long,
It's den ve'll miss de gran' rac_quette_,--
May want again de noise
Of six more little children
An' mos'ly girls and boys.

BIGGS' BAR

BY HOWARD V. SUTHERLAND

'Twas a sultry afternoon, about the middle of July,
And the men who loafed in Dawson were feeling very dry.
Of liquor there had long been none except a barrel or two,
And that was kept by Major Walsh for himself and a lucky few.

Now, the men who loaf in Dawson are loafers to the bone,
And take it easy in a way peculiarly their own;
They sit upon the sidewalks and smoke and spit and chew,
And watch the other loafers, and wonder who is who.

They only work in winter, when the days are short and cold,
And then they heat their cabins, and talk and talk of gold;
They talk about provisions, and sometimes take a walk,
But then they hurry back again and talk, and talk, and talk.

And the men who loaf in Dawson are superior to style,
For the man who wears a coat _and_ vest is apt to cause a smile;
While he who sports suspenders or a belt would be a butt,
And cause ironic comment, and end by being cut.

The afternoon was sultry, as I said some time before;
'Twas fully ninety in the shade (in the sun a darn sight more),
And the men who sat on the sidewalks were, one and all, so dry
That only one perspired, though every one did try.

Six men were sitting in a line and praying God for air;
They were Joaquin Miller and "Lumber" Lynch and "Stogey" Jack
Ver Mehr,
"Swift-water" Bill and "Caribou" Bill and a sick man from the hills,
Who came to town to swap his dust for a box of liver pills.

I said they prayed for air, and yet perhaps I tell a lie,
For none of them are holy men, and all of them were dry;
And so I guess 'tis best for me to say just what I think--
They prayed the Lord to pity them and send them all a drink.

Then up spoke Joaquin Miller, as he shook his golden locks,
And picked the Dawson splinters from his moccasins and socks
(The others paid attention, for when times are out of joint
What Joaquin Miller utters is always to the point):

"A foot-sore, weary traveler," the Poet then began,
"Did tell me many moons ago,--and oh! I loved the man,--
That Biggs who owns the claim next mine had started up a bar.
Let's wander there and quench our thirst." All answered, "Right
you are."

Now, Biggs is on Bonanza Creek, claim ninety-six, below