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Frank |
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The only relative he ever mentioned was his mother, and that in terms most respectful and loving |
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He used to brag about his escapades in the night life in Chicago. He used to say jokingly that when he got in a fight he would gouge out his opponent's eyeballs with his thumb. |
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He said that he awoke one morning and found only one eye in his pocket. He said to himself, "Frankie, old boy, you are slipping. Where is the other eye?" |
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Page 25 |
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Page 26 |
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I vividly remember the long, hot, nights in the hospital in ShamShuiPo, with the moonlight streaming in through the holes that once framed windows, Bower, as we called him, pacing up and down the concrete floor, complaining about his sore feet, and regaling us with stories of his adventures, and sometimes reciting the poems of Robert Service. |
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Page 27 |
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Page 28 |
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Page 29 |
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Page 30 |
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He knew a number of Robert Service poems. Another one that he used to recite, he called "The Shack by the Yukon Trail" |
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Page 31 |
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The poem does not appear in the complete works of Robert Service. I have toyed with the idea that the old character composed it himself. |
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Page 32 |
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Page 33 |
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I can still remember the words as he recited them so long ago. I'll put them down here, and I would appreciate it if anyone could enlighten me as to its origin. The poem has the same meter as many of Service's poems, and the story line is also one that he might have used. |
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Page 34 |
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Page 35 |
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Page 36 |
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The Shack by the Yukon Trail |
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Page 37 |
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There's a lonely shack by a northern track where the snows of Alaska fall,
There are dead men's bones, and the cold wind moans, and the howl of the wolf in countertones, And God's hand over all. |
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Page 38 |
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Page 39 |
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A lonely man staked out a claim, which never seemed to pay,
And late one night a stranger came, who chanced to lose his way. |
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Page 40 |
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Page 41 |
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They supped, they smoked, they talked a while, and then a silence fell,
And each man dreamt of a woman's face, and a woman's last farewell. |
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Page 42 |
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That silence touched the hearts of both, and each man told his tale,
How he longed and pined for a lucky find, For the sake of a girl he had left behind, in a far-off English vale. |
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Page 43 |
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Page 44 |
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Page 45 |
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Then each man showed a photograph, signed by the loved one's name.
As they gazed on there, by the candle's flare, They discovered the pictures a perfect pair, and the signatures the same. |
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Page 46 |
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Page 47 |
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Dark hate flashed out from both men's eyes, They fought, one failed to rise, For death had come to claim a prize, In that shack by the Yukon Trail |
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Page 48 |
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Page 49 |
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One man dug deep, and deeper still, to hide the dead thing there
Those dreadful words, "Thou shalt not kill" seemed thundered through the air. |
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Page 50 |
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Photo Gallery |
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At last in frenzied hate and dread, he crossed the cabin floor
He kicked the dead outside the shed, and locked and barred the door. |
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Click Here To Go To Part One
Home |
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He dug and toiled with pick and spade, by the light that the candle gave
Till suddenly a seam showed gold, that came like a hell-sent dream,
From the heart of the dead man's grave. |
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He heard the howl of the wolf outside, and he shook in every limb
As they ripped and tore by the cabin door at the thing that had breathed but a while before, Then madness came to him. |
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Click Here
To Go To
Part Two
Home |
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A loaded gun, a broken prayer, a shot that rent the startled air,
Then dawn cam up to peep in there, In that shack by the Yukon Trail. |
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Yes, there are dead men's bones, where the cold wind moans
By that shack by the Yukon Trail
There are two lives paid for the love betrayed, for the broken vows that a woman made, In a far-off English vale. |
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Did Robert Service write the poem? Was it perhaps something he wrote and discarded as being unworthy to include in his "Complete Works of Robert Service"? |
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Links |
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I don't think Frank Bowerbank wrote it although he was expert at reciting it.I certainly didn't write it although it impressed me enough to remember the words, just from listening to Frank. |
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Whatever the case, I don't claim any rights to the piece. If the author can be found it would please me greatly, and put an end to one of the questions that have been sometimes in my thoughts "when on my couch I lie, in vacant or in pensive mood", although this tale is certainly not about Wordsworth's daffodils. |
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