Robert W. Service. Robert W. Service

will bless me, of women esteeming me good,

      Of children born in my borders of radiant motherhood,

      Of cities leaping to stature, of fame like a flag unfurled,

      As I pour the tide of my riches in the eager lap of the world.”

      This is the Law of the Yukon, that only the Strong shall thrive;

      That surely the Weak shall perish, and only the Fit survive.

      Dissolute, damned and despairful, crippled and palsied and slain,

      This is the Will of the Yukon, — Lo, how she makes it plain!

      The Spell of the Yukon

      I wanted the gold, and I sought it;

      I scrabbled and mucked like a slave.

      Was it famine or scurvy — I fought it;

      I hurled my youth into a grave.

      I wanted the gold, and I got it —

      Came out with a fortune last fall, —

      Yet somehow life’s not what I thought it,

      And somehow the gold isn’t all.

      No! There’s the land. (Have you seen it?)

      It’s the cussedest land that I know,

      From the big, dizzy mountains that screen it

      To the deep, deathlike valleys below.

      Some say God was tired when He made it;

      Some say it’s a fine land to shun;

      Maybe; but there’s some as would trade it

      For no land on earth — and I’m one.

      You come to get rich (damned good reason);

      You feel like an exile at first;

      You hate it like hell for a season,

      And then you are worse than the worst.

      It grips you like some kinds of sinning;

      It twists you from foe to a friend;

      It seems it’s been since the beginning;

      It seems it will be to the end.

      I’ve stood in some mighty-mouthed hollow

      That’s plumb-full of hush to the brim;

      I’ve watched the big, husky sun wallow

      In crimson and gold, and grow dim,

      Till the moon set the pearly peaks gleaming,

      And the stars tumbled out, neck and crop;

      And I’ve thought that I surely was dreaming,

      With the peace o’ the world piled on top.

      The summer — no sweeter was ever;

      The sunshiny woods all athrill;

      The grayling aleap in the river,

      The bighorn asleep on the hill.

      The strong life that never knows harness;

      The wilds where the caribou call;

      The freshness, the freedom, the farness —

      O God! how I’m stuck on it all.

      The winter! the brightness that blinds you,

      The white land locked tight as a drum,

      The cold fear that follows and finds you,

      The silence that bludgeons you dumb.

      The snows that are older than history,

      The woods where the weird shadows slant;

      The stillness, the moonlight, the mystery,

      I’ve bade ’em goodbye — but I can’t.

      There’s a land where the mountains are nameless,

      And the rivers all run God knows where;

      There are lives that are erring and aimless,

      And deaths that just hang by a hair;

      There are hardships that nobody reckons;

      There are valleys unpeopled and still;

      There’s a land — oh, it beckons and beckons,

      And I want to go back — and I will.

      They’re making my money diminish;

      I’m sick of the taste of champagne.

      Thank God! when I’m skinned to a finish

      I’ll pike to the Yukon again.

      I’ll fight — and you bet it’s no sham-fight;

      It’s hell! — but I’ve been there before;

      And it’s better than this by a damsite —

      So me for the Yukon once more.

      There’s gold, and it’s haunting and haunting;

      It’s luring me on as of old;

      Yet it isn’t the gold that I’m wanting

      So much as just finding the gold.

      It’s the great, big, broad land ’way up yonder,

      It’s the forests where silence has lease;

      It’s the beauty that thrills me with wonder,

      It’s the stillness that fills me with peace.

      The Call of the Wild

      Have you gazed on the naked grandeur where there’s nothing else to gaze on,

      Set pieces and drop-curtain scenes galore,

      Big mountains heaved to heaven, which the blinding sunsets blazon,

      Black canyons where the rapids rip and roar?

      Have you swept the visioned valley with the green stream streaking through it,

      Searched the Vastness for a something you have lost?

      Have you strung your soul to silence? Then for God’s sake go and do it;

      Hear the challenge, learn the lesson, pay the cost.

      Have you wandered in the wilderness, the sagebrush desolation,

      The bunch-grass levels where the cattle graze?

      Have you whistled bits of ragtime at the end of all creation,

      And learned to know the desert’s little ways?

      Have you camped upon the foothills, have you galloped o’er the ranges,

      Have you roamed the arid sun-lands through and through?

      Have you chummed up with the mesa? Do you know its moods and changes?

      Then listen to the Wild — it’s calling you.

      Have you known the Great White Silence, not a snow-gemmed twig aquiver?

      (Eternal truths that shame our soothing lies.)

      Have you broken trail on snowshoes? mushed your huskies up the river,

      Dared the unknown, led the way, and clutched the prize?

      Have you marked the map’s void spaces, mingled with the mongrel races,

      Felt the savage strength of brute in every thew?

      And though grim as hell the worst is, can you round it off with curses?

      Then hearken to the Wild — it’s wanting you.

      Have you suffered, starved and