The Malamute

When the stars from the skies have fallen         And the smoke of the world's cleared away;     When Saint Peter marks "30" in Life's Book         And we meet there on Judgment Day;     When our trials and troubles are ended         And we're wise to the best and the worst;     When the time has arrived that the wise ones         Have told us the last shall be first;     When the men who've made good are rewarded         And the losers are turned loose in Hell;     That's the time that a lot will be learning         The true reason and cause that they fell.     And I wonder when Peter gets busy         As he works out the tenement plan,     And when Heaven's thrown free for location         Will he confine the locations to man?     If he does, my claim's open for jumping         For I can't figure Heaven complete,     If the dim distant trails of the sky land         Are not pattered by malamutes' feet.     Cause I know it would never seem home-like         No matter how golden the strand,     If I lose out that pal-loving feeling         Of a malamute's nose in my hand.     And it's that way with lots of Alaskans         These men of our own last frontier,     Who tear into nature unaided         And who scarce know the meaning of fear.     Who live on lone creeks all alone here         Where the living and dying are hard,     And where oft times their only companion         Is a malamute pup for a pard.     He's a real chum with things coming easy,         He's a pal with things breaking tough,     He's a hell-roaring fighting companion         When somebody starts something rough.     He's a true friend in sorrow and sickness         And he doesn't mind hunger or cold,     And he's really the only one pardner         You can trust when you uncover gold.     He's a guard you can trust at the sluice box,         And he'll watch by your cache thru the night,     And if some cheechako tries to molest it         That cheechako's in for a fight.     As a pardner he's silent, but cheerful         With never a kick 'bout the trails     And if it wasn't for him in the winter         There never would be any mails.     He pulls on our sleds in the winter         He's first in the rushing stampede     He goes where a horse couldn't travel         And besides that he rustles his feed.     He takes a pack saddle in summer         And follows us off thru the hills     And when we go short on the grub pile         He shares up whatever he kills.     'Twas a malamute first scaled the Chilkoot         At the time of the great Klondike charge;     'Twas a malamute first saw Lake Bennett         And left his footprints at La Barge;     They hauled the first mail into Dawson,         That Land of the Old Timer's dream,     And when Wada first drove in from Fairbanks         He was driving a malamute team.     They broke the first trail into Bettles         With no guide save the lone Northern Star;     They freighted next year to Kantishna         And from there to the famed Chandelar.     They know the long trail to Innoko,         Tacotna and Iditarod too,     For there's never a Camp in the Northland         But what these same malamutes knew.     They brought the first sport to the Nome Beach         Where they showed up in action and deed     That the North dog is game as they make them         And besides that has plenty of speed.     He came home with the bacon from Candle         Like a bat out of Hell, thru the snow,     And the plunger that cashed in his "out tab"         Was his pardner, the Old Sourdough.     So it seems to me kind of unfair now         As we drift toward that permanent Camp     Where the angels are running a dance hall         And a millionaire grades with a tramp;     Where the trails are located on pay dirt         And a grub stake can never expire--     Well, if they shut out my dog, they can keep it         And I'll "siwash" it, down by Hell's Fire.     They herald the growth of the Northland         And progress is marked by their trail;     A railroad now goes where they brought out         The Seward-Iditarod mail.     He's first in the growth of Alaska         And without him this land would be lost,     For there's never a stream in this country         That the malamutes' trail has not crossed.     But you can't tell me God would have Heaven         So a man couldn't mix with his friends;     That we're doomed to meet disappointment         When we come to the place the trail ends.     That would be a low-grade sort of Heaven         And I'd never regret a damned sin     If I mush up to the gates, white and pearly,         And they don't let my malamute in.