It's Useless or Don't You See

There are strange things done neath the midnight sun

By the men who moil for life;

Those 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 will see

Was the plight of the man from We Just Don’t See--
He's up in flame; but, doubtful fame;

It’s useless or don’t you see.

Now that man Oh Gee, was from We Just Don’t See, where the hot air blooms and blows.
Why he left his home in the South to roam ‘round the Pole, God only knows.
He was always cold, but the true land of ours 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 slushing our way over the long lost 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 That man you see.

And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the artic blow,
And the dogs were fed, and the stars o’erhead were dancing heel and 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 won’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 strife, and it’s got right hold till I’m cold clean through to the bone.
Yet ‘taint 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 some place called USA; And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of that man you see.

There wasn’t a breath in that land of life, but 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 my 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 how 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 living.

And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow;
And on I went, though our lives were spent and the grub was getting low;
My trail was bad, and I knew I’s mad, but I swore I would not give in;
That I’d often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.

Then I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay;
It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was the Come What 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 that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher;
The flames just soared and the furnace roared—such a blaze you seldom see;

Then I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in USA.

Then I made a hike, for I didn’t like to hear him sizzle so;
And the heavens scowled, and the dogs they 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 do not know how long or how in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear;
But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near;
I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: “I’ll just take a peep inside.
For I guess we’re cooked, and it’s time I looked;” . . . so the door I opened wide.

And there bye damn, 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 Numb-tree, down in We-Just- Don’t See , it’s the first time I’ve been warm.”

There are strange things done neath the midnight sun

By the men who moil for life;

Those 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 will see

Was the plight of the man from We Just Don’t See--
He's up in flame; but, doubtful fame.

It’s useless or don’t you see.