WITH JIM ALONG THE DAWSON TRAIL]

JIM

'Twas th' days of th' stampede--I was of th' hobo breed----
When I met with Jim along th' Dawson trail;
F'r Bonanza I was strikin'; an' Jim? well, he was hikin'
Along th' road t' Anywhere--Jerusalam or jail.

Seemed t' me how all th' people had got soured in his steeple,
But for wimmin most of all he'd bitter thoughts;
But we got on quite congenial, him a gen'leman--me menial,
And I got t' kind of likin' Jim----in spots!

But he wouldn't stick t' minin'. He was always drunk an' whinin';
An' th' boys was glad the day he quit th' camp;
Next I see him with th' crowd down at Dawson, an' I 'lowed
I never see a bigger, low-down scamp.

Was he single? Was he marri'd? I dunno', but sure he carried
A little bit of locket on his breast,
And onct I see him open it--but that was in a dopin' fit----
An' I laugh'd t' see Jim's mouth ag'in it pressed!

But a fella' will act loony when he's full an' feelin' spoony,
Howsumever, Jim an' me went differ'nt ways;
Me an' th' boys with pans a-washin' cricks on old Bonanza,
An' when I met with Jim ag'in 'twas after many days.

Bad hootch an' rotten food fetched th' scurvy quick an' good,
An' tho' I'd made my millions it didn't help me out;
I was side-tracked by th' fever, in th' hands of God's Receiver,
An' th' sexton he most had me b' th' snout!

But them dandy little Sisters, them as cooked us with the'r blisters,
Made us swaller swill we hated "'cos th' Doctor said 'twas good";
One I liked called "Sister Mary"--she was tiny as a Fairy--
'Twas a sin to hide her beauty anunder a black hood.

Her face, tho' never smilin', had a look that was beguilin';
Her blue eyes they would wander far away,
Jes' as if her heart was crawlin' to some Voice as was a-callin':
"MARY, LITTLE MARY!" night an' day.

This was my fool-brain a-ravin'; I couldn't be behavin'
For th' fever to my guts was eatin' in;
But her hand upon th' pillo' was like foam upon th' billo',
When she spoke t' us of One who pardon'd sin.

Lord, how th' fever got 'em! Lord, how th' Doctors fought 'em!
How them Sisters stood th' racket night an' day:
Talk of Angils? Up in heaven don't believe as you'd find Seven
Could beat them a-makin' plasters, or beat 'em on the Pray!

Well,