Fireside Story

The Aunts and Uncles gathered around the flaming bonfire. The heat felt good, battling against the crisp pine scented autumn air. The sound of fire crackling amongst the branches of wood, a soft muted roar behind the sound of voices raised in conversation. Children were drifting between the groups, running from place to place like darting moths. It was the end of a long day of family activities.

Bedtime was minutes away when Uncle Richard raised his voice, "gather round for 'The Cremation of Sam McGee.' " His gravely voice lowers as he begins to speak.

There are strange things done in the midnight sun

By the men who moil for gold;

The Arctic trails have their secret tales

That would make your blood run cold;

The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,

But the queserest they ever did see

Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge

I cremated Sam McGee

Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows

Why he left the South to roam 'round the Pole, God only knows.

He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;

Though he'd often say in his homely way that he'd "sooner live in hell."

On a Christmas day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail.

Talk of your cold! Through the parka's fold it stabbed like a driven nail.

If our eyes we'd close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn't see.

It wasn't much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.

And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow,

And the dogs were fed, and the stars o'erhead were dancing heel to toe,

He turned to me , and "Cap" says he, "I'll cash in this trip, I guess;

And if I do, I'm asking that you don't refuse my last request."

Well, he seemed so low that I couldn't say no; then he says with a sort of moan:

"It's the cursed cold, and it's got a right hold till I'm chilled clean through the bone.

Yet -'tain't being dead -- it's my awful dread of the icy grave that pains;

So, I want you to swear that foul or fair, you'll cremate my last remains."

A pal's last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail;

And we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale.

He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee;

And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.

There wasn't a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven,

With a corpse half hid that I couldn't get rid, because of a promise given;

It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say: "You may tax your brawn and brains,

But you promised true, and it's up to you to cremate those last remains."

Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code.

In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart I cursed that load.

In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies , round in a ring,

Howled out their woes to the homeless snows -- O God! how I loathed the thing.

And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow;

And on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low;

The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in;

And I'd often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.

Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay;

It was jammed in the ice, and I saw in a trice it was called the "Alice May".

And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum;

Then "Here" said I, with a sudden cry, "is my cre-ma-tor-eum."

Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire;

Some coal I found lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher;

The flames just soared, and the furnace roared -- such a blaze you seldom see;

And I burrowed a hole in that glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee.

Then I made a hike, for I didn't like to hear him sizzle so;

And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow.

It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don't know why;

And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.

I don't know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear;

But the stars came out and they danced ere again I ventured near;

I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: "I'll just take a peep inside.

I guess he's cooked, and it's time I looked"; . . . then the door I opened wide.

And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar;

And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said: "Please close that door.

It's fine in here, but I greatly fear you'll let in the cold and storm --

Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it's the first time I've been warm."

There are strange things done in the midnight sun

By the men that moil for gold;

The Arctic trails have their secret tales

That would make your blood run cold;

The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,

But the queerest they ever did see

Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge

I cremated Sam McGee

By Robert Service

The children all cuddled close to their parents as they shivered with the tantilizing taste of fear, knowing that they were safe in their parents' arms. The leaping firelight leant a aura of reality to a poem that made a young girl's arms pimple with goosebumps. Darkness, stars and the nip of the autumn chill left a haunting impression that still resonates down through the years.