Jake Dale, o' the "Lucky George"?

You must 'a' been raised in the East, my son,

If you never clapped ears to the yarn that's spun

Of Jakey Dale an' the race he won

In the year o' the big ice gorge.

Come March in the Spring o' '81,

An' the river broke at Pierre

An' come rantin' down on the clean rampage.

She marked 36 on the Yankton gauge,

Which I reckon you know is some of a stage,

An' she covered the bottoms here.

The "George" was hitched on the city bar

Close up by the railroad track.

When the row began we fixed her strong,

Rigged seven hawsers where two belong;

She'd 'a' taken an acre o' soil along

If she'd dragged in the grindin' pack.

But along one night the drift-ice stopped;

The flood run clear as June,

Fer the stuff had jammed in Hagin's Bend

An' choked the channel from end to end,

An' it fought an' screamed like a wild-cat, penned,

In the light o' the cold March moon.

Yeh see that p'int acrost the bar

With the riffle o' shoal below?

Well, that's where the widow o' old Buck Slack

Oncet had a claim an' a drift-wood shack.

Where she lived an' slaved with her young-un pack,

All which was some time ago.

Well, we on the "George" had tumbled out—

The roar o' the jam was wild—

When we heerd a cry through the shriekin' night,

An' there on the p'int, in the pale moonlight,

A-wavin' an' yellin' with all her might,

Stood Buck Slack's youngest child.

An' we knowed, without darin' to say the word,

They was tripped fer the Great Unknown,

Fer the gorge had slapped the current round

An' cut 'em off from the higher ground,

An' the hand that could save 'em from bein' drowned

Was the hand of God alone.

Then all at oncet we heerd a yell

An', down 'cross the willow bank,

A-layin' a course that was skeercely snug,

Came Jakey Dale with his whiskey jug,

As drunk as the mate of a log-raft tug,

An' a-swearin' somethin' rank.

"You rust-chawed fragments o' junk," sez he,

"Now what do you think you've found?

A-standin' 'round on this old bilge tank

Like a bunch o' frogs on a floatin' plank;

Be ye lookin' fer gold in yon cut-bank?"

An' then he heerd that sound.

As quick as the jump of a piston-rod

He was over the wheel-box guard,

An' before we could Agger on stoppin' him

He had slashed the falls from the long-boat's rim

An' was out past the slush o' the channel's brim,

A-pullin' quick an' hard.

He sidled his tub through that rippin' flume

While we stood on the "George" an' swore.

The boy was loony with raw-corn gin,

But he reckoned his course to the width of a pin,

Ran straight to the eddy an' clawed her in,

An' staggered himself ashore.

Now, stranger, I want to ask you, flat,

If a man with his head-piece right,

Would 'a' piled eight folks in that skiff's inside

Fer a half-mile pull through that mill-race tide

An' think to land safe at the end o' the ride?

Well, Jake Dale did, that night.

When he shoved her off from the gumbo p'int

She reeled like a sawyer snag,

Then the current caught her along the beam

An' she whirled around an' shot down stream

With the foam from her bow like a cloud o' steam,

As fast as a red-tail stag.

Good Lord, the fright in them children's cries!

It curdled a feller's blood,

Them river men ain't a prayerful race,

But that night more'n one sort o' hid his face

An' sent up a plea to the Throne o' Grace

To guide them through the flood.

An' then that gorge sent up a roar

That shook the solid ground;

The sort that splits yer ears in two

When a side-wheel packet drops a flue

An' blows six b'ilers amongst her crew,

An' cooks them that ain't drowned.

She was breakin' loose like an avalanche,

Slipped free on a mountain side.

Jake Dale turned 'round an' give one look

An' read the truth like a printed book,

Then bent to his oars till the keel-post shook,

An' pulled fer the "George's" side.

He jammed her bow through the buckin' tide

Till the painter floated free;

With blinded eyes an' drippin' skin

He fought fer the race he had set to win

Like a soldier fights, till the ice rolled in

An' ground against her lee.

But he'd got her up to ropin' range

An' we hauled her to the rail.

When he'd landed the last one, safe an' sound,

Jake follered, an' says, as he looked around,

"You fellers fetch out that jug you found,

I'm as dry as the Mormon Trail!"

Well, stranger, that there is the yarn o' Jake,

Jake Dale, o' the "Lucky George."

He wasn't no saint with a gilt-edged crown;

His language would shatter a church-steeple down;

He'd a thirst in his throat that nothin' could drown,

An' a fist like a blacksmith's forge.

But, all the same, he'd a Christian soul

If he hadn't the Christian creed,

An' a better heart, by a blame long shot,

Than some pious folks that brag a lot

On savin' their souls, but haven't got

No time fer their brother's need.

An' I reckon the Lord has found a place

In the Kingdom o' the Lamb

Fer the man that cast his own fears by

An' showed that he wasn't afeared to die

Fer the sake of a frightened baby's cry,

That night o' the big ice jam.