Oh it is good to ride and run, To roam the reenwood wild and free; To hunt, to idle in the sun, To leap into the laughing sea - Robert W. Service

Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code.

After fifty don’t go to a funeral if you can avoid it. It’s bad enough to go to your own when times comes.

Were you ever out in the Great Alone, when the moon was awful clear,
And the icy mountains hemmed you in with a silence you most could hear;
With only the howl of a timber wolf, and you camped there in the cold,
A helf-dead thing in a stark, dead world, clean mad for the muck called gold;
While high overhead, green, yellow, and red, the North Lights swept in bars? —
Then you've a hunch what the music meant . . . hunger and night and the stars.