Forty Below

Forty Below It's forty below on the prairie, And the snow lies hard and white; And up on high, in the starlit sky, Rides the moon in her murky light. A wind from the ice-ribbed Arctic, Cuts the flesh like a lance of steel; And its cruel breath like a scourge of death Makes the critters shake and reel. Humped-up in a snow-filled coulee, The helpless cattle cry; Then silence reigns o'er the ghastly plains As the "dogies" lunge and — die. Lethbridge, Canada Frank C. Steele