Bob, Yes, you are correct. I can't get away from the old books and files---although this compu-machine keeps trying to lure me astray. The dust is the smell of time passing----it's proof we were there and are now here---survived---alone---like Ishamael--"to tell thee" !!

Here's another one to "tell ya". But my notations on this song/poem/recitation indicate that ROCKY MOUNTAIN HOUSE, whatever it was, was not in B.C.---it was in Alberta. Anyhow, I found thiis in 1969 while in Western Canada. There was a grand & delightful quite primitive snowstorm we camped in on the Alaska/Al-Can highway (before it was paved) after which our son Chris was born nine months later.---- I can hear BILL SABLES or DAVE de HUGUARD in Australia putting a tune to this one or the "Soiled Snowflake". Thanks to Mudcatter BOB BOLTON, Dave de Hugard's latest CD is my current favorite. (Thanks Robert.)

Art Thieme

THE BURIAL OF TIM DUPUIS
by Henry Stelfox of Rocky Mountain House

Tim Dupuis was a quarter Cree and he trapped with me in the bush,
Through the winter long he whistled his song and never seemed to rush,
His traps he'd set and the furs he'd get which he would stretch all at night time,
In the cabin good we were warm and snug through all the long winter clime.

Tim's past life had been bitter strife but what drove him north to come,
I never knew for he was one of the few whose lips were sealed and mum,
He'd trap all day and sing all the way, his step was light when returning,
With his catch in the pack all strapped to his back and the wind through the wild was murmuring.

It seemed to say, "Tim, it's another day---the leaves of your life book are burning,
All too fast have you thought of your past while your hair has been snow white turning,
You're 79 and the Arctic clime may cause your life to falter,
Your bones have told you are growing old and your step begins to falter."

Tim left the cabin one morn 'fore break o' the dawn---his step was none too steady,
I said, "Tim, take care or this cold winter air will get you before you are ready"
I worried all day while Tim was away; I'd noticed his health was failing,
He had lots of grit and just wouldn't quit or admit that he was ailing.

It was late that night when I caught sight of Tim as he returned to the cabin,
His face was drawn and he looked forlorn--I coulkd see that he was all in,
After he fed and retired to be, said, "Partner turn the light a bit lower
For I have learnt that my candle is burnt and I've none left to burn any more."

I awoke next morn with the crack o' the dawn and I could see that Tim was dead,
He lay on his side his eyes open wide and one arm stretched over his head,
I felt forlorn--there are things to perform; I knew I must bury Tim.
There was no casket grand in that whole swampy land in which to bury him.

I knew I had to get him out of his cot and store him where he'd keep,
Until the ground thawed out somewhere close to plant him for his long sleep,
He was already dressed for when he'd retired to rest he'd left his clothes on,
He always said when he went to bed he'd be cold without 'em on.

I got a good hitch with a thong of babiche around him and below his shoulder,
Heaved and sweat before I could get this body where it'd be colder,
I'd looked around and already found a spot where the moss was deepest,
With ice underneath and moss for a wreath was for Tim the place that was safest.

I packed away that human clay and bid him goodbye 'til summer,
When muskegs thawed out that were here near about and I'd bury him in right manner,
I felt rather sad for coyotes were bad for unearthing men near the surface,
I hadn't a spade so I couldn't've made a grave deep enough for the purpose.

Summer came with plenty of rain and bull frogs woke from their slumber,
In knew it was time in that Acctic clime to decently bury my partner,
I pushed a long pole in a deep hole where moss was scanty and slim,
The footing was bad but no choice I had of a better grave for Tim.

I hied me back to my winter shack to prepare my winter partner,
For his long sad sleep in the muskeg deep and away from the wolves in the winter,
'Neath those glorious sights and the northern lights in the land of awe and wonder,
He'd keep that way 'til judgment day in that land of ice and tundra.

But the heat was bad and the flies were thick and I knew he wouldn't keep,
He was the grimiest cuss I'd ever seen,---in a bath he'd never been,
I figured he'd sink a lot better if I pulled the clothes off of him,
So I whetted my nife (and lit my pipe) before undressing Tim.

I spreadeagled Tim on the flat of his back and put him to the acid test,
I poured it neat from head to feet and then took a little rest,
I filled my pipe for I hated the sight and the smell of partner Tim,
While from the back of his neck right down to his feet I let the acid sink in.

I heaved a prayer as I hit the next layer and started his undies to undo,
Wasn't so tough for the buttons dropped off---the thread had rotted in two,
My eyes opened wide and I cussed his old hide for there were my pants strange to tell,
As I cut off the last I was ready to gasp for Tim hated bath water like hell.

My pipe had gone out and I nearly passed out when I got a whiff from his lily white skin,
No time to lose and I had no booze to keep my breakfast within,
The job had to get done; he'd been a good bum. I was anxious to be gone from there,
I pulld him out quick near the creek and swilled him with lots of Eau D'claire.

I was buckin' the wind and I often sinned when makin' remars 'bout old Tim,
For he dragged like lead now that he was dead and I cussed him for not being slim,
When I got across from beyond the moss I was finished with dragging old Tim,
So I looked 'round and soon found the spot perfect to drop him in.

I tugged and towed and sometimes blowed as I was travelin' on my skis,
For that miry mass was a rotten morass that I was sometimes in to my knees,
But I'd brought a chunk of lead which I tied to his head and I started to chant a requium,
Thn I pushed him in with a, "Good-bye Tim," --- and the muskeg sucked him in.

(Art Thieme)