‘Twas eighteen hundred, ninety-nine.
I headed north to start a mine.
I left my sunny southland home,
To seek the golden fields of Nome.

And when that fierceful blizzard hit,
The Northern Lights no longer lit.
Was trapped inside a flapping tent,
In BrokeneckValley, tired and spent.

Then she arrived, encased in seal.
She brought with her a blubber meal.
Her flesh so soft, revived my soul,
And pulled me from the darkened hole.

By rubbing noses through the storm,
We laughed and kept our bodies warm.
We kindled driftwood into fire,
Thus made Grim Reaper speak as liar.

I found no gold ‘neath frozen snow,
But loved the pie of Eskimo.
And wonder when the cold winds blow,
Where lies the Arctic’s greatest ho?

end

Mr. E. Bates is a poet who likens the quest for love to a foxhunt, in which it is the chase and not the kill that appeals.