On a Christmas day we were mushing our way over the Dawson Trail.
Talk of your cold! through the parka's fold it stabbed like a driven nail.
So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you'll cremate my last remains.
And on I went, through the dogs were spend and the grub was getting low;
Then "Here," said I, with a sudden cry, "is my cre-ma-tor-eum."
And he wore a smile you could see for a mile, and he said: "Please close the door. Its fine in here, but I greatly fear you'll let in the cold and storm- Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it's the first time I've been warm."
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