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 don't want no medals—he ain'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 ain't," says he, "no great M.D., but I kinder calcalate To meet this here e-mergency as was sent b' a unkind Fate."