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| This Story has scary parts and is meant for older campers. Decide for yourself if it is appropriate for your younger campers or not. | |
| Notes: | This story can be told as a scary story around a campfire. It has a humorous ending. |
| There are strange things done in the midnight sun By the men who moil for gold, And the 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 did see Was the night on the marge of Lake LaBarge I cremated Sam McGee. Now, Sam McGee was from Tennessee Where the cotton 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 land of gold Seemed to hold him like a spell, Though he'd often say, in his homely way, He'd sooner live in hell. On a Christmas day we were mushing our way Over the Dawson 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 Sam McGee. And that very night as we lay packed tight In our robes beneath the snow, 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 I couldn't say no, And he says with a sort of moan, 'It's the cursed cold, and it's got right hold 'Till I'm chilled clean through to the bone. Yet 'ta'int 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, And I swore that I would not fail. 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 his home in Tennessee, And before nightfall, a corpse was all That was left of Sam McGee. There wasn't a breath in that land of death As 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 your 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 the 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 Oh, God, how I loathed the thing. And every day that quiet clay Seemed to heavy and heavier grow. And on I went, though the dogs were spent And the grub was getting low. The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, But I swore I would not give in, And often I'd sing to the hateful thing, And it hearkened with a grin. 'Till I came to the marge of Lake LaBarge, And a derelict there lay. It was jammed in the ice, and I saw in a trice It was called the 'Alice May'. 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 crematorium.' Some planks I tore from the cabin floor And lit the boiler fire. Some coal I found that was lying around And 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 Sam McGee. Then I made a hike, for I didn't like To hear him sizzle so. And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, And the wind began to blow. It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled Down my cheek, 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 in the snow I wrestled with gristly 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 peek inside. I guess he's cooked, and it's time I looked', And the door I opened wide. And there sat Sam, looking calm and cool In the heart of the furnace roar. 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 Plumbtree down in Tennessee It's the first time I've been warm.' There are strange things done in the midnight sun By the men who moil for gold, And the 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 did see Was the night on the marge of Lake LaBarge I cremated Sam McGee. | |
Cremation of Sam McGee Camping Story 
