Flash in the Pan Index of Stories and Songs __________________________ ACT ONE. 3. Klondike -song 4. Dawson City 4. Sardine -song 5. Sourdough Saloons 6. Ice Worm Cocktail 11 A Miner's Life -song 12 A Sourdough Story 14 Balogna -song 15 Swiftwater Bill 15 The Prisoner -song 16 Diamond Tooth Gertie 16 Inspiration Doll -song ACT TWO. 18 Lip Stick Liz -song 19 Cannibal Joe 20 A Million Miles from Home -song 20 Blasphemous Bill 24 Bread Knife -song 24 Three Bares 27 Jim Christie and the Grizzly 29 The Lure of Little Voices -song 30 The Diary 32 Miles from Home -song 32 To Build a Fire 38 The Spell of the Yukon 40 Klondike -song. _____________________________________________ 1. Klondike. Come to the place where they struck it rich. Come where the treasure lies hid; Where a hat full of mud is a five pound note, And the clod on your heel is a quid. In the Klondike, Klondike, Label your luggage for Klondike. Oh, there aint no luck in the town today. Aint no work down Shoreditch way, So pack up your traps and be off, I say; Off and away to the Klondike... There were boatloads of bank clerks, Bookkeepers and boiler makers, Sodbusters and sidewinders, Sundowners and belly-achers, Draggin ox carts and horse carts, And dog sleds and gunny sacks, Full of green eggs and baked beans, And gum boots and moustache wax. Then the dancing girls and the city slickers, The wife beaters and the lady-killers, The cuckolds and the card sharks, And the surgeons and the tooth drillers, The gold diggers and the gun slingers, And the cow punchers and the convicts, The holy rollers and the haberdashers, And the Oxford Dons and the private dicks! And they all sailed down the Yukon River and stopped at a place called Dawson City, to seek their fortunes in the greatest gold rush in history; the Kondike Gold Rush of 1898... Oh, you scratches the earth and it tumbles out; More than your pockets can hold. Where the hills above and the plains below Are cracking and bursting with gold! In the Klondike, Klondike; Label your luggage for Klondike. Oh, there aint no luck in the town today; Aint no luck down Shoreditch way, So pack up your traps and be off, I say- Off and away to the Klondike!... 2. Dawson City. There's a sleepy little town in the Yukon, just south of the Arctic Circle, with a population of about 700. But in 1898 this Dawson City was an overnight boomtown of 30,00 and the home of some very famous people. People like Calamity Jane, Nellie Bligh, Arizona Charlie Meadows. Jack London went up there, too; got scurvy and lost all his teeth. And then there were the dancehall girls; Montreal Marie, The Oregon Mare, Claw Fingered Kitty, and Golden Gut Flossie! But the most famous of the Dance Hall Girls was a lady by the name of Klondike Kate. She made a bundle of money, and gave it all to a smooth talking businessman named Alexander Pantages. And if that name seems familiar it's because there's hardly a theatre in North America that doesn't have a Pantages Theatre in it. During the Gold Rush their love affair was the rage of Dawson City. And in any real love affair, as we all know, it's the little things that count. In this love affair the little thing was a sardine... 3. Sardine. A fat man sat in an orchestra stall, And his cheeks were wet with tears, As he gazed at the prima donna tall, Whom he hadn't seen in years. Ah, don't your remember, he murmured low, When you were just a lass, How hand in hand we used to go To our nightly singing class. Ah, me those days, so rich, so rare, Those days of hope and cheer, And the little supper that we had, Of tinned sardines and beer. You looked just like a little queen, With your proud and haughty air, That I took from the box that last sardine, And entwined it in your hair. Oh, that sardine in your hair, I can see in shining there, As I took it from the box, And I put it in your locks. Silver sardine in your hair, Like a jewel rich and rare. Oh, that little silver sardine in your hair. 4. Sourdough Saloons. One hundred thousand men and women started out for the Klondike. Less than half of them made it. And the ones that broke their backs and hearts to get up the west coast to Alaska, over the Chilkoot Trail, and down the lakes and rivers to the gold fields, arrived in Dawson City just in time to find out than most of the major claims had already been staked. And to make matters worse, there was a huge famine in the city; just too many humans and not enough food. So most of 'em had to turn around and run back outside before freeze-up came and they would starve to death. For the few that were foolish enough to remain behind, it was a pretty rough go; living in tiny shacks, out along the icy river beds, and existing mainly on the nourishment of sourdough. Sourdough batter, placed by the stove, would ferment and act as a natural yeast to make bread rise. It gave a very distinctive quality to the taste of flapjacks and helped to mask the rancid flavour of old beans and bacon grease. They also discovered that a mixture of sourdough and black-strap molasses could be distilled into an alcoholic beverage called barbed-wire hooch; named hooch, for the booze and barbed wire, for the way it felt in your stomach. Thus hardship was turned into a way of life, these men wearing their adversity like a badge of honour; calling themselves Sourdoughs and holding regular meetings in what became known as Arctic Sourdough Saloons. A saloon might not have been anything more than a tent, but to the Sourdough, it was a very exclusive club; very difficult for newcomers to break in. Newcomers were called Cheechakos. It's the Indian word for Greenhorn, and down at the Malamute Saloon they put these Greenhorns to the test... 5. Ice Worm Cocktail. To Dawson town came Percy Brown, >>From London, on the Thames. A pane of glass was in his eye, And stockings on his stems. Upon the shoulder of his coat, A leather pad he wore, To rest his deadly rifle, When it wasn't seeking gore; The which it must have often been, For Major Percy Brown, According to his story, Was a hunter of renown, Who, in the Murrumbidgee wilds, Had stalked the kangaroo And killed the Cassowary On the planes of Timbucktoo. And now, the Arctic fox He meant to follow to its lair, And it was also his intent To beard the Arctic hare. Which facts concerning Major Brown, I merely tell because I fain would have you know him, For the Nimrod that he was. Now, Skipper Gray and Deacon White Were sitting in the shack And sampling of the whiskey That pertained to Sherrif Black. Said Skipper Gray; "I want to say A word about this Brown. The piker's sticking out his chest, As if he owns the town. Said Sheriff Black; "He has no lack of fridgerated cheek; Calls himself a Sourdough, He aint been here a week!" Said Deacon White; Methinks you're right, And so I have a plan, By which I hope to prove, tonight, The mettle of the man. Just meet me where the hooch bird sings, And though our ways be rude, We'll make a proper sourdough Of this Piccadilly dude!" Within the Malamute saloon Were gathered all the gang. The fun was fast and furious, And loud the hooch bird sang. In fact, the night's hilarity Had almost reached its crown, When into its storm centre Breezed the gallant Major Brown. And at the apparition, With its glass eye and plus-fours, >>From fifty alcoholic throats Resounded fifty roars. With shouts of stark amazement, And with whoops of sheer delight, They surged around the stranger, But the first was Deacon White. "We welcome you!" He cried aloud, "To this, the great white land. The Arctic brotherhood is proud To grip you by the hand. Yea, sportsman of the bull-dog breed, >>From trails of far away, To Yukoners, this is indeed, A memorable day. Our jubilation, to express, Vocabularies fail; Boys hail the great Cheechako!" And the boys responded; "Hell!" "And now, continued Deacon White, To blushing Major Brown, "Behold assembled, the elite And cream of Dawson town. And one ambition fills their hearts, And makes their bosoms glow; They want to make you, honoured sir, A bonifide Sourdough! The same, some say, as one Who's seen the Yukon ice go out, But most profound authorities, This definition doubt. And, to the genial notion Of this meeting, Major Brown, A Sourdough is a guy who drinks An iceworm cocktail down!" "By Gad!" responded Major Brown, "That's ripping, don't you know. I've always felt I'd like to be A certified Sourdough. And though I haven't any doubt Your winter's awfully nice, Mayfair, I fear, may miss me, Ere the break-up of your ice. Yet pray excuse my ignorance Of matters such as these, A cocktail I can understand, But what's an ice worm, please?" Said Deacon White; "It is not strange That you should fail to know, Since Ice worms are peculiar to The mountain of blue snow. Within the polar rim it rears; A solitary peak, And in the smoke of early spring, A spectacle unique, Like flame it leaps upon the sight, And thrills you through and though, For though its cone is piercing white, Its base is blazing blue. Yet all is clear, as you draw near, For coyly peering out, Are hosts and hosts of tiny worms, Each indigo of snout. And as no nourishment they find To keep themselves alive, They masticate each other's tails Till just the tough survive. Yet, on this stern and Spartan fare, So rapidly they grow, That some attain six inches, By the melting of the snow. Then when the tundra glows to green, And all the weeds appear, They burrow down and are not seen, Until another year." "A toughish yarn," laughed Major Brown, "As well you may admit. I'd like to see this little beast, Before I swallow it." "Tis easy done," Said Deacon White, "Ho, Barman! Haste and bring Us forth some pickled ice worms Of the vintage of last spring." But sadly still was Barman Bill, Then sighed, as one bereft; "There's been a run on cocktails, boss. There aint an ice worm left. Yet, wait- By gosh, it seems to me, That some of extra size Were picked and put away To show them scientific guys." Then deeply in a drawer he sought, And there he found a jar, The which with due and proper pride, He put upon the bar. And in it, wreathed in queasy rings, Or rolled into a ball, A score of gray and greasy things Were drowned in alcohol. Their bellies were a bilious blue, Their eyes a bulbous red. Their backs were gray and gross were they, And hideous of head. And, when with gusto and a fork, The barman speared one out, It must have gone six inches, >>From it's tail-tip to it's snout. Said Deacon White, with deep delight; "Say, isn't that a beaut?" "I think it is," sniffed Major Brown, "A most disgustin brute! Its very sight gives me the pips. I'll bet my Ballet hat, You're only spoofing me, Old Chap; You'll never swallow that!" "The Hell, I won't!" said Deacon White, "Hey, Bill; that fellow's fine. Fix up four ice-worm cocktails, And just put that wop in mine!" So, barman Bill got busy, And with sacerdotal air, His art's supreme achievement He proceeded to prepare. His silver cups, like sickle-moon, Went waving to and fro, And four celestial cocktails Soon were shining in a row. And in the starry depths of each, Artistically piled, A fat and juicy ice-worm raised Its mottled mug and smiled. Then Skipper Grey and Sheriff Black Each lifted up a glass, As through the tense and quiet crowd A tremor seemed to pass. "Drink, stranger, Drink!" Boomed Deacon White. "Proclaim you're of the best; A doughty Sourdough who had passed The ice-worm cocktail test!" And at these words, with all eyes fixed On gaping Major Brown, Like a libation from the gods, Each dashed his cocktail down. The Major gasped with horror, As the trio smacked their lips. He twiddled at his eye-glass, With unsteady finger tips. Into his starry cocktail, With a look of woe he peered, And its ice-worm, to his thinking, Most incontinently leered. Then round him ringed the callous crowd, And how they seemed to gloat! It must be done; he swallowed hard; The brute was at his throat! He choked! He gulped! Thank God! At last he'd got the horror down. Then from the crowd went up a roar; "Hooray for Sourdough Brown!" With shouts they raised him shoulder high, And gave a rousing cheer, But though they praised him to the sky, The Major did not hear. Amid their demonstrative glee, Delight he seemed to lack; Indeed, it almost seemed the he Was "keeping something back!" A clammy sweat was on his brow, And pallid as a sheet; "I feel I must be going now," He'd plaintively repeat. Aye, though with drinks and smokes galore, They tempted him to stay. With sudden bolt, he gained the door, And made his get-away. And ere next night, his story Was the talk of Dawson town, But gone and reft of glory Was the wrathful Major Brown. For that ice-worm, so they told him, Of such formidable size Was- a stick of stained spaghetti, With two red ink spots for eyes.