“WINDY”

Lady Marmaduke Montague-Marlinford-Dunne Came out to the Yukon in search of her son; Heir to vast estates and to lands long entailed, Handed down by great grandpapa's fist ( which was mailed ).

The young man had mushed in by the lone Chilcoot Pass And was known to the boys as “That titled young Ass.” For the stuff he wrote home took Belgravian breath: “Dear Monty with savages!” — “mushing!” — “to death”!

They were shocked at the mention “pay-dirt”; and “the pan,” They fully explained, was “held by Monty's man!” At St. James, The Carlton, The Ritz, it was told How “Monty owns mountains and canyons of — Gold!”

Came a lapse in the years and the letters. Despair Seized the hearts in Belgravia — no word from the heir; For the lure of the Northland — the life of the camp, Had Monty the Beau transformed into a — tramp

Who had drifted, like jetsam, the breakers among, And had almost forgotten his own mother-tongue. In the year ninety-eight arrived per Dawson stage In December, a lady, a maid, and a page;

One clearly of rank. With the air of a queen She stepped up to the desk, asking: “Pray, have you seen Mr. Marmaduke Montague-Marlinford-Dunne?” Adding proudly,— “The gentleman, Sir, is my son.”

The clerk at the desk stared and stammered, then said:— “No gent be that name in this shack has his bed; But mebbe’ th’ Boys” — Here he calls to a bunch, “Say, has any o’ youse seed a kid with a hunch

That sounds like — Ma'am, wot was th’ name o’ y'r son?” She faltered, “Sir! Montague-Marlinford-Dunne!” Nobody knew him — worse, nobody cared — But the bar-keep speaks up ( while his quid he prepared ),

“Say, w'ot was th’ kid like?” — one stared at the other —— “War n't he a pardner of Billy Bird's brother? An’ had he a bench-claim know'd as‘ Bloody Jim’? ‘ Cos if he had ther's a war n't out f'r HIM!”

“I'll describe him, good sirs,” said the lady in tears: “He left home just of age, namely twenty-one-years. His hair, sunny gold, is inclined to up-curl —— His complexion is peach-like — he's fair as a girl.

He has large, soulful eyes, they are beaming and kind,— A soft, bird-like voice — and an artistic mind. “Military in bearing — broad-shouldered and tall; Speaks languages seven — a‘ linguist,’ you'd call.

Paints, sings, rides to hounds; he dresses with care; A de-lightful manner, with most restful air:— Oh! prithee, good gentlemen, find me my son, Whom all London once knew as‘ THE DASHING BEAU-DUNNE!’”

The lady was weeping in‘ kerchief of lace And she saw not the smile on the rough miner's face,— Who said: “Ma'am, y’ wo n't find y'r angel up here,— Them pertickler brands — with‘ wings’ — disappear!

But here's‘ Windy’ comin’ — he knows, th’ ol’ tramp, Every Jack on th’ trail, every Jill in th’ camp!” The lady turns pale. Then the bar-keep behind Hollers: “Windy, ol’ cock! can YOU call t’ y'r mind

A chump‘ round this camp —— Ma'am, wot was th’ same Double-decker y’ called b’ th’ telescope name?” —— But the lady, eyes staring, was shrieking, “MY SON!” Lo! “Windy” be-whiskered was “DASHING BEAU-DUNNE!”