Derby Day in the Yukon Part 6

n.o.body knew him--worse, n.o.body cared-- But the bar-keep speaks up (while his quid he prepared), "Say, w'ot was th' kid like?"--one stared at the other---- "Warn't he a pardner of Billy Bird's brother?

An' had he a bench-claim know'd as 'b.l.o.o.d.y Jim'?

'Cos if he had ther's a warn't out f'r HIM!"

"I'll describe him, good sirs," said the lady in tears: "He left home just of age, namely twenty-one-years.

His hair, sunny gold, is inclined to up-curl---- His complexion is peach-like--he's fair as a girl.

He has large, soulful eyes, they are beaming and kind,-- A soft, bird-like voice--and an artistic mind.

"Military in bearing--broad-shouldered and tall; Speaks languages seven--a 'linguist,' you'd call.

Paints, sings, rides to hounds; he dresses with care; A de-lightful manner, with most restful air:-- Oh! prithee, good gentlemen, find me my son, Whom all London once knew as 'THE DAs.h.i.+NG BEAU-DUNNE!'"

The lady was weeping in 'kerchief of lace And she saw not the smile on the rough miner's face,-- Who said: "Ma'am, y' won't find y'r angel up here,-- Them pertickler brands--with 'wings'--disappear!

But here's 'Windy' comin'--he knows, th' ol' tramp, Every Jack on th' trail, every Jill in th' camp!"

"Bing-bang!" The door opens and "Windy" appears, A be-whiskered, a pimple-pocked tough to his ears: His jeans all in tatters, his muck-a-lucks worn; His parka was dirty, and mud-splashed and torn.

His greeting: "WOW! HAND OUT A HOOTCH! DURN MY GIZZARD IF I WARN'T COTCHED IN A HUNKER CRICK BLIZZARD!"

The lady turns pale. Then the bar-keep behind Hollers: "Windy, ol' c.o.c.k! can YOU call t' y'r mind A chump 'round this camp----Ma'am, wot was th' same Double-decker y' called b' th' telescope name?"---- But the lady, eyes staring, was shrieking, "MY SON!"

Lo! "Windy" be-whiskered was "DAs.h.i.+NG BEAU-DUNNE!"

MY SONG

I could not sing unless my song Had in its symphony one broken string; I could not say the thoughts that in me rise Unless my heart had been a broken thing.

Why is it that the voice of Song so yields Mute music till the heart hath bled?

Why should we find most fair and far-off fields By th.o.r.n.y by-paths led?

But if this little weakling song of mine Might carry cheer to one, lone, grieving soul, Most gladly would I offer Hope's bright wine And, smiling, drink the lees left in the bowl: For I have in the darkness found some light,-- Some suns.h.i.+ne seen in shadowed evening hours, And I have found throughout the lonely night Some perfumed breathings from wild garden bowers.

And I were ingrate not to send it on, Such echo of what music in me lies, For it may bring to some o'er darkened dawn The brightening glow that comes with morning skies.

So, go you, little broken Song, And carry to some heart in bitter pain Only my lute's light laughter. Make thou strong The weak of heart and bid them smile again.