the Devil owns!
Its trails are marked with frozen bones;
The wild winds moan over bleak chaparral;
'Tis a hell of a place he chose for his hell!
And now you know, should anyone ask you,
What kind of a place is our Alaska!
I am convinced that the Alaskans, whether they realize it or not, are poetic and imaginative. All over the country one finds the quaintest of names that have been bestowed upon the various localities by some follower of the trail, prospector, or other traveler. In one's journeyings he will come upon settlements bearing such names as Sunset, Paystreak, Anchorage and Fortymile. There are also the "Isles of God's Mercy" where Henry Hudson found shelter on his last voyage, "Anxiety Point" and "Return Reef" of Sir John Franklin, that Sir Galahad of explorers whose Eskimo name means "the man who does not molest our women." In Bank's Land is "Mercy Bay" and there is also the "Thank God" harbor so named by poor Hall on the Polaris.
So, if one could but gather them together, the poems and songs and pretty names of Alaska, each a part of her real history, it might make a column about three miles long, but—it would be mighty interesting reading!
One has but to glance at the map to see the similarity of the Alaskan coast to that of Norway. Will not the day come when her fiords and mountains, her Northern Lights and Midnight Sun will be as famed in song and story as those of Norway? Surely it will!
[CONCLUSION]
In concluding this volume I am reminded of two stories, both of which seem applicable to the subject. One of the quaintest and most interesting characters I ever ran across was a French-Canadian, Captain of one of the boats which plied the Yukon during the summer and in the winter stayed at St. Michael. One day the river, or the boat, or both, behaved badly. So he sang out:
"T'row over the anch'!"