he Lone Trail, and the Lone Trail lures you on.
And somehow you're sick of the highway, with its noise and its easy
needs,
And you seek the risk of the by-way, and you reck not where it leads.
And sometimes it leads to the desert, and the tongue swells out of
the mouth,
And you stagger blind to the mirage, to die in the mocking drouth.
And sometimes it leads to the mountain, to the light of the lone
camp-fire,
And you gnaw your belt in the anguish of hunger-goaded desire.
And sometimes it leads to the Southland, to the swamp where the
orchid glows,
And you rave to your grave with the fever, and they rob the corpse
for its clothes.
And sometimes it leads to the Northland, and the scurvy softens your
bones,
And your flesh dints in like putty, and you spit out your teeth like
stones.
And sometimes it leads to a coral reef in the wash of a weedy sea,
And you sit and stare at the empty glare where the gulls wait greedily.
And sometimes it leads to an Arctic trail, and the snows where your
torn feet freeze,
And you whittle away the useless clay, and crawl on your hands and
knees.
Often it leads to the dead-pit; always it leads to pain;
By the bones of your brothers ye know it, but oh, to follow you're
fain.
By your bones they will follow behind you, till the ways of the
world are made plain.

_Bid good-bye to sweetheart, bid good-bye to friend;
The Lone Trail, the Lone Trail follow to the end.
Tarry not, and fear not, chosen of the true;
Lover of the Lone Trail, the Lone Trail waits for you._

THE HEART OF THE SOURDOUGH

There where the mighty mountains bare their fangs unto the moon;
There where the sullen sun-dogs glare in the snow-bright, bitter noon,
And the glacier-gutted streams sweep down at the clarion call of June:

There where the livid tundras keep their tryst with the tranquil snows;
There where the Silences are spawned, and the light of hell-fire flows
Into the bowl of the midnight sky, violet, amber, and rose:

There where the rapids churn and roar, and the ice-floes bellowing run;
Where the tortured, twisted rivers of blood rush to the setting sun--
I've packed my kit and I'm going, boys, ere another day is done.

* * * * *