Turn these stanzas into a short story about Sam McGee.

Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows.
Why he left his home in the South to roam 'round the Pole, God only knows.
He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;
Though he'd often say in his homely way that "he'd sooner live in hell."

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.
If our eyes we'd close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn't see;
It wasn't much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.

And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow,
And the dogs were fed, and the stars o'erhead were dancing heel and toe,
He turned to me, and "Cap," says he, "I'll cash in this trip, I guess;
And if I do, I'm asking that you won't refuse my last request."

Well, he seemed so low that I couldn't say no; then he says with a sort of moan:
"It's the cursèd cold, and it's got right hold till I'm chilled clean through to the bone.
Yet 'tain't being dead—it's my awful dread of the icy grave that pains;
So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you'll cremate my last remains."
I was once a captain of gold-finding expeditions in the Artic when I met an unusual man named Sam McGee. Sam was a Southern man from the warm hills of Tennessee. The closest thing to snow he had seen was the blooming of the cotton fields until he decided to follow the enticing lure of gold up around the Pole and joined my team. The cold was a shock to his system and he complained endlessly about how much he hated the Artic and would rather live in hell. 

As we mushed over the Dawson Trail one Christmas Day, the weather was particularly bitter. The cold seeped in through our heavy parkas and stung like nails. Sometimes, if we closed our eyes for too long the lashes would freeze them shut and we'd be temporarily blinded. Everyone on the expedition was unbearably cold, but it was only Sam McGee who whined aloud.
 
That night, we built our camp and fed the dogs. The men and I packed in like sardines beneath the snow and bundled in robes to fight against the cold. Nights in the Artic are often starry and beautiful, and that night was no exception. I was watching the stars twinkle and glow when Sam McGee leaned over to me and informed me that he expected to die on this trek and that he had a request of me. Sam was so sorrowful that I humored him as he moaned about the frigid cold eating him to the bone. He wasn't made for this weather and was fearful that when he'd die he would be buried in the ice for eternity. That's when he asked me to swear that should he die I would cremate his body instead of burying it up here in the snow. 