There are strange things done in the midnight sun by the man who moil for gold. The Arctic trails are their secret tales that would make your blood run cold. The Northern Lights of Seen Queer Sights, but the queerest they ever did see, was that night on the Marge of Lake LeBage, accrimated Sam McGee. Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee where the Colton Blooms and Blooms, while he left his home in the south to roam around the pole, God only knows. But he was always cold, with the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell, though he'd often say in his homely way that he'd sooner live in hell. On a Christmas day we were mushing our way over the Dorsen Trail, talk of your cold, through the park as fold it stabbed like a driven nail. If our eyes we'd close on the lashes fro still sometimes we couldn't see. Hey, it wasn't much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee. That very night as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow the dogs refed the stars o'head were dancing heel and toe. He turned to me and capped, says he. I'll cash in this trip, I guess, and if I do I'm asking it's you won't refuse my last request. Well, he seems so know that I couldn't say no. Then he says in a sort of a moon, it's the cursed cold and it's got right old till I'm chill, clean through to the bone. Yet tanked being dead, it's my awful dreaded eye she'd graze the pains, so I want you to swear to foul her fair you'll cremate my last remains. Well, pal's last knee is a thing to hear and I swore I would not fail. When we started on at the streak of dawn, but God, he looked ghastly pale. He was crouched on the slain, he raved all day of his home in Tennessee. And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee. I, there wasn't a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horrid, driven with a corpse half-head that I couldn't get rid because of a promise given. It was lashed to the slay and it seemed to say, you may tax your brawn and your brains, but you promised true it's up to you to cremate those last remains. Now a promise made is a debt on paid. And the trail has its own stern cold in the days to come when my lips were dumb in my heart how I cursed that load. In the long, long nights by the long fire light while huskies round and ring howled out their woes to the homeless snows. Oh, God, how I loath the thing. And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavier and heavier grow. And all I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low. The trail was bad and I felt half mad, but swore I wouldn't give in. And then often sing, so the hateful thing and it harkened with a grin. Till I came to the march of Lake La Barge and there a derelict lay it was jammed in the ice, but so on a trice it was called the Alice May. I looked at it, then I thought of it, then 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 I heaped the fuel higher. The flames just soared and the furnace broad such a blaze I sell them sea and I buttered a hole through the glowing coal and I stuffed in Sam McGee. Then I made a hike, but I didn't like to hear him sizzle, so when the heaven scowled and the huskies howled and the wind began to blow. Oh, it was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks and I don't know why. And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky. Now, I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grizzly fear, but the stars came out and danced about air again, I ventured near. I was sick with dread, but abriably said I'll just take a peep in the side. I guess he's cooked and it's time I looked and that door I opened wide. And there said Sam looking cool and calm in the heart of the furnace roar and he wore a smile you could see a smile and he said, please close that door. It's fine in here, but a greatly fear you'll let in the cold and storm. Since I left Plum Tree down Tennessee it's first time I've been warm. I had a strange thing's done in the midnight sun by the men who moiled for gold. The Arctic trails are the secret tales that would make your blood run cold. For northern lights have seen queer sights, but the quearest they ever did see was that night on the march of Lake LeBage. I cremated Sam McGee.