Chapters 13
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1 The Spell of the Yukon - Read by BS 3:54
Servus.
I wanted the gold, and I sought it. I scrabbled and mucked like a slave. Was it famine or scurvy? I fought it. I hurled my youth into a grave. I wanted the gold, and I got it. Came out with a fortune last fall. Yet somehow life's not what I thought it, and somehow the gold isn't all. No, there's a land. Have you seen it? It's the cussidest land that I know, from the big dizzy mountains that screen it to the deep death-like valleys below. Some say God was tired when he made it. Some say it's a fine land to shun. Maybe, but there's some as would trade it for no land on earth, and I'm one. You come to get rich. Damn good reason. You feel like an exile at first. You hate it like hell for a season.
And then you are worse than the worst. It grips you like some kind of sinning. It twists you from foe to a friend. It seems it's been since the beginning. It seems it will be to the end. I've stood in some mighty-mouthed hollow that's plumbful of hush to the brim. I've watched the big husky sun wallow in crimson and gold and grow dim, till the moon set the pearly peaks gleaming and the stars tumbled out, neck and crop. And I thought that I surely was dreaming, with the peace of the world piled on top. The summer no sweeter was ever, the sunshiny woods all athrill, the grayling a-leap in the river, The bighorn asleep on the hill, the strong life that never knows harness, the wilds where the caribou call, the freshness, the freedom, the farness.
Oh, God, how I'm stuck on it all. The winter, the brightness that blinds you, the white land locked tight as a drum, the cold fear that follows and finds you, the silence that bludgeons you dumb. The snows that are older than history, the woods where the weird shadows slant, the stillness, the moonlight, a mystery. I've bade him good-bye, but I can't. There's a land where the mountains are nameless, and the rivers all run God knows where. There are lives that are erring and aimless, and deaths that just hang by a hair. There are hardships that nobody reckons, There are valleys, unpeopled and still. There's a land—oh, it beckons and beckons, and I want to go back! And I will. They're making my money diminish.
I'm sick of the taste of champagne. Thank God, when I'm skinned to a finish, I'll pike to the Yukon again. I'll fight, and you bet it's no sham fight. It's hell! But I've been there before. And it's better than this by a dam sight, so me for the Yukon once more. There's gold, and it's haunting and haunting. It's luring me on as of old. Yet it isn't the gold that I'm wanting so much as just finding the gold. It's the great big broad land way up yonder. It's the forests where silence has lease. It's the beauty that thrills me with wonder. It's the stillness that fills me with peace.
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2 The Spell of the Yukon - Read by cal 4:23
Servus. Read for Librebox. Or by Caliban.
I wanted the gold, and I sought it. I scrabbled and mucked like a slave. Was it famine or scurvy, I fought it. I held my youth into a grave. I wanted the gold. And I got it. Came out with a fortune last fall. Yet somehow life's not what I thought it. And somehow the gold isn't all. No. There's the land. Have you seen it? It's the cotzittest land that I know. From the big dizzy mountains that screen it to the deep death-like valleys below. Some say God was tired when he made it. Some say it's a fine land to shun. Maybe. But there's some as would trade it for no land on earth. And I'm one. You come to get rich. Damn good reason. You feel like an exile at first. You hate it like hell for a season, and then you are worse and the worst.
It grips you, like some kind of sinning. It twists you from foe to a friend. Seems it's been since the beginning. Seems it will be to the end. I've stood in some mighty-mouthed hollow that's plump with a hush to the brim. I've watched the big husky sun wallow in crimson and gold and grow dim. Till the moon set, the pearly peaks gleaming, and the stars tumbled out neck and crop. And I thought that I surely was dreaming. With a piece of the world piled on top. The summer no sweeter was ever. The sunshiny woods all a-thrill. The grayling leaf on the river, the big horn asleep on the hill. The strong life that never knows harness. The wilds what the caribou call. The freshness, the freedom, the farness.
Oh, God. How I'm stuck on it all. The winter, the brightness that blinds you, the white landlocked tight as a drum, the cold fear that follows and finds you, the silence that bludgeoned you dumb, the snows that are older than history, the woods with a weird shadow slant, the stillness, the moonlight, the mystery, I bade them good-bye, but I can't. There's a land where the mountains are nameless, and the rivers all run God knows where. There are lives that are erring and aimless, and deaths that just hang by a hair. There are hardships that nobody reckons. There are valleys, unpeopled and still. There's a land, oh, it beckons, and... Beckons. And I want to go back. And I will. They're making my money diminish.
I'm sick of the taste of champagne. Thank God when I'm skinned to a finish, I'll pike to the Yukon again. I'll fight, and you bet it's no champagne. It's hell. But I've been there before. And it's better than this by a damn sight, so it's me for the Yukon once more. There's gold, and it's haunting and haunting. It's luring me on as of old. Yet it isn't the gold that I'm wanting, so much as just finding the gold. It's the great, big, broad land way up yonder. It's the forest where silence has leased. It's the beauty that thrills me with wonder. It's the stillness that fills me with peace.
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3 The Spell of the Yukon - Read by CMC 3:50
Servus.
I wanted the gold, and I sought it. I scrabbled and mucked like a slave. Was it famine or scurvy, I fought it. I hurled my youth into a grave. I wanted the gold, and I got it. Came out with a fortune last fall. Yet somehow life's not what I thought it, and somehow the gold is in all.
No, there's the land. Have you seen it? It's the cussedest land that I know, from the big dizzy mountains that screen it, to the deep death-like valleys below. Some say God was tired when he made it. Some say it's a fine land to shun. Maybe, but there's some as would trade it, for no land on earth, and I'm one. You come to get rich, damn good reason. You feel like an exile at first. You hate it like hell for a season, and then you are worse than the worst. It grips you like some kind of sinning. It twists you from foe to a friend. It seems it's been since the beginning. It seems it will be to the end. I've stood in some mighty mouth hollow that's plumb full of hush to the brim. I've watched the big husky sun wallow in crimson and gold and grow dim.
Till the moon set the pearly peaks gleaming and the stars tumbled out neck and crop, and I've sought that I surely was dreaming with the peace o'er the world piled on top. The summer no sweeter was ever, the sunshiny woods all a-thrill, the grayling a-leap in the river, the big horn a-sleep on the hill, The strong life that never knows harness, the wilds where the caribou call, the freshness, the freedom, the farness, O God, how I'm stuck on it all.
The winter, the brightness that blinds you, the white land locked tight as a drum, the cold fear that follows and finds you, the silence that bludgeons you dumb, the snows that are older than history, the woods where the weird shadows slant, The stillness, the moonlight, the mystery. I've bade them good-bye, but I can't. There's a land where the mountains are nameless, and the rivers all run, God knows where. There are lives that are erring and aimless, and deaths that just hang by a hair. There are hardships that nobody reckons. There are valleys unpeopled and still. There's a land, oh, it beckons and beckons. And I want to go back, and I will. They're making my money dimnish. I'm sick of the taste of champagne.
Thank God when I'm skinned to a finish, I'll pike to the Yukon again. I'll fight, and you bet it's no sham fight. It's hell, but I have been there before, and it's better than this by a damn sight. So me for the Yukon once more, there's gold. And it's haunting and haunting. It's luring me on as of old. Yet it isn't the gold that I'm wanting, so much as just finding the gold. It's the great big broad land way up yonder. It's the forest where silence has lease. It's the beauty that thrills me with wonder. It's the stillness that fills me with peace.
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4 The Spell of the Yukon - Read by CJRG 4:46
Servus. I wanted the gold, and I sought it. I scrabbled and mucked like a slave. Was it famine or scurvy, I fought it. I hurled my youth into a grave. I wanted the gold, and I got it. Came out with a fortune last fall. Yet somehow life's not what I thought it, and somehow the gold isn't all. No, there's the land. Have you seen it? It's the cussidest land that I know, from the big, dizzy mountains that screen it, to the deep, death-like valleys below. Some say God was tired when he made it. Some say it's a fine land to shun. Maybe, but there's some as would trade it for no land on earth, and I'm one. You come to get rich, damn good reason. You feel like an exile at first. You hate it like hell for a season.
And then you are worse than the worst. It grips you like some kind of sinning. It twists you from foe to a friend. It seems it's been since the beginning. It seems it will be to the end.
I've stood in some mighty-mouthed hollow that's plumbful of hush to the brim. I've watched the big, husky sun wallow in crimson and gold and grow dim till the moon set the pearly peaks gleaming and the stars tumbled out, neck and crop. And I've thought that I surely was dreaming with a piece o' the world piled on top. The summer no sweeter was ever. The sunshiny woods all a-thrill. The grayling a-leap in the river. The big horn asleep on the hill. The strong life that never knows harness. The wilds where the caribou call. The freshness, the freedom, the farness. O God, how I'm stuck on it all. The winter, the brightness that blinds you, the white land locked tight as a drum, the cold fear that follows and finds you, the silence that bludgeons you dumb, the snows that are older than history, The woods where the weird shadows slant.
The stillness, the moonlight, the mystery. I've bade em good-bye, but I can't. There's a land where the mountains are nameless, and the rivers all run, God knows where. There are lives that are erring and aimless, and deaths that just hang by a hair. There are hardships that nobody reckons. There are valleys, unpeopled and still. There's a land. Oh, it beckons and beckons. And I want to go back. And I will. They're making my money diminish. I'm sick of the taste of champagne. Thank God, when I'm skinned to a finish, I'll pike to the Yukon again. I'll fight, and you bet it's no sham fight. It's hell, but I've been there before, and it's better than this by a damn sight. So me for the Yukon once more.
There's gold, and it's haunting and haunting. It's luring me on as of old. Yet it isn't the gold that I'm wanting. So much as just finding the gold. It's the great, big, broad land way up yonder. It's the forests where silence has lease. It's the beauty that thrills me with wonder. It's the stillness that fills me with peace.
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5 The Spell of the Yukon - Read by DL 3:42
Servus.
I wanted the gold, and I sought it. I scrabbled and mucked like a slave. Was it famine or scurvy? I fought it. I hurled my youth into a grave. I wanted the gold, and I got it. Came out with a fortune last fall. Yet somehow life's not what I thought it. And somehow the gold isn't all. No, there's the land. Have you seen it? It's the Cussidist land that I know, from the big dizzy mountains that screen it to the deep deathlike valleys below. Some say God was tired when he made it. Some say it's a fine land to shun. May be, but there's some as would trade it for no land on earth. And I'm one. You come to get rich. Damn good reason. You feel like an exile at first. You hate it like hell for a season, and then you are worse than the worst.
It grips you like some kind of sinning. It twists you from foe to a friend. It seems it's been since the beginning. It seems it will be to the end. I've stood in some mighty-mouthed hollow that's plumb full of hush to the brim. I've watched the big husky sun wallow in crimson and gold and grow dim. Till the moon set the pearly peaks gleaming, and the stars tumbled out, neck and crop. And I've thought that I surely was dreaming, with the peace of the world piled on top. The summer, no sweeter was ever, the sunshiny woods all a-thrill, the grayling a-leap in the river, the bighorn asleep on the hill, the strong life that never knows harness, the wilds where the caribou call, The freshness, the freedom, the farness.
Oh, God, how I'm stuck on it all. The winter, the brightness that blinds you, the white land locked tight as a drum, the cold fear that follows and finds you, the silence that bludgeons you dumb. The snows that are older than history, the woods where the weird shadows slant. The stillness, the moonlight, the mystery. I've bade him good-bye. But I can't. There's a land where the mountains are nameless, and the rivers all run God knows where. There are lives that are erring and aimless, and deaths that just hang by a hair. There are hardships that nobody reckons. There are valleys, unpeopled and still. There's a land—oh, it beckons and beckons—and I want to go back—and I will. They're making my money diminish.
I'm sick of the taste of champagne. Thank God when I'm skinned to a finish, I'll pike to the Yukon again. I'll fight, and you bet it's no sham fight. It's hell, but I've been there before. And it's better than this by a dam sight, so me for the Yukon once more. There's gold, and it's haunting and haunting. It's luring me on as of old. Yet it isn't the gold that I'm wanting. So much as just finding the gold. It's the great big broad land way up yonder. It's the forest where silence has lease. It's the beauty that thrills me with wonder. It's the stillness that fills me with peace.
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6 The Spell of the Yukon - Read by JOC 4:02
By James O'Connor. November, two thousand and nine.
I wanted the gold, and I sought it. I scrabbled and mucked like a slave. Was it famine or scurvy? I fought it. I hurled my youth into a grave. I wanted the gold, and I got it. Came out with a fortune last fall. Yet somehow life's not what I thought it, and somehow the gold isn't all. No, there's the land. Have you seen it? It's the cussidest land that I know, from the big dizzy mountains that screen it, to the deep death-like valleys below. Some say God was tired when he made it. Some say it's a fine land to shun. Maybe, but there's some as would trade it, for no land on earth. And I'm one. You come to get rich, damned good reason. You feel like an exile at first. You hate it like hell for a season.
And then you are worse than the worst. It grips you like some kind of sinning. It twists you from foe to a friend. It seems it's been since the beginning. It seems it will be to the end.
I've stood in some mighty-mouthed hollow. That's plumbful of hush to the brim. I've watched the big husky sun wallow in crimson and gold and grow dim. Till the moon set the pearly peaks gleaming, and the stars tumbled out, neck and crop. And I thought that I surely was dreaming, with the peace of the world piled on top. The summer no sweeter was ever, the sunshiny woods all a-thrill. The grayling a-leap in the river, the big horn asleep on the hill, the strong light that never knows harness, the wilds where the caribou call, the freshness, the freedom, the farness. Oh, God, how I'm stuck on it all. The winter, the brightness that blinds you, the white land locked tight as a drum, the cold fear that follows and finds you.
The silence that bludgeoned you dumb. The snows that are older than history. The woods where the weird shadows slant. The stillness. The moonlight. The mystery. I bade em good-bye. But I can't. There's a land where the mountains are nameless, and the rivers all run God knows where. There are lives that are erring and aimless, and deaths that just hang by a hair. There are hardships that nobody reckons. There are valleys unpeopled and still. There's a land, oh, it beckons and beckons. And I want to go back. And I will. They're making my money diminish. I'm sick of the taste of champagne. Thank God when I'm skinned to a finish. I'll pike to the Yukon again. I'll fight, and you bet it's no sham fight.
It's hell. But I've been there before, and it's better than this by a damn sight, so me for the Yukon once more. There's gold, and it's haunting and haunting. It's luring me on as of old. Yet it isn't the gold that I'm wanting, so much as just finding the gold. It's the great, big, broad land way up yonder. It's the forests, where silence has lease. It's the beauty that thrills me with wonder. It's the stillness that fills me with peace.
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7 The Spell of the Yukon- Read by KYR 4:01
Servis. Read for LibriVox.org by Katie Riley. January, 2010. I wanted the gold, and I sawed it. I scrabbled and mucked like a slave. Was it famine or scurvy? I fought it. I hurled my youth into a grave. I wanted the gold, and I got it. Came out with a fortune last fall. Yet somehow life's not what I thought it, and somehow the gold isn't all. No, there's the land. Have you seen it? It's the cussidest land that I know, from the big dizzy mountains that screen it to the deep death-like valleys below. Some say God was tired when he made it. Some say it's a fine land to shun. Maybe, but there's some as would trade it, for no land on earth, and I'm one. You come to get rich, damned good reason. You feel like an exile at first.
You hate it like hell for a season, and then you are worse than the worst. It grips you like some kind of sinning. It twists you from foe to a friend. It seems it's been since the beginning. It seems it will be to the end.
I've stood in some mighty-mouthed hollow that's plumbful of hush to the brim. I've watched the big husky sun wallow in crimson and gold and grow dim. Till the moon set the pearly peaks gleaming, and the stars tumbled out neck and crop. And I've thought that I surely was dreaming, with the peace of the world piled on top. The summer, no sweeter was ever, the sunshiny woods all a-thrill, the grayling a-leap in the river, The bighorn asleep on the hill. The strong life that never knows harness. The wilds where the caribou call. The freshness, the freedom, the farness. Oh, God, how I'm stuck on it all. The winter, the brightness that blinds you, the white land locked tight as a drum, the cold fear that follows and finds you, the silence that bludgeons you dumb.
The snows that are older than history, the woods where the weird shadows slant, the stillness, the moonlight, the mystery. I've bade em good-bye, but I can't. There's a land where the mountains are nameless, and the rivers all run God knows where. There are lives that are erring and aimless, and deaths that just hang by a hair. There are hardships that nobody reckons, There are valleys unpeopled and still. There's a land—oh, it beckons and beckons—and I want to go back—and I will. They're making my money diminish. I'm sick of the taste of champagne. Thank God, when I'm skinned to a finish, I'll pike to the Yukon again. I'll fight, and you bet it's no sham fight. It's hell, but I've been there before.
And it's better than this by a damn sight, so for me, the Yukon, once more. There's gold, and it's haunting and haunting. It's luring me on as of old. Yet it isn't the gold that I'm wanting, so much as just finding the gold. It's the great big broad land way up yonder. It's the forest where silence has lease. It's the beauty that thrills me with wonder. It's the stillness That fills me with peace.
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8 The Spell of the Yukon - Read by LLP 4:31
Servis. Read for LibriVox. Org by Linda Lee.
I wanted the gold, and I sought it. I scrabbled and mucked like a slave. Was it famine or scurvy? I fought it. I hurled my youth into a grave. I wanted the gold, and I got it. Came out with a fortune last fall. Yet somehow life's not what I thought it, and somehow the gold isn't all. No, there's the land. Have you seen it? It's the cussidest land that I know. From the big, dizzy mountains that screen it, to the deep, deathlike valleys below. Some say God was tired when he made it. Some say it's a fine land to shun. Maybe. But there's some as would trade it for no land on earth, and I'm one. You come to get rich, damned good reason. You feel like an exile at first. You hate it like hell for a season.
And then you are worse than the worst. It grips you like some kinds of sinning. It twists you from foe to a friend. It seems it's been since the beginning. It seems it will be to the end. I've stood in some mighty-mouthed hollow that's plumbful of hush to the brim. I've watched the big husky sun wallow in crimson and gold and grow dim. Till the moon sets the pearly peaks gleaming, and the stars tumbled out, neck and crop. And I've thought that I surely was dreaming. With the peace o' the world piled on top. The summer, no sweeter was ever, the sunshiny woods all athrill, the grayling a-leap in the river, the bighorn asleep on the hill, the strong life that never knows harness, the wilds where the caribou call, the freshness, the freedom, the farness, O God, how I'm stuck on it all.
The winter, the brightness that blinds you, the white land locked tight as a drum, the cold fear that follows and finds you, the silence that bludgeons you dumb. The snows that are older than history, the woods where the weird shadows slant, the stillness, the moonlight, The mystery. I've bade him goodbye, but I can't. There's a land where the mountains are nameless, and the rivers all run God knows where. There are lives that are erring and aimless, and deaths that just hang by a hair. There are hardships that nobody reckons. There are valleys unpeopled and still. There's a land— Oh, it beckons and beckons, and I want to go back, and I will. They're making my money diminish. I'm sick of the taste of champagne.
Thank God, when I'm skinned to a finish, I'll pike to the Yukon again. I'll fight, and you bet it's no sham fight. It's hell, but I've been there before. And it's better than this by a damn sight. So me for the Yukon once more. There's gold, and it's haunting and haunting. It's luring me on as of old. Yet it isn't the gold that I'm wanting, so much as just finding the gold. It's the great big broad land way up yonder. It's the forests where silence has lease. It's the beauty that thrills me with wonder. It's the stillness that fills me with peace.
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9 The Spell of the Yukon - read by MFS 4:11
Service. Read for Libra Box. Org by Mark Smith of Simpsonville, South Carolina.
I wanted the gold and I sought it. I scrabbled and mucked like a slave. Was it famine or scurvy? I fought it. I hurled my youth into a grave. I wanted the gold and I got it. Came out with a fortune last fall. Yet somehow life's not what I thought it, and somehow the gold isn't all. No, there's the land. Have you seen it? It's the cussidest land that I know, from the big dizzy mountains that screen it to the deep deathlike valleys below. Some say God was tired when He made it. Some say it's a fine land to shun. Maybe, but there's some as would trade it for no land on earth. And I'm one. You come to get rich, damned good reason. You feel like an exile at first. You hate it like hell for a season, and then you are worse than the worst.
It grips you like some kind of sinning. It twists you from foe to a friend. It seems it's been since the beginning. It seems it will be to the end. I've stood in some mighty-mouthed hollow that's plumbful of hush to the brim. I've watched the big husky sun wallow in crimson and gold and grow dim, till the moon set the pearly peaks gleamin' and the stars tumbled out, neck and crop, and I thought that I surely was dreamin' with a piece of the world piled on top. The summer, no sweeter was ever. The sunshiny woods all a-thrill, the grayling a-leap in the river, the bighorn asleep on the hill, the strong life that never knows harness, the wilds where the caribou call, the freshness, the freedom, the farness—oh, God, how I'm stuck on it all!
The winter, the brightness that blinds you, the white land locked tight as a drum, The cold fear that follows and finds you, the silence that bludgeons you dumb, the snows that are older than history, the woods where the weird shadows slant, the stillness, the moonlight, the mystery. I've bade him goodbye, but I can't. There's a land where the mountains are nameless and the rivers all run God knows where. There are lives that are erring and aimless, and deaths that just hang by a hair. There are hardships that nobody reckons. There are valleys unpeopled and still. There's a land. Oh, it beckons and beckons, and I want to go back, and I will. They're making my money diminish. I'm sick of the taste of champagne.
Thank God, when I'm skinned to a finish, I'll pike to the Yukon again. I'll fight, and you bet it's no sham-fight. It's hell, but I've been there before, and it's better than this by a damn sight, so me for the Yukon wants more. There's gold, and it's haunting and haunting. It's luring me on as of old. Yet it isn't the gold that I'm wantin' so much as just findin' the gold. It's the great big broad land way up yonder. It's the forest where silence has lease. It's the beauty that thrills me with wonder. It's the stillness that fills me with peace.
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10 The Spell of the Yukon - Read by RGM 4:14
Servus. I wanted the gold, and I sought it. I scrabbled and mucked like a slave. Was it famine or scurvy? I fought it. I hurled my youth into a grave. I wanted the gold, and I got it. Came out with a fortune last fall. Yet somehow life's not what I thought it, and somehow the gold isn't all. No, there's the land. Have you seen it? It's the cussedness land that I know. From the big dizzy mountains that screen it, to the deep death-like valleys below. Some say God was tired when he made it. Some say it's a fine land to shun. Maybe, but there's some as would trade it. For no land on earth, and I'm one. You come to get rich, damned good reason. You feel like an exile at first. You hate it like hell for a season, and then you are worse than the worst.
It grips you like some kind of sinning. It twists you from foe to a friend. It seems it's been since the beginning. It seems it will be to the end. I've stood in some mighty-mouthed hollow that's plumb full of hush to the brim. I've watched the big husky sun wallow in crimson and gold and grow dim. Till the moon set the pearly peaks gleaming and the stars tumbled out, neck and crop. And I've thought that I surely was dreaming, with the peace of the world piled on top. The summer no sweeter was ever. The sunshiny woods all a-thrill. The grayling a-leap in the river, the big horn asleep on the hill. The strong life that never knows harness. The wilds where the caribou call. The freshness, the freedom, the farness.
Oh, God, how I'm stuck on it all. The winter, the brightness that blinds you, the white land locked tight as a drum. The cold fear that follows and finds you, the silence that bludgeons you dumb. The snows that are older than history, the woods where the weird shadows slant, the stillness, the moonlight, the mystery. I've bade him good-bye, but I can't. There's a land where the mountains are nameless and the rivers all run God knows where. There are lives that are erring and aimless, and deaths that just hang by a hair. There are hardships that nobody reckons. There are valleys unpeopled and still. There's a land. Oh, it beckons and beckons. And I want to go back, and I will. They're making my money diminish.
I'm sick of the taste of champagne. Thank God, when I'm skinned to a finish, I'll pike to the Yukon again. I'll fight, and you bet it's no sham fight. It's hell, but I've been there before. And it's better than this by a damn sight, so me for the Yukon once more. There's gold, and it's haunting and haunting. It's luring me on as of old. Yet it isn't the gold that I'm wanting, so much as just finding the gold. It's the great big broad land way up yonder. It's the forests where silence has lease. It's the beauty that thrills me with wonder. It's the stillness that fills me with peace.
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11 The Spell of the Yukon - Read by RN 4:37
I wanted the gold, and I sought it. I scrabbled and mucked like a slave. Was it famine or scurvy? I fought it. I hurled my youth into a grave. I wanted the gold, and I got it. Came out with a fortune last fall. Yet somehow life's not what I thought it, and somehow the gold isn't all. No, there's the land. Have you seen it? It's the cussidest land that I know, from the big dizzy mountains that screen it, to the deep death-like valleys below. Some say God was tired when he made it. Some say it's a fine land to shun. Maybe. But there's some as would trade it, for no land on earth, and I'm one. You come to get rich, damn good reason. You feel like an exile at first. You hate it like hell for a season, and then you are worse than the worst.
It grips you like some kinds of sinning. It twists you from foe to a friend. It seems it's been since the beginning. It seems it will be to the end.
I've stood in some mighty-mouthed hollow that's plumb full of hush to the brim. I've watched the big husky sun wallow in crimson and gold and grow dim till the moon set the pearly peaks gleaming and the stars tumbled out, neck and crop. And I've thought that I surely was dreaming with the peace of the world piled on top. The summer, no sweeter was ever, the sunshiny woods all a-thrill, the grayling a-leap in the river, the bighorn asleep on the hill, the strong life that never knows harness, the wilds where the caribou call, the freshness The freedom, the farness—oh, God, how I'm stuck on it all! The winter, the brightness that blinds you, the white land locked tight as a drum, the cold fear that follows and finds you, the silence that bludgeons you dumb, the snows that are older than history, the woods where the weird shadows slant, the stillness The moonlight, the mystery.
I've bade them good-bye, but I can't. There's a land where the mountains are nameless, and the rivers all run God knows where. There are lives that are erring and aimless, and deaths that just hang by our hair. There are hardships that nobody reckons. There are valleys unpeopled and still. There's a land, oh, it beckons and beckons, and I want to go back, and I will. They're making my money diminish. I'm sick of the taste of champagne. Thank God, when I'm skinned to a finish, I'll pike to the Yukon again. I'll fight, and you bet it's no sham fight. It's hell, but I've been there before. And it's better than this by a damn sight, so me for the Yukon wants more. There's gold, and it's haunting and haunting.
It's luring me on as of old. Yet it isn't the gold that I'm wanting, so much as just finding the gold. It's the great big broad land way up yonder. It's the forests, Where silence has lease. It's the beauty that thrills me with wonder. It's the stillness that fills me with peace.
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12 The Spell of the Yukon - Read by SMH 3:22
Servus.
I wanted the gold, and I sought it. I scrabbled and mucked like a slave. Was it famine or scurvy? I fought it. I hurled my youth into a grave. I wanted the gold, and I got it. Came out with a fortune last fall. Yet somehow life's not what I thought it, and somehow the gold isn't all. No, there's the land. Have you seen it? It's the cussidest land that I know, from the big, dizzy mountains that screen it to the deep, deathlike valleys below. Some say God was tired when he made it. Some say it's a fine land to shun. May be, but there's some as would trade it for no land on earth, and I'm one. You come to get rich, damned good reason. You feel like an exile at first. You hate it like hell for a season, and then you are worse than the worst.
It grips you like some kinds of sinning. It twists you from foe to a friend. It seems it's been since the beginning. It seems it will be to the end. I've stood in some mighty-mouthed hollow that's plumbful of hush to the brim. I've watched the big husky sun wallow in crimson and gold and grow dim. Till the moon set the pearly peaks gleaming and the stars tumbled out, neck and crop. And I've thought that I surely was dreaming with the peace of the world piled on top. The summer, no sweeter was ever, the sunshiny woods all a-thrill, the grayling a-leap in the river, the big horn asleep on the hill, the strong life that never knows harness, the wilds where the caribou call, the freshness, the freedom, the fairness—oh, God, how I'm stuck on it all.
The winter, the brightness that blinds you, The white land locked tight as a drum, the cold fear that follows and finds you, the silence that bludgeons you dumb. The snows that are older than history, the woods where the weird shadows slant, the stillness, the moonlight, the mystery. I've bade them good-bye, but I can't. There's a land where the mountains are nameless, and the rivers all run God knows where. There are lives that are erring and aimless, and deaths that just hang by a hair. There are hardships that nobody reckons. There are valleys unpeopled and still. There's a land. Oh, it beckons and beckons, and I want to go back, and I will. They're making my money diminish. I'm sick of the taste of champagne.
Thank God, when I'm skinned to a finish, I'll pike to the Yukon again. I'll fight, and you bet it's no sham fight. It's hell, but I've been there before. And it's better than this by a dam sight, so me for the Yukon once more. There's gold, and it's haunting and haunting, it's luring me on as of old. Yet it isn't the gold that I'm wanting, so much as just finding the gold. It's the great big broad land way up yonder, it's the forests where silence has lease, it's the beauty that thrills me with wonder, it's the stillness that fills me with peace.
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13 The Spell of the Yukon - Read by TK 4:36
Servis. Read for LibriVox. Org by Taslim Khan. December 31st, 2009, Philadelphia, PA.
I wanted the gold, and I sought it. I scabbled and mucked like a slave. Was it famine or scurvy? I fought it. I hurled my youth into a grave. I wanted the gold, and I got it. Came out with a fortune last fall. Yet somehow life's not what I thought it. And somehow the gold isn't all. No. There's the land. Have you seen it? It's the cussidest land that I know. From the big, dizzy mountains that screen it. To the deep death-like valleys below. Some say God was tired when he made it. Some say it's a fine land to shun. Maybe. But there's some as would trade it for no land on earth. And I'm one. You come to get rich. Damned good reason. You feel like an exile at first. You hate it like hell for a season.
And then you are worse than the worst. It grips you like some kind of sinning. It twists you from foe to a friend. It seems it's been since the beginning. It seems it will be to the end. I've stood in some mighty-mouthed hollow that's plumb full of hush to the brim. I've watched the big husky sun wallow in crimson and gold and grow dim, till the moon set the pearly peaks gleaming, and the stars tumbled out neck and crop, and I've thought that I surely was dreaming, with the peace of the world piled on top. The summer. No sweeter was ever. The sunshiny woods all athrill, the grayling a-leap in the river, the big horn asleep on the hill, the strong life that never knows harness, the wilds where the caribou call, the freshness, the freedom, the farness, oh, God, how I'm stuck on it all.
The winter, the brightness that blinds you. The white land locked tight as a drum. The cold fear that follows and finds you. The silence that bludgeons you dumb. The snows that are older than history. The woods where the weird shadows slant. The stillness. The moonlight. The mystery. I've bade em good-bye, but I can't. There's a land. Where the mountains are nameless, and the rivers all run God knows where. There are lives that are erring and aimless, and deaths that just hang by a hair. There are hardships that nobody reckons. There are valleys, unpeopled and still. There's a land. Oh, it beckons and beckons. And I want to go back. And I will. They're making my money diminish. I'm sick of the taste of champagne.
Thank God, when I'm skinned to a finish, I'll pike to the Yukon again. I'll fight, and you bet it's no sham fight. It's hell. But I've been there before, and it's better than this by a damn sight. So me for the Yukon once more. There's gold, and it's haunting and haunting. It's luring me on as of old. Yet it isn't the gold that I'm wanting so much as just finding the gold. It's the great, big, broad land, way up yonder. It's the forests where silence has lease. It's the beauty that thrills me with wonder. And it's the stillness that fills me with peace.