“Black is the sky, but the land is white—
       (O the wind, the snow and the storm!)—
      Father, where is our boy to—night?
       Pray to God he is safe and warm.”
      “Mother, mother, why should you fear?
       Safe is he, and the Arctic moon
      Over his cabin shines so clear—
       Rest and sleep, 'twill be morning soon.”
 “It’s getting dark awful sudden. Say, this is mighty queer!
  Where in the world have I got to? It’s still and black as a tomb.
 I reckoned the camp was yonder, I figured the trail was here—
  Nothing! Just draw and valley packed with quiet and gloom;
 Snow that comes down like feathers, thick and gobby and gray;
 Night that looks spiteful ugly—seems that I’ve lost my way.
 ”The cold’s got an edge like a jackknife—it must be forty below;
  Leastways that’s what it seems like—it cuts so fierce to the bone.
 The wind’s getting real ferocious; it’s heaving and whirling the snow;
  It shrieks with a howl of fury, it dies away to a moan;
 Its arms sweep round like a banshee’s, swift and icily white,
 And buffet and blind and beat me. Lord! it’s a hell of a night.
 “I’m all tangled up in a blizzard. There’s only one thing to do—
  Keep on moving and moving; it’s death, it’s death if I rest.
 Oh, God! if I see the morning, if only I struggle through,
  I’ll say the prayers I’ve forgotten since I lay on my mother’s breast.
 I seem going round in a circle; maybe the camp is near.
  Say! did somebody holler? Was it a light I saw?
 Or was it only a notion? I’ll shout, and maybe they’ll hear—
  No! the wind only drowns me—shout till my throat is raw.
 ”The boys are all round the camp—fire wondering when I’ll be back.
  They’ll soon be starting to seek me; they’ll scarcely wait for the light.
 What will they find, I wonder, when they come to the end of my track—
  A hand stuck out of a snowdrift, frozen and stiff and white.
 That’s what they’ll strike, I reckon; that’s how they’ll find their pard,
  A pie—faced corpse in a snowbank—curse you, don’t be a fool!
 Play the game to the finish; bet on your very last card;
  Nerve yourself for the struggle. Oh, you coward, keep cool!
 I’m going to lick this blizzard; I’m going to live the night.
  It can’t down me with its bluster—I’m not the kind to be beat.
 On hands and knees will I buck it; with every breath will I fight;
  It’s life, it’s life that I fight for—never it seemed so sweet.
 I know that my face is frozen; my hands are numblike and dead;
  But oh, my feet keep a—moving, heavy and hard and slow;
 They’re trying to kill me, kill me, the night that’s black overhead,
  The wind that cuts like a razor, the whipcord lash of the snow.
 Keep a—moving, a—moving; don’t, don’t stumble, you fool!
  Curse this snow that’s a—piling a—purpose to block my way.
 It’s heavy as gold in the rocker, it’s white and fleecy as wool;
  It’s soft as a bed of feathers, it’s warm as a stack of hay.
 Curse on my feet that slip so, my poor tired, stumbling feet—
  I guess they’re a job for the surgeon, they feel so queerlike to lift—
 I’ll rest them just for a moment—oh, but to rest is sweet!
  The awful wind cannot get me, deep, deep down in the drift.”
      “Father, a bitter cry I heard,
       Out of the night so dark and wild.
      Why is my heart so strangely stirred?
       ’Twas like the voice of our erring child.”
      “Mother, mother, you only heard
       A waterfowl in the locked lagoon—
      Out of the night a wounded bird—
       Rest and sleep, 'twill be morning soon.”
 Who is it talks of sleeping? I’ll swear that somebody shook
  Me hard by the arm for a moment, but how on earth could it be?
 See how my feet are moving—awfully funny they look—
  Moving as if they belonged to a someone that wasn’t me.
 The wind down the night’s long alley bowls me down like a pin;
  I stagger and fall and stagger, crawl arm—deep in the snow.
 Beaten back to my corner, how can I hope to win?
  And there is the blizzard waiting to give me the knockout blow.
 Oh, I’m so warm and sleepy! No more hunger and pain.
  Just to rest for a moment; was ever rest such a joy?
 Ha! what was that? I’ll swear it, somebody shook me again;
  Somebody seemed to whisper: “Fight to the last, my boy.”
 Fight! That’s right, I must struggle. I know that to rest means death;
  Death, but then what does death mean?—ease from a world of strife.
 Life has been none too pleasant; yet with my failing breath
  Still and still must I struggle, fight for the gift of life.
      * * * * *
 Seems that I must be dreaming! Here is the old home trail;
  Yonder a light is gleaming; oh, I know it so well!
 The air is scented with clover; the cattle wait by the rail;
  Father is through with the milking; there goes the supper—bell.
      * * * * *
 Mother, your boy is crying, out in the night and cold;
  Let me in and forgive me, I’ll never be bad any more:
 I’m, oh, so sick and so sorry: please, dear mother, don’t scold—
  It’s just your boy, and he wants you. . . . Mother, open the door. . . .
      “Father, father, I saw a face
       Pressed just now to the window—pane!
      Oh, it gazed for a moment’s space,
       Wild and wan, and was gone again!”
      “Mother, mother, you saw the snow
       Drifted down from the maple tree
      (Oh, the wind that is sobbing so!
       Weary and worn and old are we)—
      Only the snow and a wounded loon—
      Rest and sleep, 'twill be morning soon.”
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