Oh, for a little Frost right now!

A bunch of the boys were whooping it up in the Malamute saloon;
The kid that handles the music-box was hitting a jag-time tune....
   -- "The Shooting of Dan McGrew" by Robert Service

mr_ed:  I think Holly was insulted when you called her a Maladjustment.
Tucker:  Then she's a Malcontent.
mr_ed:  Why are you so ornery today? You've been snarky to the other dogs too. Snarkier than usual.
Tucker:  It's hot.
mr_ed:  Yeah. Gotta be upper 90s right now.
Tucker:  How about up in the mountains?
mr_ed:  The National Weather Service says it's almost 35 degrees cooler up at Copper Mountain. A good day to go skiing. I don't know how in the heck my father handled this heat. His father was from Sweden, and both his mother's parents were from Sweden, but the heat didn't bother him at all. Good thing, since he grew up down in the La Junta area. He was a better man than I, Gunga Din.
Tucker:  I don't do no ganja, mon.
mr_ed:  I adapted that from a line in a Rudyard Kipling poem. Do you like Kipling?
Tucker:  I don't know. I've never kippled.
mr_ed:  How about some Service?
Tucker:  This isn't my table.

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There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee....

I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear;
But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near;
I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: "I'll just take a peep inside.
I guess he's cooked, and it's time I looked"; . . .
then the door I opened wide.

And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar;
And he wore a smile you could see a mile,
and he said: "Please close that door.
It's 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."

   -- "The Cremation of Sam McGee" by Robert Service

Tucker:  Brrr.
mr_ed:  Yeah, sounds cold! Alaska.
Tucker:  You'll ask her if it was cold?
mr_ed:  No, state of Alaska.
Tucker:  State of coldness.
mr_ed:  Oh, wait ... Lake Labarge is in Canada. In fact, near our friend Jeffrey in Whitehorse. He has about 80 dogs.
Tucker:  Siberian Huskies are from Siberia.
mr_ed:  Ah, well, not really.
Tucker:  Yes sir! Bred by Chukchi natives for 3,000 years!
mr_ed:  Prove it.
Tucker:  That's what they say.
mr_ed:  If you can find the source for that, I'll give you enough treats that you'll gain ten pounds overnight.
Tucker:  ::suspicious look::  Sounds like a trick.
mr_ed:  Take all the time you need. I'd really like to find out who said that.
Tucker:  And then treats?
mr_ed:  You betcha, big fella.
Tucker:  ::snort::  So you're a poet. I wanna hear some more real poetry.
mr_ed:  Can't get much more real than a Poet Laureate and four-time Pulitzer winner!

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow....

The Woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

   -- "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening" by Robert Frost