HEROES

If ye run up ag'in Carnegie, I'd kind o’ thankful be

If he gets a-talkin’ of heroes, you'd ring in Sandy McPhee.

Now, Mac do n't want no medals — he ai n't th’ braggin’ set;

But what he done back in eighty-one, he's livin’ t’ tell; you bet!

We was trekin’ th’ trail t’ Forty-Mile; sleepin’ in snow-b'ilt caves,

An’ the great White Trail we hoofed it on was milestoned jest by graves.

Mac shot on ahead with his dog — itchin’ t’ make his pile;

Carried his grub-stake on his back. Got there? I should smile!

But th’ blizzard struck him; th'r he was, him an’ his dog alone ——

A week passed by — then his grub give out; but he never made no moan.

His husky died an’ he e't his guts; tho't his brain‘ ud go ——

Then he‘ member'd his wife an’ kids at home. Who'd hoe their row?

Both feet fruz cle'r int’ th’ bone! Says he “Fac's is fac's”;—

Gangrene sot in — black t’ th’ knees. Then he ups an’ eyes his axe:—

“I ai n't,” says he, “no great M. D., but I kinder calcalate

To meet this here e-mergency as was sent b’ a unkind Fate.”