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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Sun and Saddle Leather, by Badger Clark
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: Sun and Saddle Leather
+       Including Grass Grown Trails and New Poems
+
+Author: Badger Clark
+
+Release Date: July 17, 2011 [EBook #36770]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SUN AND SADDLE LEATHER ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Roberta Staehlin, David Garcia and the Online
+Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
+file was produced from images generously made available
+by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
+
+
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration: "_When the last free trail is a prim, fenced lane_
+                 _And our graves grow weeds through forgetful Mays,_
+               _Richer and statelier then you'll reign,_
+                 _Mother of men whom the world will praise._
+               _And your sons will love you and sigh for you,_
+               _Labor and battle and die for you,_
+                 _But never the fondest will understand_
+                 _The way we have loved you, young, young land._"]
+
+
+
+
+
+
+SUN AND SADDLE LEATHER
+
+BY BADGER CLARK
+
+Illustrations from Photographs by L. A. HUFFMAN
+
+THIRD EDITION
+
+[Illustration]
+
+  BOSTON
+  RICHARD G. BADGER
+  THE GORHAM PRESS
+
+
+Copyright, 1915, 1917 and 1919 by Badger Clark
+
+All Rights Reserved
+
+MADE IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
+
+The Gorham Press, Boston, U. S. A.
+
+
+
+
+TO MY FATHER, _who, in his long life, has seldom been conscious
+of a man's rough exterior, or unconscious of his obscurest virtue._
+
+
+
+
+PREFACE TO THE THIRD EDITION
+
+
+Cowboys are the sternest critics of those who would represent the West.
+No hypocrisy, no bluff, no pose can evade them.
+
+Yet cowboys have made Badger Clark's songs their own. So readily have
+they circulated that often the man who sings the song could not tell
+you where it started. Many of the poems have become folk songs of the
+West, we may say of America, for they speak of freedom and the open.
+
+Generous has been the praise given _Sun and Saddle Leather_, but
+perhaps no criticism has summed up the work so satisfactorily as the
+comment of the old cow man who said, "You can break me if there's a
+dead poem in the book, I read the hull of it. Who in H---- is this kid
+Clark, anyway? I don't know how he knowed, but he _knows_."
+
+That is what proves Badger Clark the real poet. He knows. Beyond his
+wonderful presentation of the West is the quality of universal appeal
+that makes his work real art. He has tied the West to the universe.
+
+The old cow man is not the only one who has wondered who Badger Clark
+was. Charles Wharton Stork speaking of _Sun and Saddle Leather_, said,
+"It has splendid flavor and fine artistic handling as well. I should
+like to know more of the author, whether he was a cow puncher or merely
+got inside his psychology by imagination."
+
+Badger Clark was brought up in the West. As a boy he lived in Deadwood,
+South Dakota. The town at that time was trying to live down the
+reputation for exuberant indecorum which she had acquired during the
+gold rush; but her five churches operating two hours a week could make
+little headway against the competition of two dance halls and
+twenty-six saloons running twenty-four hours a day.
+
+Perhaps it was these early impressions that make _The Piano at Red's_
+in Mr. Clark's later volume _Grass Grown Trails_ so vivid.
+
+  Scuffling feet and thud of fists,
+    Curses hot as fire--
+  Still the music sang of love,
+    Longin', lost desire,
+  Dreams that never could have been
+    Joys that couldn't stay--
+  While the man upon the floor
+    Wiped the blood away.
+
+After Clark had grown up, in the cow country near the Mexican border,
+he stumbled unexpectedly into paradise. He was given charge of a small
+ranch and the responsibility for a bunch of cattle just large enough to
+amuse him, but too small to demand a full day's work once a month. The
+sky was persistently blue, the sunlight was richly golden, the folds of
+the barren mountains and the wide reaches of the range were full of many
+lovely colors, and his nearest neighbor was eight miles away.
+
+The cow men who dropped in for a meal now and then in the course of
+their interminable riding appeared to have ridden directly out of books
+of adventure, with old-young faces full of sun wrinkles, careless
+mouths full of bad grammar, strange oaths and stranger yarns, and
+hearts for the most part as open and shadowless as the country they
+daily ranged.
+
+In the evenings as Clark placed his boot heels on the porch railing,
+smote the strings of his guitar and broke the tense silence of the
+warm, dry twilight with song, he often wondered, as his eyes rested
+dreamily on the spikey yuccas that stood out sharp and black against
+the clear lemon color of the sunset west, why hermit life in the desert
+was traditionally a sad, penitential affair.
+
+In a letter to his mother a month or two after settling in Arizona he
+found prose too weak to express his utter content and perpetrated his
+first verses. She, with natural pride, sent the verses to a magazine,
+the old _Pacific Monthly_, and a week or two later the desert dweller
+was astonished beyond measure to receive his first editorial check.
+The  discovery that certain people in the world were willing to pay
+money for such rhymes as he could write bent the whole course of his
+subsequent life, for good or evil, and the occasional lyric impulse
+hardened into a habit which has consumed much of his time and most of
+his serious thought since that date. The verses written to his mother
+were _Ridin'_, the first poem in his first book, _Sun and Saddle
+Leather_, and the greater part of the poems in both _Sun and Saddle
+Leather_ and _Grass Grown Trails_ were written in Arizona.
+
+_Sun and Saddle Leather_ and _Grass Grown Trails_ are books of Western
+songs, simple and ringing and yet with an ample vision that makes them
+unique among poems written in a local vernacular. The spirit of them
+is eternal, the spirit of youth in the open, and their background is
+"God's Reserves," the vast reach of Western mesa and plain that will
+always remain free--"the way that it was when the world was new."
+
+Every poem carries a breath of plains, wind-flavored with a tang of
+camp smoke; and, varied as they are in tune and tone, they do not
+contain a single note that is labored or unnatural. They are of native
+Western stock, as indigenous to the soil as the agile cow ponies whose
+hoofs evidently beat the time for their swinging measures; and it is
+this quality, as well as their appealing music, that has already given
+them such wide popularity, East and West.
+
+That they were born in the saddle and written for love rather than for
+publication is a conviction that the reader of them can hardly escape.
+From the impish merriment of _From Town_ to the deep but fearless piety
+of _The Cowboy's Prayer_, these songs ring true; and are as healthy as
+the big, bright country whence they came.
+
+In 1917, about the time our first edition of _Sun and Saddle Leather_
+began to run low, we fortunately discovered L. A. Huffman, of Miles
+City, Montana, the illustrator who in 1878 began taking photographs
+from the saddle with crude cameras he made over to meet his needs.
+These same views were the first of the now famous "Huffman Pictures,"
+beginning with the Indians and buffaloes round about Ft. Keogh on the
+Yellowstone where he was post photographer for General Miles' army
+during those stirring territorial days. The Huffman Studio is still one
+of the show places of Miles City, and the sales headquarters also for
+Montana and adjacent states for both of Mr. Clark's books, _Sun and
+Saddle Leather_ and _Grass Grown Trails_. In a recent letter Mr. Huffman
+says, "I have just come back from a trip to 'Powder River' and along the
+Wyoming-Montana border. It's all too true! Clark saw and wrote it none
+too soon in _The Passing of the Trail_."
+
+
+  The trail's a lane, the trail's a lane.
+  Dead is the branding fire.
+  The prairies wild are tame and mild
+  All close-corralled with wire.
+  The sunburnt demigods who ranged
+  And laughed and loved so free
+  Have topped the last divide, or changed
+  To men like you and me.
+
+
+
+
+CONTENTS
+
+
+                                                                      PAGE
+
+  Ridin'                                                                13
+  The Song of the Leather                                               16
+  A Bad Half Hour                                                       19
+  From Town                                                             22
+  A Cowboy's Prayer                                                     26
+  The Christmas Trail                                                   29
+  A Border Affair                                                       33
+  The Bunk-House Orchestra                                              36
+  The Outlaw                                                            40
+  The Legend of Boastful Bill                                           43
+  The Tied Maverick                                                     48
+  A Roundup Lullaby                                                     51
+  The Trail o' Love                                                     55
+  Bachin'                                                               58
+  The Glory Trail                                                       61
+  Bacon                                                                 65
+  The Lost Pardner                                                      67
+  God's Reserves                                                        70
+  The Married Man                                                       74
+  The Old Cow Man                                                       78
+  The Plainsmen                                                         82
+  The Westerner                                                         86
+  The Wind is Blowin'                                                   89
+  On Boot Hill                                                          91
+
+
+
+
+LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
+
+
+  _When the last free trail is a prim, fenced lane_
+    _And our graves grow weeds through forgetful Mays,_
+  _Richer and statelier then you'll reign,_
+  _Mother of men whom the world will praise._
+  _And your sons will love you and sigh for you,_
+  _Labor and battle and die for you,_
+    _But never the fondest will understand_
+    _The way we have loved you, young, young land._      --_Frontispiece._
+
+                                                                    FACING
+                                                                      PAGE
+
+  _When my feet is in the stirrups_
+    _And my hawse is on the bust._                                      14
+
+  _There's a time to be slow and a time to be quick._                   18
+
+  _We have gathered fightin' pointers from the famous bronco steed._    24
+
+  _The taut ropes sing like a banjo string_
+    _And the latigoes creak and strain._                                40
+
+  _I wait to hear him ridin' up behind._                                68
+
+  _There's land where yet no ditchers dig_
+    _Nor cranks experiment;_
+  _It's only lovely, free and big_
+    _And isn't worth a cent._                                           80
+
+  _Born of a free, world-wandering race_
+    _Little we yearned o'er an oft-turned sod._                         82
+
+
+
+
+SUN AND SADDLE LEATHER
+
+
+
+
+RIDIN'
+
+
+  There is some that likes the city--
+    Grass that's curried smooth and green,
+  Theaytres and stranglin' collars,
+    Wagons run by gasoline--
+  But for me it's hawse and saddle
+    Every day without a change,
+  And a desert sun a-blazin'
+    On a hundred miles of range.
+
+  _Just a-ridin', a-ridin'--_
+    _Desert ripplin' in the sun,_
+  _Mountains blue along the skyline--_
+    _I don't envy anyone_
+        _When I'm ridin'._
+
+  When my feet is in the stirrups
+    And my hawse is on the bust,
+  With his hoofs a-flashin' lightnin'
+    From a cloud of golden dust,
+  And the bawlin' of the cattle
+    Is a-coming' down the wind
+  Then a finer life than ridin'
+    Would be mighty hard to find.
+
+  _Just a-ridin, a-ridin'--_
+    _Splittin' long cracks through the air,_
+  _Stirrin' up a baby cyclone,_
+    _Rippin' up the prickly pear_
+        _As I'm ridin'._
+
+  I don't need no art exhibits
+    When the sunset does her best,
+  Paintin' everlastin' glory
+    On the mountains to the west
+  And your opery looks foolish
+    When the night-bird starts his tune
+  And the desert's silver mounted
+    By the touches of the moon.
+
+  _Just a-ridin', a-ridin',_
+    _Who kin envy kings and czars_
+  _When the coyotes down the valley_
+    _Are a-singin' to the stars,_
+        _If he's ridin'?_
+
+  When my earthly trail is ended
+    And my final bacon curled
+  And the last great roundup's finished
+    At the Home Ranch of the world
+  I don't want no harps nor haloes,
+    Robes nor other dressed up things--
+  Let me ride the starry ranges
+    On a pinto hawse with wings!
+
+  _Just a-ridin', a-ridin'--_
+    _Nothin' I'd like half so well_
+  _As a-roundin' up the sinners_
+    _That have wandered out of Hell,_
+        _And a-ridin'._
+
+[Illustration: "_When my feet is in the stirrups
+                 And my hawse is on the bust._"]
+
+
+
+
+THE SONG OF THE LEATHER
+
+
+  When my trail stretches out to the edge of the sky
+    Through the desert so empty and bright,
+  When I'm watchin' the miles as they go crawlin' by
+    And a-hopin' I'll get there by night,
+  Then my hawse never speaks through the long sunny day,
+    But my saddle he sings in his creaky old way:
+
+          "_Easy--easy--easy--_
+    _For a temperit pace ain't a crime._
+  _Let your mount hit it steady, but give him his ease,_
+  _For the sun hammers hard and there's never a breeze._
+    _We kin get there in plenty of time._"
+
+  When I'm after some critter that's hit the high lope,
+    And a-spurrin' my hawse till he flies,
+  When I'm watchin' the chances for throwin' my rope
+    And a-winkin' the sweat from my eyes,
+  Then the leathers they squeal with the lunge and the swing
+    And I work to the livelier tune that they sing:
+
+          "_Reach 'im! reach 'im! reach 'im!_
+      _If you lather your hawse to the heel!_
+  _There's a time to be slow and a time to be quick;_
+  _Never mind if it's rough and the bushes are thick--_
+      _Pull your hat down and fling in the steel!_"
+
+  When I've rustled all day till I'm achin' for rest
+    And I'm ordered a night-guard to ride,
+  With the tired little moon hangin' low in the west
+    And my sleepiness fightin' my pride,
+  Then I nod and I blink at the dark herd below
+    And the saddle he sings as my hawse paces slow:
+
+        "_Sleepy--sleepy--sleepy--_
+      _We was ordered a close watch to keep,_
+  _But I'll sing you a song in a drowsy old key;_
+  _All the world is a-snoozin' so why shouldn't we?_
+      _Go to sleep, pardner mine, go to sleep._"
+
+[Illustration: "_There's a time to be slow and a time to be quick._"]
+
+
+
+
+A BAD HALF HOUR
+
+
+  Wonder why I feel so restless;
+    Moon is shinin' still and bright,
+  Cattle all is restin' easy,
+    But I just kaint sleep tonight.
+  Ain't no cactus in my blankets,
+    Don't know why they feel so hard--
+  'Less it's Warblin' Jim a-singin'
+    "Annie Laurie" out on guard.
+
+  "Annie Laurie"--wish he'd quit it!
+    Couldn't sleep now if I tried.
+  Makes the night seem big and lonesome,
+    And my throat feels sore inside.
+  How _my_ Annie used to sing it!
+    And it sounded good and gay
+  Nights I drove her home from dances
+    When the east was turnin' gray.
+
+  Yes, "her brow was like the snowdrift"
+    And her eyes like quiet streams,
+  "And her face"--I still kin see it
+    Much too frequent in my dreams;
+  And her hand was soft and trembly
+    That night underneath the tree,
+  When I couldn't help but tell her
+    She was "all the world to me."
+
+  But her folks said I was "shif'less,"
+    "Wild," "unsettled,"--they was right,
+  For I leaned to punchin' cattle
+    And I'm at it still tonight.
+  And she married young Doc Wilkins--
+    Oh my Lord! but that was hard!
+  Wish that fool would quit his singin'
+    "Annie Laurie" out on guard!
+
+  Oh, I just kaint stand it thinkin'
+    Of the things that happened then.
+  Good old times, and all apast me!
+    Never seem to come again--
+  My turn? Sure. I'll come a-runnin'.
+    Warm me up some coffee, pard--
+  But I'll stop that Jim from singin'
+    "Annie Laurie" out on guard.
+
+
+
+
+FROM TOWN
+
+
+  We're the children of the open and we hate the haunts o' men,
+    But we had to come to town to get the mail.
+  And we're ridin' home at daybreak--'cause the air is cooler then--
+    All 'cept one of us that stopped behind in jail.
+  Shorty's nose won't bear paradin', Bill's off eye is darkly fadin',
+    All our toilets show a touch of disarray,
+  For we found that city life is a constant round of strife
+    And we ain't the breed for shyin' from a fray.
+
+  Chant your warwhoop, pardners dear, while the east turns pale with fear
+    And the chaparral is tremblin' all aroun'
+  For we're wicked to the marrer; we're a midnight dream of terror
+    When we're ridin' up the rocky trail from town!
+
+  We acquired our hasty temper from our friend, the centipede.
+    From the rattlesnake we learnt to guard our rights.
+  We have gathered fightin' pointers from the famous bronco steed
+    And the bobcat teached us reppertee that bites.
+  So when some high-collared herrin' jeered the garb that I was wearin'
+    'Twas't long till we had got where talkin' ends,
+  And he et his illbred chat, with a sauce of derby hat,
+    While my merry pardners entertained his friends.
+
+  Sing 'er out, my buckeroos! Let the desert hear the news.
+    Tell the stars the way we rubbed the haughty down.
+  We're the fiercest wolves a-prowlin' and it's just our night for howlin'
+    When we're ridin' up the rocky trail from town.
+
+  Since the days that Lot and Abram split the Jordan range in halves,
+    Just to fix it so their punchers wouldn't fight,
+  Since old Jacob skinned his dad-in-law for six years' crop of calves
+    And then hit the trail for Canaan in the night,
+  There has been a taste for battle 'mong the men that follow cattle
+    And a love of doin' things that's wild and strange,
+  And the warmth of Laban's words when he missed his speckled herds
+    Still is useful in the language of the range.
+
+  Sing 'er out, my bold coyotes! leather fists and leather throats,
+    For we wear the brand of Ishm'el like a crown.
+  We're the sons o' desolation, we're the outlaws of creation--
+    Ee--yow! a-ridin' up the rocky trail from town!
+
+[Illustration: "_We have gathered fightin' pointers from the famous
+bronco steed._"]
+
+
+
+
+A COWBOY'S PRAYER
+
+(_Written for Mother_)
+
+
+  Oh Lord. I've never lived where churches grow.
+    I love creation better as it stood
+  That day You finished it so long ago
+    And looked upon Your work and called it good.
+  I know that others find You in the light
+    That's sifted down through tinted window panes,
+  And yet I seem to feel You near tonight
+    In this dim, quiet starlight on the plains.
+
+  I thank You, Lord, that I am placed so well,
+    That You have made my freedom so complete;
+  That I'm no slave of whistle, clock or bell,
+    Nor weak-eyed prisoner of wall and street.
+  Just let me live my life as I've begun
+    And give me work that's open to the sky;
+  Make me a pardner of the wind and sun,
+    And I won't ask a life that's soft or high.
+
+  Let me be easy on the man that's down;
+    Let me be square and generous with all.
+  I'm careless sometimes, Lord, when I'm in town,
+    But never let 'em say I'm mean or small!
+  Make me as big and open as the plains,
+    As honest as the hawse between my knees,
+  Clean as the wind that blows behind the rains,
+    Free as the hawk that circles down the breeze!
+
+  Forgive me, Lord, if sometimes I forget.
+    You know about the reasons that are hid.
+  You understand the things that gall and fret;
+    You know me better than my mother did.
+  Just keep an eye on all that's done and said
+    And right me, sometimes, when I turn aside,
+  And guide me on the long, dim trail ahead
+    That stretches upward toward the Great Divide.
+
+
+
+
+THE CHRISTMAS TRAIL
+
+
+  The wind is blowin' cold down the mountain tips of snow
+    And 'cross the ranges layin' brown and dead;
+  It's cryin' through the valley trees that wear the mistletoe
+    And mournin' with the gray clouds overhead.
+  Yet it's sweet with the beat of my little hawse's feet
+    And I whistle like the air was warm and blue,
+  For I'm ridin' up the Christmas trail to you, Old folks,
+    I'm a-ridin' up the Christmas trail to you.
+
+  Oh, mebbe it was good when the whinny of the Spring
+    Had wheedled me to hoppin' of the bars,
+  And livin' in the shadow of a sailin' buzzard's wing
+    And sleepin' underneath a roof of stars.
+  But the bright campfire light only dances for a night,
+    While the home-fire burns forever clear and true,
+  So 'round the year I circle back to you, Old folks,
+    'Round the rovin' year I circle back to you.
+
+  Oh, mebbe it was good when the reckless Summer sun
+    Had shot a charge of fire through my veins,
+  And I milled around the whiskey and the fightin' and the fun
+    'Mong the other mav'ricks drifted from the plains.
+  Ay! the pot bubbled hot, while you reckoned I'd forgot,
+    And the devil smacked the young blood in his stew,
+  Yet I'm lovin' every mile that's nearer you,  Good folks,
+    Lovin' every blessed mile that's nearer you.
+
+  Oh, mebbe it was good at the roundup in the Fall
+    When the clouds of bawlin' dust before us ran,
+  And the pride of rope and saddle was a-drivin' of us all
+    To a stretch of nerve and muscle, man and man.
+  But the pride sort of died when the man got weary eyed;
+    'Twas a sleepy boy that rode the night-guard through,
+  And he dreamed himself along a trail to you, Old folks,
+    Dreamed himself along a happy trail to you.
+
+  The coyote's Winter howl cuts the dusk behind the hill,
+    But the ranch's shinin' window I kin see,
+  And though I don't deserve it and, I reckon, never will,
+    There'll be room beside the fire kep' for me.
+  Skimp my plate 'cause I'm late. Let me hit the old kid gait,
+    For tonight I'm stumblin' tired of the new
+  And I'm ridin' up the Christmas trail to you, Old folks,
+    I'm a-ridin' up the Christmas trail to you.
+
+
+
+
+A BORDER AFFAIR
+
+
+  Spanish is the lovin' tongue,
+    Soft as music, light as spray.
+  'Twas a girl I learnt it from,
+    Livin' down Sonora way.
+  I don't look much like a lover,
+  Yet I say her love words over
+    Often when I'm all alone--
+    "Mi amor, mi corazon."
+
+  Nights when she knew where I'd ride
+    She would listen for my spurs,
+  Fling the big door open wide,
+    Raise them laughin' eyes of hers
+  And my heart would nigh stop beatin'
+  When I heard her tender greetin',
+    Whispered soft for me alone--
+    "Mi amor! mi corazon!"
+
+  Moonlight in the patio,
+    Old Seņora noddin' near,
+  Me and Juana talkin' low
+    So the Madre couldn't hear--
+  How those hours would go a-flyin'!
+  And too soon I'd hear her sighin'
+    In her little sorry tone--
+    "Adios, mi corazon!"
+
+  But one time I had to fly
+    For a foolish gamblin' fight,
+  And we said a swift goodbye
+    In that black, unlucky night.
+  When I'd loosed her arms from clingin'
+  With her words the hoofs kep' ringin'
+    As I galloped north alone--
+    "Adios, mi corazon!"
+
+  Never seen her since that night.
+    I kaint cross the Line, you know.
+  She was Mex and I was white;
+    Like as not it's better so.
+  Yet I've always sort of missed her
+  Since that last wild night I kissed her,
+    Left her heart and lost my own--
+    "Adios, mi corazon!"
+
+
+
+
+THE BUNK-HOUSE ORCHESTRA
+
+
+  Wrangle up your mouth-harps, drag your banjo out,
+  Tune your old guitarra till she twangs right stout,
+  For the snow is on the mountains and the wind is on the plain,
+  But we'll cut the chimney's moanin' with a livelier refrain.
+
+    _Shinin' 'dobe fireplace, shadows on the wall--_
+    _(See old Shorty's friv'lous toes a-twitchin' at the call:)_
+    _It's the best grand high that there is within the law_
+    _When seven jolly punchers tackle "Turkey in the Straw."_
+
+  Freezy was the day's ride, lengthy was the trail,
+  Ev'ry steer was haughty with a high arched tail,
+  But we held 'em and we shoved 'em, for our longin' hearts were tried
+  By a yearnin' for tobacker and our dear fireside.
+
+    _Swing 'er into stop-time, don't you let 'er droop!_
+    _(You're about as tuneful as a coyote with the croup!)_
+    _Ay, the cold wind bit when we drifted down the draw,_
+    _But we drifted on to comfort and to "Turkey in the Straw."_
+
+  Snarlin' when the rain whipped, cussin' at the ford--
+  Ev'ry mile of twenty was a long discord,
+  But the night is brimmin' music and its glory is complete
+  When the eye is razzle-dazzled by the flip o' Shorty's feet!
+
+    _Snappy for the dance, now, fill she up and shoots!_
+    _(Don't he beat the devil's wife for jiggin' in 'is boots?)_
+    _Shorty got throwed high and we laughed till he was raw,_
+    _But tonight he's done forgot it prancin' "Turkey in the Straw."_
+
+  Rainy dark or firelight, bacon rind or pie,
+  Livin' is a luxury that don't come high;
+  Oh, be happy and onruly while our years and luck allow,
+  For we all must die or marry less than forty years from now!
+
+    _Lively on the last turn! lope 'er to the death!_
+    _(Reddy's soul is willin' but he's gettin' short o' breath.)_
+    _Ay, the storm wind sings and old trouble sucks his paw_
+    _When we have an hour of firelight set to "Turkey in the Straw!"_
+
+
+
+
+THE OUTLAW
+
+
+  When my rope takes hold on a two-year-old,
+    By the foot or the neck or the horn,
+  He kin plunge and fight till his eyes go white
+    But I'll throw him as sure as you're born.
+  Though the taut ropes sing like a banjo string
+    And the latigoes creak and strain,
+  Yet I got no fear of an outlaw steer
+    And I'll tumble him on the plain.
+
+    _For a man is a man, but a steer is a beast,_
+      _And the man is the boss of the herd,_
+    _And each of the bunch, from the biggest to least,_
+      _Must come down when he says the word._
+
+  When my leg swings 'cross on an outlaw hawse
+    And my spurs clinch into his hide,
+  He kin r'ar and pitch over hill and ditch,
+    But wherever he goes I'll ride.
+  Let 'im spin and flop like a crazy top
+    Or flit like a wind-whipped smoke,
+  But he'll know the feel of my rowelled heel
+    Till he's happy to own he's broke.
+
+    _For a man is a man and a hawse is a brute,_
+      _And the hawse may be prince of his clan_
+    _But he'll bow to the bit and the steel-shod boot_
+       _And own that his boss is the man._
+
+  When the devil at rest underneath my vest
+    Gets up and begins to paw
+  And my hot tongue strains at its bridle reins,
+    Then I tackle the real outlaw.
+  When I get plumb riled and my sense goes wild
+    And my temper is fractious growed,
+  If he'll hump his neck just a triflin' speck,
+    Then it's dollars to dimes I'm throwed.
+
+    _For a man is a man, but he's partly a beast._
+      _He kin brag till he makes you deaf,_
+    _But the one lone brute, from the west to the east,_
+      _That he kaint quite break is himse'f._
+
+[Illustration: "_The taut ropes sing like a banjo string_
+                 _And the latigoes creak and strain._"]
+
+
+
+
+THE LEGEND OF BOASTFUL BILL
+
+
+  At a roundup on the Gily,
+    One sweet mornin' long ago,
+  Ten of us was throwed right freely
+    By a hawse from Idaho.
+  And we thought he'd go-a-beggin'
+    For a man to break his pride
+  Till, a-hitchin' up one leggin,
+    Boastful Bill cut loose and cried--
+
+    "_I'm a on'ry proposition for to hurt;_
+    _I fulfil my earthly mission with a quirt;_
+      _I kin ride the highest liver_
+      _'Tween the Gulf and Powder River,_
+    _And I'll break this thing as easy as I'd flirt._"
+
+  So Bill climbed the Northern Fury
+    And they mangled up the air
+  Till a native of Missouri
+    Would have owned his brag was fair.
+  Though the plunges kep' him reelin'
+    And the wind it flapped his shirt,
+  Loud above the hawse's squealin'
+    We could hear our friend assert
+
+    "_I'm the one to take such rakin's as a joke._
+    _Some one hand me up the makin's of a smoke!_
+      _If you think my fame needs bright'nin'_
+      _W'y, I'll rope a streak of lightnin'_
+    _And I'll cinch 'im up and spur 'im till he's broke._"
+
+  Then one caper of repulsion
+    Broke that hawse's back in two.
+  Cinches snapped in the convulsion;
+    Skyward man and saddle flew.
+  Up he mounted, never laggin',
+    While we watched him through our tears,
+  And his last thin bit of braggin'
+      Came a-droppin' to our ears.
+
+    "_If you'd ever watched my habits very close_
+    _You would know I've broke such rabbits by the gross._
+      _I have kep' my talent hidin';_
+      _I'm too good for earthly ridin'_
+    _And I'm off to bust the lightnin's,--Adios!_"
+
+  Years have gone since that ascension.
+    Boastful Bill ain't never lit,
+  So we reckon that he's wrenchin'
+    Some celestial outlaw's bit.
+  When the night rain beats our slickers
+    And the wind is swift and stout
+  And the lightnin' flares and flickers,
+    We kin sometimes hear him shout--
+
+    "_I'm a bronco-twistin' wonder on the fly;_
+    _I'm the ridin' son-of-thunder of the sky._
+      _Hi! you earthlin's, shut your winders_
+      _While we're rippin' clouds to flinders._
+    _If this blue-eyed darlin' kicks at you, you die!_"
+
+  Stardust on his chaps and saddle,
+    Scornful still of jar and jolt,
+  He'll come back some day, astraddle
+    Of a bald-faced thunderbolt.
+  And the thin-skinned generation
+    Of that dim and distant day
+  Sure will stare with admiration
+    When they hear old Boastful say--
+
+    "_I was first, as old rawhiders all confessed._
+    _Now I'm last of all rough riders, and the best._
+      _Huh! you soft and dainty floaters,_
+      _With your a'roplanes and motors--_
+    _Huh! are you the great grandchildren of the West!_"
+
+
+
+
+THE TIED MAVERICK
+
+
+  Lay on the iron! the tie holds fast
+    And my wild record closes.
+  This maverick is down at last
+    Just roped and tied with roses.
+  And one small girl's to blame for it,
+  Yet I don't fight with shame for it--
+  Lay on the iron; I'm game for it,
+    Just roped and tied with roses.
+
+  I loped among the wildest band
+    Of saddle-hatin' winners--
+  Gay colts that never felt a brand
+    And scarred old outlaw sinners.
+  The wind was rein and guide to us;
+  The world was pasture wide to us
+  And our wild name was pride to us--
+    High headed bronco sinners!
+
+  So, loose and light we raced and fought
+    And every range we tasted,
+  But now, since I'm corralled and caught,
+    I know them days were wasted.
+  From now, the all-day gait for me,
+  The trail that's hard but straight for me,
+  For down that trail, who'll wait for me!
+    Ay! them old days were wasted!
+
+  But though I'm broke, I'll never be
+    A saddle-marked old groaner,
+  For never worthless bronc like me
+    Got such a gentle owner.
+  There could be colt days glad as mine
+  Or outlaw runs as mad as mine
+  Or rope-flung falls as bad as mine,
+    But never such an owner.
+
+  Lay on the iron, and lay it red!
+    I'll take it kind and clever.
+  Who wouldn't hold a prouder head
+    To wear that mark forever?
+  I'll never break and stray from her;
+  I'd starve and die away from her.
+  Lay on the iron--it's play from her--
+    And brand me hers forever!
+
+
+
+
+A ROUNDUP LULLABY
+
+
+  Desert blue and silver in the still moonshine,
+    Coyote yappin' lazy on the hill,
+  Sleepy winks of lightnin' down the far sky line,
+    Time for millin' cattle to be still.
+
+    _So--o now, the lightnin's far away,_
+      _The coyote's nothiny skeery;_
+      _He's singin' to his dearie--_
+    _Hee--ya, tammalalleday!_
+      _Settle down, you cattle, till the mornin'._
+
+  Nothin' out the hazy range that you folks need,
+    Nothin' we kin see to take your eye.
+  Yet we got to watch you or you'd all stampede,
+    Plungin' down some 'royo bank to die.
+
+    _So--o, now, for still the shadows stay;_
+      _The moon is slow and steady;_
+      _The sun comes when he's ready._
+    _Hee--ya, tammalalleday!_
+      _No use runnin' out to meet the mornin'._
+
+  Cows and men are foolish when the light grows dim,
+    Dreamin' of a land too far to see.
+  There, you dream, is wavin' grass and streams that brim
+    And it often seems the same to me.
+
+    _So--o, now, for dreams they never pay._
+      _The dust it keeps us blinkin',_
+      _We're seven miles from drinkin'._
+    _Hee--ya, tammalalleday!_
+      _But we got to stand it till the mornin'._
+
+  Mostly it's a moonlight world our trail winds through.
+    Kaint see much beyond our saddle horns.
+  Always far away is misty silver-blue;
+    Always underfoot it's rocks and thorns.
+
+    _So--o, now. It must be this away--_
+      _The lonesome owl a-callin',_
+      _The mournful coyote squallin'._
+    _Hee--ya, tammalalleday!_
+      _Mockin-birds don't sing until the mornin'._
+
+  Always seein' 'wayoff dreams of silver-blue,
+    Always feelin' thorns that slab and sting.
+  Yet stampedin' never made a dream come true,
+    So I ride around myself and sing.
+
+    _So--o, now, a man has got to stay,_
+      _A-likin' or a-hatin',_
+      _But workin' on and waitin'._
+    _Hee--ya, tammalalleday!_
+      _All of us are waitin' for the mornin'._
+
+
+
+
+THE TRAIL O' LOVE
+
+
+  My love was swift and slender
+    As an antelope at play,
+  And her eyes were gray and tender
+    As the east at break o' day,
+  And I sure was shaky hearted
+    And her flower face was pale
+  On that silver night we parted,
+    When I sang along the trail:
+
+    _Forever--forever--_
+      _Oh, moon above the pine,_
+    _Like the matin' birds in Springtime,_
+      _I will twitter while you shine._
+    _Rich as ore with gold a-glowin',_
+    _Sweet as sparklin' springs a-flowin',_
+    _Strong as redwoods ever growin',_
+      _So will be this love o' mine._
+
+  I rode across the river
+    And beyond the far divide,
+  Till the echo of "forever"
+    Staggered faint behind and died.
+  For the long trail smiled and beckoned
+    And the free wind blowed so sweet,
+  That life's gayest tune, I reckoned,
+    Was my hawse's ringin' feet.
+
+    _Forever--forever--_
+      _Oh, stars, look down and sigh,_
+    _For a poison spring will sparkle_
+      _And the trustin' drinker die._
+    _And a rovin' bird will twitter_
+    _And a worthless rock will glitter_
+    _And the maiden's love is bitter_
+      _When the man's is proved a lie._
+
+  Last the rover's circle guidin'
+    Brought me where I used to be,
+  And I met her, gaily ridin'
+    With a smarter man than me.
+  Then I raised my dusty cover
+    But she didn't see nor hear,
+  So I hummed the old tune over,
+    Laughin' in my hawse's ear:
+
+    _If the snowflake specks the desert_
+      _Or the yucca blooms awhile._
+    _Ay! what gloom the mountain covers_
+    _Where the driftin' cloud shade hovers!_
+    _Ay! the trail o' parted lovers,_
+      _Where "forever" lasts a mile!_
+
+
+
+
+BACHIN'
+
+
+  Our lives are hid; our trails are strange;
+    We're scattered through the West
+  In canyon cool, on blistered range
+    Or windy mountain crest.
+  Wherever Nature drops her ears
+    And bares her claws to scratch,
+  From Yuma to the north frontiers,
+    You'll likely find the bach',
+        You will,
+    The shy and sober bach'!
+
+  Our days are sun and storm and mist,
+    The same as any life,
+  Except that in our trouble list
+    We never count a wife.
+  Each has a reason why he's lone,
+    But keeps it 'neath his hat;
+  Or, if he's got to tell some one,
+    Confides it to his cat,
+        He does,
+    Just tells it to his cat.
+
+  We're young or old or slow or fast,
+    But all plumb versatyle.
+  The mighty bach' that fires the blast
+    Kin serve up beans in style.
+  The bach' that ropes the plungin' cows
+    Kin mix the biscuits true--
+  We earn our grub by drippin' brows
+    And cook it by 'em too,
+        We do,
+    We cook it by 'em too.
+
+  We like to breathe unbranded air,
+    Be free of foot and mind,
+  And go or stay, or sing or swear,
+    Whichever we're inclined.
+  An appetite, a conscience clear,
+    A pipe that's rich and old
+  Are loves that always bless and cheer
+    And never cry nor scold,
+        They don't.
+    They never cry nor scold.
+
+  Old Adam bached some ages back
+    And smoked his pipe so free,
+  A-loafin' in a palm-leaf shack
+    Beneath a mango tree.
+  He'd best have stuck to bachin' ways,
+    And scripture proves the same,
+  For Adam's only happy days
+    Was 'fore the woman came,
+        They was,
+    All 'fore the woman came.
+
+
+
+
+THE GLORY TRAIL
+
+
+  'Way high up the Mogollons,
+    Among the mountain tops,
+  A lion cleaned a yearlin's bones
+    And licked his thankful chops,
+  When on the picture who should ride,
+    A-trippin' down a slope,
+  But High-Chin Bob, with sinful pride
+    And mav'rick-hungry rope.
+
+    "_Oh, glory be to me," says he,_
+      "_And fame's unfadin' flowers!_
+    _All meddlin' hands are far away;_
+    _I ride my good top-hawse today_
+    _And I'm top-rope of the Lazy J----_
+      _Hi! kitty cat, you're ours!_"
+
+  That lion licked his paw so brown
+    And dreamed soft dreams of veal--
+  And then the circlin' loop sung down
+    And roped him 'round his meal.
+  He yowled quick fury to the world
+    Till all the hills yelled back;
+  The top-hawse gave a snort and whirled
+    And Bob caught up the slack.
+
+    "_Oh, glory be to me," laughs he._
+      "_We hit the glory trail._
+    _No human man as I have read_
+    _Darst loop a ragin' lion's head,_
+    _Nor ever hawse could drag one dead_
+      _Until we told the tale._"
+
+  'Way high up the Mogollons
+    That top-hawse done his best,
+  Through whippin' brush and rattlin' stones,
+    From canyon-floor to crest.
+  But ever when Bob turned and hoped
+    A limp remains to find,
+  A red-eyed lion, belly roped
+    But healthy, loped behind.
+
+    "_Oh, glory be to me" grunts he._
+      "_This glory trail is rough,_
+    _Yet even till the Judgment Morn_
+    _I'll keep this dally 'round the horn,_
+    _For never any hero born_
+      _Could stoop to holler: Nuff!_'"
+
+  Three suns had rode their circle home
+    Beyond the desert's rim,
+  And turned their star-herds loose to roam
+    The ranges high and dim;
+  Yet up and down and 'round and 'cross
+    Bob pounded, weak and wan,
+  For pride still glued him to his hawse
+    And glory drove him on.
+
+    "_Oh, glory be to me," sighs he._
+      "_He kaint be drug to death,_
+    _But now I know beyond a doubt_
+    _Them heroes I have read about_
+    _Was only fools that stuck it out_
+      _To end of mortal breath._"
+
+  'Way high up the Mogollons
+    A prospect man did swear
+  That moon dreams melted down his bones
+    And hoisted up his hair:
+  A ribby cow-hawse thundered by,
+    A lion trailed along,
+  A rider, ga'nt but chin on high,
+    Yelled out a crazy song.
+
+    "_Oh, glory be to me!" cries he,_
+      "_And to my noble noose!_
+    _Oh, stranger, tell my pards below_
+    _I took a rampin' dream in tow,_
+    _And if I never lay him low,_
+      _I'll never turn him loose!_"
+
+
+
+
+BACON
+
+
+  You're salty and greasy and smoky as sin
+    But of all grub we love you the best.
+  You stuck to us closer than nighest of kin
+    And helped us win out in the West,
+  You froze with us up on the Laramie trail;
+    You sweat with us down at Tucson;
+  When Injun was painted and white man was pale
+  You nerved us to grip our last chance by the tail
+    And load up our Colts and hang on.
+
+  You've sizzled by mountain and mesa and plain
+    Over campfires of sagebrush and oak;
+  The breezes that blow from the Platte to the main
+    Have carried your savory smoke.
+  You're friendly to miner or puncher or priest;
+    You're as good in December as May;
+  You always came in when the fresh meat had ceased
+  And the rough course of empire to westward was greased
+    By the bacon we fried on the way.
+
+  We've said that you weren't fit for white men to eat
+    And your virtues we often forget.
+  We've called you by names that I darsn't repeat,
+    But we love you and swear by you yet.
+  Here's to you, old bacon, fat, lean streak and rin',
+    All the westerners join in the toast,
+  From mesquite and yucca to sagebrush and pine,
+  From Canada down to the Mexican Line,
+    From Omaha out to the coast!
+
+
+
+
+THE LOST PARDNER
+
+
+  I ride alone and hate the boys I meet.
+    Today, some way, their laughin' hurts me so.
+  I hate the mockin'-birds in the mesquite--
+    And yet I liked 'em just a week ago.
+  I hate the steady sun that glares, and glares!
+    The bird songs make me sore.
+  I seem the only thing on earth that cares
+    'Cause Al ain't here no more!
+
+  'Twas just a stumblin' hawse, a tangled spur--
+    And, when I raised him up so limp and weak,
+  One look before his eyes begun to blur
+    And then--the blood that wouldn't let 'im speak!
+  And him so strong, and yet so quick he died,
+    And after year on year
+  When we had always trailed it side by side,
+    He went--and left me here!
+
+  We loved each other in the way men do
+    And never spoke about it, Al and me,
+  But we both _knowed_, and knowin' it so true
+    Was more than any woman's kiss could be.
+  We knowed--and if the way was smooth or rough,
+    The weather shine or pour,
+  While I had him the rest seemed good enough--
+    But he ain't here no more!
+
+  What is there out beyond the last divide?
+    Seems like that country must be cold and dim.
+  He'd miss this sunny range he used to ride,
+    And he'd miss me, the same as I do him.
+  It's no use thinkin'--all I'd think or say
+    Could never make it clear.
+  Out that dim trail that only leads one way
+    He's gone--and left me here!
+
+  The range is empty and the trails are blind,
+    And I don't seem but half myself today.
+  I wait to hear him ridin' up behind
+    And feel his knee rub mine the good old way.
+  He's dead--and what that means no man kin tell.
+      Some call it "gone before."
+  Where? I don't know, but God! I know so well
+    That he ain't here no more!
+
+[Illustration: "_I wait to hear him ridin' up behind._"]
+
+
+
+
+GOD'S RESERVES
+
+
+  One time, 'way back where the year marks fade,
+    God said: "I see I must lose my West,
+  The prettiest part of the world I made,
+    The place where I've always come to rest,
+  For the White Man grows till he fights for bread
+  And he begs and prays for a chance to spread.
+
+  "Yet I won't give all of my last retreat;
+    I'll help him to fight his long trail through,
+  But I'll keep some land from his field and street
+    The way that it was when the world was new.
+  He'll cry for it all, for that's his way,
+  And yet he may understand some day."
+
+  And so, from the painted Bad Lands, 'way
+    To the sun-beat home of the 'Pache kin,
+  God stripped some places to sand and clay
+    And dried up the beds where the streams had been.
+  He marked His reserves with these plain signs
+  And stationed His rangers to guard the lines.
+
+  Then the White Man came, as the East growed old,
+    And blazed his trail with the wreck of war.
+  He riled the rivers to hunt for gold
+    And found the stuff he was lookin' for;
+  Then he trampled the Injun trails to ruts
+  And gashed through the hills with railroad cuts.
+
+  He flung out his barb-wire fences wide
+    And plowed up the ground where the grass was high.
+  He stripped off the trees from the mountain side
+    And ground out his ore where the streams run by,
+  Till last came the cities, with smoke and roar,
+  And the White Man was feelin' at home once more.
+
+  But Barrenness, Loneliness, suchlike things
+    That gall and grate on the White Man's nerves,
+  Was the rangers that camped by the bitter springs
+    And guarded the lines of God's reserves.
+  So the folks all shy from the desert land,
+  'Cept mebbe a few that kin understand.
+
+  There the world's the same as the day 'twas new,
+    With the land as clean as the smokeless sky
+  And never a noise as the years have flew,
+    But the sound of the warm wind driftin' by;
+  And there, alone, with the man's world far,
+  There's a chance to think who you really are.
+
+  And over the reach of the desert bare,
+    When the sun drops low and the day wind stills,
+  Sometimes you kin almost see Him there,
+    As He sits alone on the blue-gray hills,
+  A-thinkin' of things that's beyond our ken
+  And restin' Himself from the noise of men.
+
+
+
+
+THE MARRIED MAN
+
+
+  There's an old pard of mine that sits by his door
+    And watches the evenin' skies.
+  He's sat there a thousand of evenin's before
+    And I reckon he will till he dies.
+  El pobre! I reckon he will till he dies,
+    And hear through the dim, quiet air
+  Far cattle that call and the crickets that cheep
+  And his woman a-singin' a kid to sleep
+    And the creak of her rockabye chair.
+
+  Once we made camp where the last light would fail
+    And the east wasn't white till we'd start,
+  But now he is deaf to the call of the trail
+    And the song of the restless heart.
+  El pobre! the song of the restless heart
+    That you hear in the wind from the dawn!
+  He's left it, with all the good, free-footed things,
+  For a slow little song that a tired woman sings
+    And a smoke when his dry day is gone.
+
+  I've rode in and told him of lands that were strange,
+    Where I'd drifted from glory to dread.
+  He'd tell me the news of his little old range
+    And the cute things his kids had said!
+  El pobre! the cute things his kids had said!
+    And the way six-year Billy could ride!
+  And the dark would creep in from the gray chaparral
+  And the woman would hum, while I pitied my pal
+    And thought of him like he had died.
+
+  He rides in old circles and looks at old sights
+    And his life is as flat as a pond.
+  He loves the old skyline he watches of nights
+    And he don't seem to care for beyond.
+  El pobre! he don't seem to dream of beyond,
+    Nor the room he could find, there, for joy.
+  "Ain't you ever oneasy?" says I one day.
+  But he only just smiled in a pityin' way
+    While he braided a quirt for his boy.
+
+  He preaches that I orter fold up my wings
+    And that even wild geese find a nest.
+  That "woman" and "wimmen" are different things
+    And a saddle nap isn't a rest.
+  El pobre! he's more for the shade and the rest
+    And he's less for the wind and the fight,
+  Yet out in strange hills, when the blue shadows rise
+  And I'm tired from the wind and the sun in my eyes,
+    I wonder, sometimes, if he's right.
+
+  I've courted the wind and I've followed her free
+    From the snows that the low stars have kissed
+  To the heave and the dip of the wavy old sea,
+    Yet I reckon there's somethin' I've missed.
+  El pobre! Yes, mebbe there's somethin' I've missed,
+    And it mebbe is more than I've won--
+  Just a door that's my own, while the cool shadows creep,
+  And a woman a-singin' my kid to sleep
+    When I'm tired from the wind and the sun.
+
+
+NOTE.--"El pobre," Spanish, "Poor fellow."
+
+
+
+
+THE OLD COW MAN
+
+
+  I rode across a valley range
+    I hadn't seen for years.
+  The trail was all so spoilt and strange
+    It nearly fetched the tears.
+  I had to let ten fences down
+    (The fussy lanes ran wrong)
+  And each new line would make me frown
+    And hum a mournin' song.
+
+    _Oh, it's squeak! squeak! squeak!_
+      _Hear 'em stretchin' of the wire!_
+    _The nester brand is on the land;_
+      _I reckon I'll retire,_
+    _While progress toots her brassy horn_
+      _And makes her motor buzz,_
+    _I thank the Lord I wasn't born_
+      _No later than I was._
+
+  'Twas good to live when all the sod,
+    Without no fence nor fuss,
+  Belonged in pardnership to God,
+    The Gover'ment and us.
+  With skyline bounds from east to west
+    And room to go and come,
+  I loved my fellow man the best
+    When he was scattered some.
+
+    _Oh, it's squeak! squeak! squeak!_
+      _Close and closer cramps the wire._
+    _There's hardly play to back away_
+      _And call a man a liar._
+    _Their house has locks on every door;_
+      _Their land is in a crate._
+    _These ain't the plains of God no more,_
+      _They're only real estate._
+
+  There's land where yet no ditchers dig
+    Nor cranks experiment;
+  It's only lovely, free and big
+    And isn't worth a cent.
+  I pray that them who come to spoil
+    May wait till I am dead
+  Before they foul that blessed soil
+    With fence and cabbage head.
+
+    _Yet it's squeak! squeak! squeak!_
+      _Far and farther crawls the wire._
+    _To crowd and pinch another inch_
+      _Is all their heart's desire._
+    _The world is overstocked with men_
+      _And some will see the day_
+    _When each must keep his little pen,_
+      _But I'll be far away._
+
+  When my old soul hunts range and rest
+    Beyond the last divide,
+  Just plant me in some stretch of West
+    That's sunny, lone and wide.
+  Let cattle rub my tombstone down
+    And coyotes mourn their kin,
+  Let hawses paw and tromp the moun'
+    But don't you fence it in!
+
+    _Oh, it's squeak! squeak! squeak!_
+      _And they pen the land with wire._
+    _They figure fence and copper cents_
+      _Where we laughed 'round the fire._
+    _Job cussed his birthday, night and morn._
+      _In his old land of Uz,_
+    _But I'm just glad I wasn't born_
+      _No later than I was!_
+
+[Illustration: "_There's land where yet no ditchers dig_
+                 _Nor cranks experiment;_
+               _It's only lovely, free and big_
+                 _And isn't worth a cent._"]
+
+
+
+
+THE PLAINSMEN
+
+
+  Men of the older, gentler soil,
+    Loving the things that their fathers wrought--
+  Worn old fields of their fathers' toil,
+    Scarred old hills where their fathers fought--
+  Loving their land for each ancient trace,
+  Like a mother dear for her wrinkled face,
+    Such as they never can understand
+    The way we have loved you, young, young land!
+
+  Born of a free, world-wandering race,
+    Little we yearned o'er an oft-turned sod.
+  What did we care for the fathers' place,
+    Having ours fresh from the hand of God?
+  Who feared the strangeness or wiles of you
+  When from the unreckoned miles of you,
+    Thrilling the wind with a sweet command,
+    Youth unto youth called, young, young land?
+
+  North, where the hurrying seasons changed
+    Over great gray plains where the trails lay long,
+  Free as the sweeping Chinook we ranged,
+    Setting our days to a saddle song.
+  Through the icy challenge you flung to us,
+  Through your shy Spring kisses that clung to us,
+    Following far as the rainbow spanned,
+    Fiercely we wooed you, young, young land!
+
+  South, where the sullen black mountains guard
+    Limitless, shimmering lands of the sun,
+  Over blinding trails where the hoofs rang hard,
+    Laughing or cursing, we rode and won.
+  Drunk with the virgin white fire of you,
+  Hotter than thirst was desire of you;
+    Straight in our faces you burned your brand,
+    Marking your chosen ones, young, young land.
+
+  When did we long for the sheltered gloom
+    Of the older game with its cautious odds?
+  Gloried we always in sun and room,
+    Spending our strength like the younger gods.
+  By the wild sweet ardor that ran in us,
+  By the pain that tested the man in us,
+    By the shadowy springs and the glaring sand,
+    You were our true-love, young, young land.
+
+  When the last free trail is a prim, fenced lane
+    And our graves grow weeds through forgetful Mays,
+  Richer and statelier then you'll reign,
+    Mother of men whom the world will praise.
+  And your sons will love you and sigh for you,
+  Labor and battle and die for you,
+    But never the fondest will understand
+    The way we have loved you, young, young land.
+
+[Illustration: "_Born of a free, world-wandering race,_
+                 _Little we yearned o'er an oft-turned sod._"]
+
+
+
+
+THE WESTERNER
+
+
+  My fathers sleep on the sunrise plains,
+    And each one sleeps alone.
+  Their trails may dim to the grass and rains,
+    For I choose to make my own.
+  I lay proud claim to their blood and name,
+    But I lean on no dead kin;
+  My name is mine, for the praise or scorn,
+  And the world began when I was born
+    And the world is mine to win.
+
+  They built high towns on their old log sills,
+    Where the great, slow rivers gleamed,
+  But with new, live rock from the savage hills
+    I'll build as they only dreamed.
+  The smoke scarce dies where the trail camp lies,
+    Till the rails glint down the pass;
+  The desert springs into fruit and wheat
+  And I lay the stones of a solid street
+    Over yesterday's untrod grass.
+
+  I waste no thought on my neighbor's birth
+    Or the way he makes his prayer.
+  I grant him a white man's room on earth
+    If his game is only square.
+  While he plays it straight I'll call him mate;
+    If he cheats I drop him flat.
+  Old class and rank are a wornout lie,
+  For all clean men are as good as I,
+    And a king is only that.
+
+  I dream no dreams of a nurse-maid state
+    That will spoon me out my food.
+  A stout heart sings in the fray with fate
+    And the shock and sweat are good.
+  From noon to noon all the earthly boon
+    That I ask my God to spare
+  Is a little daily bread in store,
+  With the room to fight the strong for more,
+    And the weak shall get their share.
+
+  The sunrise plains are a tender haze
+    And the sunset seas are gray,
+  But I stand here, where the bright skies blaze
+    Over me and the big today.
+  What good to me is a vague "may be"
+    Or a mournful "might have been,"
+  For the sun wheels swift from morn to morn
+  And the world began when I was born
+    And the world is mine to win.
+
+
+
+
+THE WIND IS BLOWIN'
+
+
+  My tired hawse nickers for his own home bars;
+    A hoof clicks out a spark.
+  The dim creek flickers to the lonesome stars;
+    The trail twists down the dark.
+  The ridge pines whimper to the pines below.
+  The wind is blowin' and I want you so.
+
+  The birch has yellowed since I saw you last,
+    The Fall haze blued the creeks,
+  The big pine bellowed as the snow swished past,
+    But still, above the peaks,
+  The same stars twinkle that we used to know.
+  The wind is blowin' and I want you so.
+
+  The stars up yonder wait the end of time
+    But earth fires soon go black.
+  I trip and wander on the trail I climb--
+    A fool who will look back
+  To glimpse a fire dead a year ago.
+  The wind is blowin' and I want you so.
+
+  Who says the lover kills the man in me?
+    Beneath the day's hot blue
+  This thing hunts cover and my heart fights free
+    To laugh an hour or two.
+  But now it wavers like a wounded doe.
+  The wind is blowin' and I want you so.
+
+
+
+
+ON BOOT HILL
+
+
+  Up from the prairie and through the pines,
+  Over your straggling headboard lines
+    Winds of the West go by.
+  You must love them, you booted dead,
+  More than the dreamers who died in bed--
+  You old-timers who took your lead
+    Under the open sky!
+
+  Leathery knights of the dim old trail,
+  Lawful fighters or scamps from jail,
+    Dimly your virtues shine.
+  Yet who am I that I judge your wars,
+  Deeds that my daintier soul abhors,
+  Wide-open sins of the wide outdoors,
+    Manlier sins than mine.
+
+  Dear old mavericks, customs mend.
+  I would not glory to make an end
+    Marked like a homemade sieve.
+  But with a touch of your own old pride
+  Grant me to travel the trail I ride.
+  Gamely and gaily, the way you died,
+    Give me the nerve to live.
+
+  Ay, and for you I will dare assume
+  Some Valhalla of sun and room
+    Over the last divide.
+  There, in eternally fenceless West,
+  Rest to your souls, if they care to rest,
+  Or else fresh horses beyond the crest
+    And a star-speckled range to ride.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Sun and Saddle Leather, by Badger Clark
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+<head>
+<meta http-equiv="Content-Type"
+    content="text/html; charset=iso-8859-1" />
+<meta content="pg2html (binary v0.20)" name="generator" />
+<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of
+    Sun and Saddle Leather,
+    by Badger Clark.
+</title>
+<style type="text/css">
+ body { margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; }
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+        margin-top:    .75em;
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+        margin-bottom: .75em; }
+    h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 { text-align: center; }
+    hr      { width: 50%;  }
+    .poem          { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 10%;
+                     margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: left; }
+    img + div.poem { margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;
+                     margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: left; }
+    td > div.poem  { margin-left: 0; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: left; }
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+    .poem p.i2  { margin-left: 1.5em; }
+    .poem p.i4  { margin-left: 2.5em; }
+    .poem p.i6  { margin-left: 3.5em; }
+    .poem p.i8  { margin-left: 4.5em; }
+    .poem p.i10 { margin-left: 5.5em; }
+    .figure { margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-indent: 0em;
+              text-align: center; font-size: 90%; }
+    .center { text-indent: 0; text-align: center; }
+    .sc     { font-variant: small-caps; }
+    a,img   { text-decoration: none!important; border:none!important; }
+    table   { margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; }
+    td      { padding: 0em .5em 0em .5em; }
+    span.pagenum { position: absolute; left: 1%; right: 91%;
+                   font-size: 8pt; color: gray; background-color: inherit; }
+    div.stanza * span.pagenum { display:none!important; }
+</style>
+<link rel="coverpage" href="images/cover.jpg" />
+</head>
+<body>
+
+
+<pre>
+
+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Sun and Saddle Leather, by Badger Clark
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: Sun and Saddle Leather
+       Including Grass Grown Trails and New Poems
+
+Author: Badger Clark
+
+Release Date: July 17, 2011 [EBook #36770]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SUN AND SADDLE LEATHER ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Roberta Staehlin, David Garcia and the Online
+Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
+file was produced from images generously made available
+by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
+
+
+
+
+
+
+</pre>
+
+
+<div style="height: 6em;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div>
+
+<div class="figure">
+<a name="image-0000"><!--IMG--></a>
+<img src="images/cover.jpg" width="300" height="470"
+alt="(cover)" />
+</div>
+
+<p class="center">
+<small>SUN AND SADDLE LEATHER</small>
+</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="nopage1" name="nopage1"></a>[pg]</span></p>
+
+<div style="height: 2em;"><br /><br /></div>
+
+<p><!--[Blank Page]--><br /></p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="nopage2" name="nopage2"></a>[pg]</span></p>
+
+<div class="figure" style="width: 500px;">
+<a name="image-0001"><!--IMG--></a>
+<a href="images/ill-01.jpg"><img src="images/ill-01-s.jpg" width="400" height="500"
+alt="When the last free trail is a prim, fenced lane ..." /></a>
+  <div class="poem">
+  <div class="stanza">
+  <p class="i2">   "<i>When the last free trail is a prim, fenced lane</i> </p>
+  <p class="i4">     <i>And our graves grow weeds through forgetful Mays,</i> </p>
+  <p class="i2">   <i>Richer and statelier then you'll reign,</i> </p>
+  <p class="i4">     <i>Mother of men whom the world will praise.</i> </p>
+  <p class="i2">   <i>And your sons will love you and sigh for you,</i> </p>
+  <p class="i2">   <i>Labor and battle and die for you,</i> </p>
+  <p class="i4">     <i>But never the fondest will understand</i> </p>
+  <p class="i4">     <i>The way we have loved you, young, young land.</i>" </p>
+  </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="nopage3" name="nopage3"></a>[pg]</span></p>
+
+<div><a name="h2H_4_0001" id="h2H_4_0001"><!-- H2 anchor --></a></div>
+
+<div style="height: 4em;"><br /><br /><br /><br /></div>
+
+<h1>
+    SUN AND SADDLE LEATHER
+</h1>
+
+<p class="center">
+<big><b>BY BADGER CLARK</b></big>
+</p>
+
+<div style="height: 2em;"><br /><br /></div>
+
+<p class="center">
+<small>Illustrations from Photographs by</small><br />L. A. HUFFMAN
+</p>
+
+<div style="height: 2em;"><br /><br /></div>
+
+<p class="center">
+<small>
+THIRD EDITION
+</small>
+</p>
+
+<div class="figure">
+<a name="image-000"><!--IMG--></a>
+<img src="images/logo.png" width="150" height="190"
+alt="(logo)" />
+</div>
+
+<div style="height: 2em;"><br /><br /></div>
+
+<p class="center">
+<small>
+  BOSTON<br />
+</small>
+<big>RICHARD G. BADGER</big><br />
+<small>
+  THE GORHAM PRESS
+</small>
+</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="nopage4" name="nopage4"></a>[pg]</span></p>
+
+<div style="height: 2em;"><br /><br /></div>
+
+<p class="center">
+Copyright, 1915, 1917 and 1919 by Badger Clark
+</p>
+<hr style="width: 20%;" />
+<p class="center">
+All Rights Reserved
+</p>
+
+<div style="height: 4em;"><br /><br /><br /><br /></div>
+
+<p class="center">
+MADE IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
+</p>
+<hr style="width: 20%;" />
+<p class="center">
+<span class="sc">The Gorham Press, Boston, U. S. A.</span>
+</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="nopage5" name="nopage5"></a>[pg]</span></p>
+
+<div style="height: 4em;"><br /><br /><br /><br /></div>
+
+<p class="center">
+<big>TO MY FATHER,</big>
+<br />
+<i>who, in his long life, has seldom been<br />
+conscious of a man's rough exterior, or<br />
+unconscious of his obscurest virtue.</i>
+</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="nopage6" name="nopage6"></a>[pg]</span></p>
+
+<div style="height: 2em;"><br /><br /></div>
+
+<p><!--[Blank Page]--><br /></p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="nopage7" name="nopage7"></a>[pg]</span></p>
+
+<div><a name="h2H_PREF" id="h2H_PREF"><!-- H2 anchor --></a></div>
+
+<div style="height: 4em;"><br /><br /><br /><br /></div>
+
+<h2>
+    PREFACE TO THE THIRD EDITION
+</h2>
+
+<p>
+Cowboys are the sternest critics of those who would represent the West.
+No hypocrisy, no bluff, no pose can evade them.
+</p>
+<p>
+Yet cowboys have made Badger Clark's songs their own. So readily have
+they circulated that often the man who sings the song could not tell
+you where it started. Many of the poems have become folk songs of the
+West, we may say of America, for they speak of freedom and the open.
+</p>
+<p>
+Generous has been the praise given <i>Sun and Saddle Leather</i>, but
+perhaps no criticism has summed up the work so satisfactorily as the
+comment of the old cow man who said, "You can break me if there's a
+dead poem in the book, I read the hull of it. Who in H&mdash;&mdash; is this kid
+Clark, anyway? I don't know how he knowed, but he <i>knows</i>."
+</p>
+<p>
+That is what proves Badger Clark the real poet. He knows. Beyond his
+wonderful
+
+<span class="pagenum"><a id="nopage8" name="nopage8"></a>[pg]</span>
+
+           presentation of the West is the quality of universal appeal
+that makes his work real art. He has tied the West to the universe.
+</p>
+<p>
+The old cow man is not the only one who has wondered who Badger Clark
+was. Charles Wharton Stork speaking of <i>Sun and Saddle Leather</i>, said,
+"It has splendid flavor and fine artistic handling as well. I should
+like to know more of the author, whether he was a cow puncher or merely
+got inside his psychology by imagination."
+</p>
+<p>
+Badger Clark was brought up in the West. As a boy he lived in Deadwood,
+South Dakota. The town at that time was trying to live down the
+reputation for exuberant indecorum which she had acquired during the
+gold rush; but her five churches operating two hours a week could make
+little headway against the competition of two dance halls and
+twenty-six saloons running twenty-four hours a day.
+</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="nopage9" name="nopage9"></a>[pg]</span></p>
+
+<p>
+Perhaps it was these early impressions that make <i>The Piano at Red's</i>
+in Mr. Clark's later volume <i>Grass Grown Trails</i> so vivid.
+</p>
+
+<div class="poem">
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">   Scuffling feet and thud of fists, </p>
+<p class="i4">     Curses hot as fire&mdash; </p>
+<p class="i2">   Still the music sang of love, </p>
+<p class="i4">     Longin', lost desire, </p>
+<p class="i2">   Dreams that never could have been </p>
+<p class="i4">     Joys that couldn't stay&mdash; </p>
+<p class="i2">   While the man upon the floor </p>
+<p class="i4">     Wiped the blood away. </p>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<p>
+After Clark had grown up, in the cow country near the Mexican border,
+he stumbled unexpectedly into paradise. He was given charge of a small
+ranch and the responsibility for a bunch of cattle just large enough to
+amuse him, but too small to demand a full day's work once a month. The
+sky was persistently blue, the sunlight was richly golden, the folds of
+the barren mountains and the wide reaches of the range were
+
+<span class="pagenum"><a id="nopage10" name="nopage10"></a>[pg]</span>
+
+                                                            full of many
+lovely colors, and his nearest neighbor was eight miles away.
+</p>
+<p>
+The cow men who dropped in for a meal now and then in the course of
+their interminable riding appeared to have ridden directly out of books
+of adventure, with old-young faces full of sun wrinkles, careless
+mouths full of bad grammar, strange oaths and stranger yarns, and
+hearts for the most part as open and shadowless as the country they
+daily ranged.
+</p>
+<p>
+In the evenings as Clark placed his boot heels on the porch railing,
+smote the strings of his guitar and broke the tense silence of the
+warm, dry twilight with song, he often wondered, as his eyes rested
+dreamily on the spikey yuccas that stood out sharp and black against
+the clear lemon color of the sunset west, why hermit life in the desert
+was traditionally a sad, penitential affair.
+</p>
+<p>
+In a letter to his mother a month or two
+
+<span class="pagenum"><a id="nopage11" name="nopage11"></a>[pg]</span>
+
+                                         after settling in Arizona he
+found prose too weak to express his utter content and perpetrated his
+first verses. She, with natural pride, sent the verses to a magazine,
+the old <i>Pacific Monthly</i>, and a week or two later the desert dweller
+was astonished beyond measure to receive his first editorial check.
+The  discovery that certain people in the world were willing to pay
+money for such rhymes as he could write bent the whole course of his
+subsequent life, for good or evil, and the occasional lyric impulse
+hardened into a habit which has consumed much of his time and most of
+his serious thought since that date. The verses written to his mother
+were <i>Ridin'</i>, the first poem in his first book, <i>Sun and Saddle
+Leather</i>, and the greater part of the poems in both <i>Sun and Saddle
+Leather</i> and <i>Grass Grown Trails</i> were written in Arizona.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>Sun and Saddle Leather</i> and <i>Grass Grown Trails</i> are books of Western
+songs, simple
+
+<span class="pagenum"><a id="nopage12" name="nopage12"></a>[pg]</span>
+
+              and ringing and yet with an ample vision that makes them
+unique among poems written in a local vernacular. The spirit of them
+is eternal, the spirit of youth in the open, and their background is
+"God's Reserves," the vast reach of Western mesa and plain that will
+always remain free&mdash;"the way that it was when the world was new."
+</p>
+<p>
+Every poem carries a breath of plains, wind-flavored with a tang of
+camp smoke; and, varied as they are in tune and tone, they do not
+contain a single note that is labored or unnatural. They are of native
+Western stock, as indigenous to the soil as the agile cow ponies whose
+hoofs evidently beat the time for their swinging measures; and it is
+this quality, as well as their appealing music, that has already given
+them such wide popularity, East and West.
+</p>
+<p>
+That they were born in the saddle and written for love rather than for
+publication
+
+<span class="pagenum"><a id="nopage13" name="nopage13"></a>[pg]</span>
+
+            is a conviction that the reader of them can hardly escape.
+From the impish merriment of <i>From Town</i> to the deep but fearless piety
+of <i>The Cowboy's Prayer</i>, these songs ring true; and are as healthy as
+the big, bright country whence they came.
+</p>
+<p>
+In 1917, about the time our first edition of <i>Sun and Saddle Leather</i>
+began to run low, we fortunately discovered L. A. Huffman, of Miles
+City, Montana, the illustrator who in 1878 began taking photographs
+from the saddle with crude cameras he made over to meet his needs.
+These same views were the first of the now famous "Huffman Pictures,"
+beginning with the Indians and buffaloes round about Ft. Keogh on the
+Yellowstone where he was post photographer for General Miles' army
+during those stirring territorial days. The Huffman Studio is still one
+of the show places of Miles City, and the sales headquarters also for
+Montana and adjacent states
+
+<span class="pagenum"><a id="nopage14" name="nopage14"></a>[pg]</span>
+
+                            for both of Mr. Clark's books, <i>Sun and
+Saddle Leather</i> and <i>Grass Grown Trails</i>. In a recent letter Mr. Huffman
+says, "I have just come back from a trip to 'Powder River' and along the
+Wyoming-Montana border. It's all too true! Clark saw and wrote it none
+too soon in <i>The Passing of the Trail</i>."
+</p>
+
+<div class="poem">
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">   The trail's a lane, the trail's a lane. </p>
+<p class="i2">   Dead is the branding fire. </p>
+<p class="i2">   The prairies wild are tame and mild </p>
+<p class="i2">   All close-corralled with wire. </p>
+<p class="i2">   The sunburnt demigods who ranged </p>
+<p class="i2">   And laughed and loved so free </p>
+<p class="i2">   Have topped the last divide, or changed </p>
+<p class="i2">   To men like you and me. </p>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page7" name="page7"></a>[7]</span></p>
+
+<div><a name="h2H_TOC" id="h2H_TOC"><!-- H2 anchor --></a></div>
+
+<div style="height: 4em;"><br /><br /><br /><br /></div>
+
+<h2>
+    CONTENTS
+</h2>
+
+<table summary="Table of Contents" style="width: 66%;">
+<tr><td></td>                                 <td align="right"><span class="sc">Page</span></td></tr>
+<tr><td>  Ridin'                         </td><td align="right"><a href="#page13">13</a>  </td></tr>
+<tr><td>  The Song of the Leather        </td><td align="right"><a href="#page16">16</a>  </td></tr>
+<tr><td>  A Bad Half Hour                </td><td align="right"><a href="#page19">19</a>  </td></tr>
+<tr><td>  From Town                      </td><td align="right"><a href="#page22">22</a>  </td></tr>
+<tr><td>  A Cowboy's Prayer              </td><td align="right"><a href="#page26">26</a>  </td></tr>
+<tr><td>  The Christmas Trail            </td><td align="right"><a href="#page29">29</a>  </td></tr>
+<tr><td>  A Border Affair                </td><td align="right"><a href="#page33">33</a>  </td></tr>
+<tr><td>  The Bunk-House Orchestra       </td><td align="right"><a href="#page36">36</a>  </td></tr>
+<tr><td>  The Outlaw                     </td><td align="right"><a href="#page40">40</a>  </td></tr>
+<tr><td>  The Legend of Boastful Bill    </td><td align="right"><a href="#page43">43</a>  </td></tr>
+<tr><td>  The Tied Maverick              </td><td align="right"><a href="#page48">48</a>  </td></tr>
+<tr><td>  A Roundup Lullaby              </td><td align="right"><a href="#page51">51</a>  </td></tr>
+<tr><td>  The Trail o' Love              </td><td align="right"><a href="#page55">55</a>  </td></tr>
+<tr><td>  Bachin'                        </td><td align="right"><a href="#page58">58</a>  </td></tr>
+<tr><td>  The Glory Trail                </td><td align="right"><a href="#page61">61</a>  </td></tr>
+<tr><td>  Bacon                          </td><td align="right"><a href="#page65">65</a>  </td></tr>
+<tr><td>  The Lost Pardner               </td><td align="right"><a href="#page67">67</a>  </td></tr>
+<tr><td>
+          <span class="pagenum"><a id="page8" name="page8"></a>[8]</span>
+          God's Reserves                 </td><td align="right"><a href="#page70">70</a>  </td></tr>
+<tr><td>  The Married Man                </td><td align="right"><a href="#page74">74</a>  </td></tr>
+<tr><td>  The Old Cow Man                </td><td align="right"><a href="#page78">78</a>  </td></tr>
+<tr><td>  The Plainsmen                  </td><td align="right"><a href="#page82">82</a>  </td></tr>
+<tr><td>  The Westerner                  </td><td align="right"><a href="#page86">86</a>  </td></tr>
+<tr><td>  The Wind is Blowin'            </td><td align="right"><a href="#page89">89</a>  </td></tr>
+<tr><td>  On Boot Hill                   </td><td align="right"><a href="#page91">91</a>  </td></tr>
+</table>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page9" name="page9"></a>[9]</span></p>
+
+<div><a name="h2H_LIST" id="h2H_LIST"><!-- H2 anchor --></a></div>
+
+<div style="height: 4em;"><br /><br /><br /><br /></div>
+
+<h2>
+    LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
+</h2>
+
+<table summary="List of Illustrations" style="width: 66%;">
+
+<tr>
+<td>
+<div class="poem">
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">   <i>When the last free trail is a prim, fenced lane</i> </p>
+<p class="i4">     <i>And our graves grow weeds through forgetful Mays,</i> </p>
+<p class="i2">   <i>Richer and statelier then you'll reign,</i> </p>
+<p class="i2">   <i>Mother of men whom the world will praise.</i> </p>
+<p class="i2">   <i>And your sons will love you and sigh for you,</i> </p>
+<p class="i2">   <i>Labor and battle and die for you,</i> </p>
+<p class="i4">     <i>But never the fondest will understand</i> </p>
+<p class="i4">     <i>The way we have loved you, young, young land.</i> </p>
+</div>
+</div>
+</td>
+<td align="right" style="vertical-align: bottom;">&mdash;<i><a href="#nopage2">Frontispiece.</a></i></td></tr>
+
+<tr><td></td><td align="right"><small>FACING PAGE</small></td></tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td>
+<div class="poem">
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">  <i>When my feet is in the stirrups</i> </p>
+<p class="i4">    <i>And my hawse is on the bust.</i> </p>
+</div>
+</div>
+</td>
+<td align="right" style="vertical-align: bottom;"><a href="#nopage15">14</a>  </td></tr>
+
+<tr><td>
+<div class="poem">
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">  <i>There's a time to be slow and a time to be quick.</i> </p>
+</div>
+</div>
+</td>
+<td align="right" style="vertical-align: bottom;"><a href="#nopage17">18</a>  </td></tr>
+
+<tr><td>
+<div class="poem">
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">  <i>We have gathered fightin' pointers from the famous bronco steed.</i> </p>
+</div>
+</div>
+</td>
+<td align="right" style="vertical-align: bottom;"><a href="#nopage19">24</a>  </td></tr>
+
+
+<tr>
+<td>
+<div class="poem">
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">  <i>The taut ropes sing like a banjo string</i> </p>
+<p class="i4">    <i>And the latigoes creak and strain.</i> </p>
+</div>
+</div>
+</td>
+<td align="right" style="vertical-align: bottom;"><a href="#nopage21">40</a>  </td></tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td>
+<div class="poem">
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">  <i>I wait to hear him ridin' up behind.</i> </p>
+</div>
+</div>
+</td>
+<td align="right" style="vertical-align: bottom;"><a href="#nopage23">68</a>  </td></tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td>
+<div class="poem">
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">  <i>There's land where yet no ditchers dig</i> </p>
+<p class="i4">    <i>Nor cranks experiment;</i> </p>
+<p class="i2">  <i>It's only lovely, free and big</i> </p>
+<p class="i4">    <i>And isn't worth a cent.</i> </p>
+</div>
+</div>
+</td>
+<td align="right" style="vertical-align: bottom;"><a href="#nopage25">80</a>  </td></tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td>
+<div class="poem">
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">  <i>Born of a free, world-wandering race</i> </p>
+<p class="i4">    <i>Little we yearned o'er an oft-turned sod.</i> </p>
+</div>
+</div>
+</td>
+<td align="right" style="vertical-align: bottom;"><a href="#nopage27">82</a>  </td></tr>
+</table>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page10" name="page10"></a>[10]</span></p>
+
+<div style="height: 2em;"><br /><br /></div>
+
+<p><!--[Blank Page]--><br /></p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page11" name="page11"></a>[11]</span></p>
+
+<div style="height: 2em;"><br /><br /></div>
+
+<h2>
+SUN AND SADDLE LEATHER
+</h2>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page12" name="page12"></a>[12]</span></p>
+
+<div style="height: 2em;"><br /><br /></div>
+
+<p><!--[Blank Page]--><br /></p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page13" name="page13"></a>[13]</span></p>
+
+<div><a name="h2H_4_0004" id="h2H_4_0004"><!-- H2 anchor --></a></div>
+
+<div style="height: 4em;"><br /><br /><br /><br /></div>
+
+<h2>
+    RIDIN'
+</h2>
+
+<div class="poem">
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">   There is some that likes the city&mdash; </p>
+<p class="i4">     Grass that's curried smooth and green, </p>
+<p class="i2">   Theaytres and stranglin' collars, </p>
+<p class="i4">     Wagons run by gasoline&mdash; </p>
+<p class="i2">   But for me it's hawse and saddle </p>
+<p class="i4">     Every day without a change, </p>
+<p class="i2">   And a desert sun a-blazin' </p>
+<p class="i4">     On a hundred miles of range. </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">   <i>Just a-ridin', a-ridin'&mdash;</i> </p>
+<p class="i4">     <i>Desert ripplin' in the sun,</i> </p>
+<p class="i2">   <i>Mountains blue along the skyline&mdash;</i> </p>
+<p class="i4">     <i>I don't envy anyone</i> </p>
+<p class="i8">         <i>When I'm ridin'.</i> </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">   When my feet is in the stirrups </p>
+<p class="i4">     And my hawse is on the bust, </p>
+<p class="i2">   With his hoofs a-flashin' lightnin' </p>
+<p class="i4">     From a cloud of golden dust, </p>
+<p class="i2">
+<span class="pagenum"><a id="page14" name="page14"></a>[14]</span>
+
+                 And the bawlin' of the cattle </p>
+<p class="i4">     Is a-coming' down the wind </p>
+<p class="i2">   Then a finer life than ridin' </p>
+<p class="i4">     Would be mighty hard to find. </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">   <i>Just a-ridin, a-ridin'&mdash;</i> </p>
+<p class="i4">     <i>Splittin' long cracks through the air,</i> </p>
+<p class="i2">   <i>Stirrin' up a baby cyclone,</i> </p>
+<p class="i4">     <i>Rippin' up the prickly pear</i> </p>
+<p class="i8">         <i>As I'm ridin'.</i> </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">   I don't need no art exhibits </p>
+<p class="i4">     When the sunset does her best, </p>
+<p class="i2">   Paintin' everlastin' glory </p>
+<p class="i4">     On the mountains to the west </p>
+<p class="i2">   And your opery looks foolish </p>
+<p class="i4">     When the night-bird starts his tune </p>
+<p class="i2">   And the desert's silver mounted </p>
+<p class="i4">     By the touches of the moon. </p>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="nopage15" name="nopage15"></a>[pg]</span></p>
+
+<div class="figure" style="width: 600px;">
+<a name="image-0003"><!--IMG--></a>
+<a href="images/ill-02.jpg"><img src="images/ill-02-s.jpg" width="500" height="260"
+alt="When my feet is in the stirrups / And my hawse is on the bust." /></a>
+<br />
+  <div class="poem">
+  <div class="stanza">
+  <p class="i2">  "<i>When my feet is in the stirrups</i> </p>
+  <p class="i4">    <i>And my hawse is on the bust.</i>" </p>
+  </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="nopage16" name="nopage16"></a>[pg]</span></p>
+
+<div style="height: 2em;"><br /><br /></div>
+
+<p><!--[Blank Page]--><br /></p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page15" name="page15"></a>[15]</span></p>
+
+<div class="poem">
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">   <i>Just a-ridin', a-ridin',</i> </p>
+<p class="i4">     <i>Who kin envy kings and czars</i> </p>
+<p class="i2">   <i>When the coyotes down the valley</i> </p>
+<p class="i4">     <i>Are a-singin' to the stars,</i> </p>
+<p class="i8">         <i>If he's ridin'?</i> </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">   When my earthly trail is ended </p>
+<p class="i4">     And my final bacon curled </p>
+<p class="i2">   And the last great roundup's finished </p>
+<p class="i4">     At the Home Ranch of the world </p>
+<p class="i2">   I don't want no harps nor haloes, </p>
+<p class="i4">     Robes nor other dressed up things&mdash; </p>
+<p class="i2">   Let me ride the starry ranges </p>
+<p class="i4">     On a pinto hawse with wings! </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">   <i>Just a-ridin', a-ridin'&mdash;</i> </p>
+<p class="i4">     <i>Nothin' I'd like half so well</i> </p>
+<p class="i2">   <i>As a-roundin' up the sinners</i> </p>
+<p class="i4">     <i>That have wandered out of Hell,</i> </p>
+<p class="i8">         <i>And a-ridin'.</i> </p>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page16" name="page16"></a>[16]</span></p>
+
+<div><a name="h2H_4_0005" id="h2H_4_0005"><!-- H2 anchor --></a></div>
+
+<div style="height: 4em;"><br /><br /><br /><br /></div>
+
+<h2>
+    THE SONG OF THE LEATHER
+</h2>
+
+<div class="poem">
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">   When my trail stretches out to the edge of the sky </p>
+<p class="i4">     Through the desert so empty and bright, </p>
+<p class="i2">   When I'm watchin' the miles as they go crawlin' by </p>
+<p class="i4">     And a-hopin' I'll get there by night, </p>
+<p class="i2">   Then my hawse never speaks through the long sunny day, </p>
+<p class="i4">     But my saddle he sings in his creaky old way: </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i10">           "<i>Easy&mdash;easy&mdash;easy&mdash;</i> </p>
+<p class="i4">     <i>For a temperit pace ain't a crime.</i> </p>
+<p class="i2">   <i>Let your mount hit it steady, but give him his ease,</i> </p>
+<p class="i2">   <i>For the sun hammers hard and there's never a breeze.</i> </p>
+<p class="i4">     <i>We kin get there in plenty of time.</i>" </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">
+<span class="pagenum"><a id="page17" name="page17"></a>[17]</span>
+
+                 When I'm after some critter that's hit the high lope, </p>
+<p class="i4">     And a-spurrin' my hawse till he flies, </p>
+<p class="i2">   When I'm watchin' the chances for throwin' my rope </p>
+<p class="i4">     And a-winkin' the sweat from my eyes, </p>
+<p class="i2">   Then the leathers they squeal with the lunge and the swing </p>
+<p class="i4">     And I work to the livelier tune that they sing: </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i10">           "<i>Reach 'im! reach 'im! reach 'im!</i> </p>
+<p class="i6">       <i>If you lather your hawse to the heel!</i> </p>
+<p class="i2">   <i>There's a time to be slow and a time to be quick;</i> </p>
+<p class="i2">   <i>Never mind if it's rough and the bushes are thick&mdash;</i> </p>
+<p class="i6">       <i>Pull your hat down and fling in the steel!</i>" </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">
+<span class="pagenum"><a id="page18" name="page18"></a>[18]</span>
+                 When I've rustled all day till I'm achin' for rest </p>
+<p class="i4">     And I'm ordered a night-guard to ride, </p>
+<p class="i2">   With the tired little moon hangin' low in the west </p>
+<p class="i4">     And my sleepiness fightin' my pride, </p>
+<p class="i2">   Then I nod and I blink at the dark herd below </p>
+<p class="i4">     And the saddle he sings as my hawse paces slow: </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i8">         "<i>Sleepy&mdash;sleepy&mdash;sleepy&mdash;</i> </p>
+<p class="i6">       <i>We was ordered a close watch to keep,</i> </p>
+<p class="i2">   <i>But I'll sing you a song in a drowsy old key;</i> </p>
+<p class="i2">   <i>All the world is a-snoozin' so why shouldn't we?</i> </p>
+<p class="i6">       <i>Go to sleep, pardner mine, go to sleep.</i>" </p>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="nopage17" name="nopage17"></a>[pg]</span></p>
+
+<div class="figure" style="width:500px;">
+<a name="image-0004"><!--IMG--></a>
+<a href="images/ill-03.jpg"><img src="images/ill-03-s.jpg" width="400" height="500"
+alt="There's a time to be slow and a time to be quick." /></a>
+<br />
+  <div class="poem">
+  <div class="stanza">
+  <p class="i2">  "<i>There's a time to be slow and a time to be quick.</i>" </p>
+  </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="nopage18" name="nopage18"></a>[pg]</span></p>
+
+<div style="height: 2em;"><br /><br /></div>
+
+<p><!--[Blank Page]--><br /></p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page19" name="page19"></a>[19]</span></p>
+
+<div><a name="h2H_4_0006" id="h2H_4_0006"><!-- H2 anchor --></a></div>
+
+<div style="height: 4em;"><br /><br /><br /><br /></div>
+
+<h2>
+    A BAD HALF HOUR
+</h2>
+
+<div class="poem">
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">   Wonder why I feel so restless; </p>
+<p class="i4">     Moon is shinin' still and bright, </p>
+<p class="i2">   Cattle all is restin' easy, </p>
+<p class="i4">     But I just kaint sleep tonight. </p>
+<p class="i2">   Ain't no cactus in my blankets, </p>
+<p class="i4">     Don't know why they feel so hard&mdash; </p>
+<p class="i2">   'Less it's Warblin' Jim a-singin' </p>
+<p class="i4">     "Annie Laurie" out on guard. </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">   "Annie Laurie"&mdash;wish he'd quit it! </p>
+<p class="i4">     Couldn't sleep now if I tried. </p>
+<p class="i2">   Makes the night seem big and lonesome, </p>
+<p class="i4">     And my throat feels sore inside. </p>
+<p class="i2">   How <i>my</i> Annie used to sing it! </p>
+<p class="i4">     And it sounded good and gay </p>
+<p class="i2">   Nights I drove her home from dances </p>
+<p class="i4">     When the east was turnin' gray. </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">
+<span class="pagenum"><a id="page20" name="page20"></a>[20]</span>
+
+                 Yes, "her brow was like the snowdrift" </p>
+<p class="i4">     And her eyes like quiet streams, </p>
+<p class="i2">   "And her face"&mdash;I still kin see it </p>
+<p class="i4">     Much too frequent in my dreams; </p>
+<p class="i2">   And her hand was soft and trembly </p>
+<p class="i4">     That night underneath the tree, </p>
+<p class="i2">   When I couldn't help but tell her </p>
+<p class="i4">     She was "all the world to me." </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">   But her folks said I was "shif'less," </p>
+<p class="i4">     "Wild," "unsettled,"&mdash;they was right, </p>
+<p class="i2">   For I leaned to punchin' cattle </p>
+<p class="i4">     And I'm at it still tonight. </p>
+<p class="i2">   And she married young Doc Wilkins&mdash; </p>
+<p class="i4">     Oh my Lord! but that was hard! </p>
+<p class="i2">   Wish that fool would quit his singin' </p>
+<p class="i4">     "Annie Laurie" out on guard! </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">
+<span class="pagenum"><a id="page21" name="page21"></a>[21]</span>
+
+                 Oh, I just kaint stand it thinkin' </p>
+<p class="i4">     Of the things that happened then. </p>
+<p class="i2">   Good old times, and all apast me! </p>
+<p class="i4">     Never seem to come again&mdash; </p>
+<p class="i2">   My turn? Sure. I'll come a-runnin'. </p>
+<p class="i4">     Warm me up some coffee, pard&mdash; </p>
+<p class="i2">   But I'll stop that Jim from singin' </p>
+<p class="i4">     "Annie Laurie" out on guard. </p>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page22" name="page22"></a>[22]</span></p>
+
+<div><a name="h2H_4_0007" id="h2H_4_0007"><!-- H2 anchor --></a></div>
+
+<div style="height: 4em;"><br /><br /><br /><br /></div>
+
+<h2>
+    FROM TOWN
+</h2>
+
+<div class="poem">
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">   We're the children of the open and we hate the haunts o' men, </p>
+<p class="i4">     But we had to come to town to get the mail. </p>
+<p class="i2">   And we're ridin' home at daybreak&mdash;'cause the air is cooler then&mdash; </p>
+<p class="i4">     All 'cept one of us that stopped behind in jail. </p>
+<p class="i2">   Shorty's nose won't bear paradin', Bill's off eye is darkly fadin', </p>
+<p class="i4">     All our toilets show a touch of disarray, </p>
+<p class="i2">   For we found that city life is a constant round of strife </p>
+<p class="i4">     And we ain't the breed for shyin' from a fray. </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">   Chant your warwhoop, pardners dear, while the east turns pale with fear </p>
+<p class="i4">     And the chaparral is tremblin' all aroun' </p>
+<p class="i2">
+<span class="pagenum"><a id="page23" name="page23"></a>[23]</span>
+
+                 For we're wicked to the marrer; we're a midnight dream of terror </p>
+<p class="i4">     When we're ridin' up the rocky trail from town! </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">   We acquired our hasty temper from our friend, the centipede. </p>
+<p class="i4">     From the rattlesnake we learnt to guard our rights. </p>
+<p class="i2">   We have gathered fightin' pointers from the famous bronco steed </p>
+<p class="i4">     And the bobcat teached us reppertee that bites. </p>
+<p class="i2">   So when some high-collared herrin' jeered the garb that I was wearin' </p>
+<p class="i4">     'Twas't long till we had got where talkin' ends, </p>
+<p class="i2">   And he et his illbred chat, with a sauce of derby hat, </p>
+<p class="i4">     While my merry pardners entertained his friends. </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">
+<span class="pagenum"><a id="page24" name="page24"></a>[24]</span>
+
+                 Sing 'er out, my buckeroos! Let the desert hear the news. </p>
+<p class="i4">     Tell the stars the way we rubbed the haughty down. </p>
+<p class="i2">   We're the fiercest wolves a-prowlin' and it's just our night for howlin' </p>
+<p class="i4">     When we're ridin' up the rocky trail from town. </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">   Since the days that Lot and Abram split the Jordan range in halves, </p>
+<p class="i4">     Just to fix it so their punchers wouldn't fight, </p>
+<p class="i2">   Since old Jacob skinned his dad-in-law for six years' crop of calves </p>
+<p class="i4">     And then hit the trail for Canaan in the night, </p>
+<p class="i2">   There has been a taste for battle 'mong the men that follow cattle </p>
+<p class="i4">     And a love of doin' things that's wild and strange, </p>
+<!--following two lines moved up from page 25-->
+<p class="i2">   And the warmth of Laban's words when he missed his speckled herds </p>
+<p class="i4">     Still is useful in the language of the range. </p>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="nopage19" name="nopage19"></a>[pg]</span></p>
+
+<div class="figure" style="width: 600px;">
+<a name="image-0005"><!--IMG--></a>
+<a href="images/ill-04.jpg"><img src="images/ill-04-s.jpg" width="500" height="260"
+alt="We have gathered fightin' pointers from the famous bronco steed." /></a>
+<br />
+  <div class="poem">
+  <div class="stanza">
+  <p class="i2">  "<i>We have gathered fightin' pointers from the famous bronco steed.</i>" </p>
+  </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="nopage20" name="nopage20"></a>[pg]</span></p>
+
+<div style="height: 2em;"><br /><br /></div>
+
+<p><!--[Blank Page]--><br /></p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page25" name="page25"></a>[25]</span></p>
+
+<div class="poem">
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">   Sing 'er out, my bold coyotes! leather fists and leather throats, </p>
+<p class="i4">     For we wear the brand of Ishm'el like a crown. </p>
+<p class="i2">   We're the sons o' desolation, we're the outlaws of creation&mdash; </p>
+<p class="i4">     Ee&mdash;yow! a-ridin' up the rocky trail from town! </p>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page26" name="page26"></a>[26]</span></p>
+
+<div><a name="h2H_4_0008" id="h2H_4_0008"><!-- H2 anchor --></a></div>
+
+<div style="height: 4em;"><br /><br /><br /><br /></div>
+
+<h2>
+    A COWBOY'S PRAYER
+</h2>
+
+<h3>
+    (<i>Written for Mother</i>)
+</h3>
+
+<div class="poem">
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">   Oh Lord. I've never lived where churches grow. </p>
+<p class="i4">     I love creation better as it stood </p>
+<p class="i2">   That day You finished it so long ago </p>
+<p class="i4">     And looked upon Your work and called it good. </p>
+<p class="i2">   I know that others find You in the light </p>
+<p class="i4">     That's sifted down through tinted window panes, </p>
+<p class="i2">   And yet I seem to feel You near tonight </p>
+<p class="i4">     In this dim, quiet starlight on the plains. </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">   I thank You, Lord, that I am placed so well, </p>
+<p class="i4">     That You have made my freedom so complete; </p>
+<p class="i2">   That I'm no slave of whistle, clock or bell, </p>
+<p class="i4">     Nor weak-eyed prisoner of wall and street. </p>
+<p class="i2">
+<span class="pagenum"><a id="page27" name="page27"></a>[27]</span>
+
+                 Just let me live my life as I've begun </p>
+<p class="i4">     And give me work that's open to the sky; </p>
+<p class="i2">   Make me a pardner of the wind and sun, </p>
+<p class="i4">     And I won't ask a life that's soft or high. </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">   Let me be easy on the man that's down; </p>
+<p class="i4">     Let me be square and generous with all. </p>
+<p class="i2">   I'm careless sometimes, Lord, when I'm in town, </p>
+<p class="i4">     But never let 'em say I'm mean or small! </p>
+<p class="i2">   Make me as big and open as the plains, </p>
+<p class="i4">     As honest as the hawse between my knees, </p>
+<p class="i2">   Clean as the wind that blows behind the rains, </p>
+<p class="i4">     Free as the hawk that circles down the breeze! </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">   Forgive me, Lord, if sometimes I forget. </p>
+<p class="i4">     You know about the reasons that are hid. </p>
+<p class="i2">   You understand the things that gall and fret; </p>
+<p class="i4">     You know me better than my mother did. </p>
+<p class="i2">
+<span class="pagenum"><a id="page28" name="page28"></a>[28]</span>
+                 Just keep an eye on all that's done and said </p>
+<p class="i4">     And right me, sometimes, when I turn aside, </p>
+<p class="i2">   And guide me on the long, dim trail ahead </p>
+<p class="i4">     That stretches upward toward the Great Divide. </p>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page29" name="page29"></a>[29]</span></p>
+
+<div><a name="h2H_4_0009" id="h2H_4_0009"><!-- H2 anchor --></a></div>
+
+<div style="height: 4em;"><br /><br /><br /><br /></div>
+
+<h2>
+    THE CHRISTMAS TRAIL
+</h2>
+
+<div class="poem">
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">   The wind is blowin' cold down the mountain tips of snow </p>
+<p class="i4">     And 'cross the ranges layin' brown and dead; </p>
+<p class="i2">   It's cryin' through the valley trees that wear the mistletoe </p>
+<p class="i4">     And mournin' with the gray clouds overhead. </p>
+<p class="i2">   Yet it's sweet with the beat of my little hawse's feet </p>
+<p class="i4">     And I whistle like the air was warm and blue, </p>
+<p class="i2">   For I'm ridin' up the Christmas trail to you, Old folks, </p>
+<p class="i4">     I'm a-ridin' up the Christmas trail to you. </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">
+<span class="pagenum"><a id="page30" name="page30"></a>[30]</span>
+                 Oh, mebbe it was good when the whinny of the Spring </p>
+<p class="i4">     Had wheedled me to hoppin' of the bars, </p>
+<p class="i2">   And livin' in the shadow of a sailin' buzzard's wing </p>
+<p class="i4">     And sleepin' underneath a roof of stars. </p>
+<p class="i2">   But the bright campfire light only dances for a night, </p>
+<p class="i4">     While the home-fire burns forever clear and true, </p>
+<p class="i2">   So 'round the year I circle back to you, Old folks, </p>
+<p class="i4">     'Round the rovin' year I circle back to you. </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">   Oh, mebbe it was good when the reckless Summer sun </p>
+<p class="i4">     Had shot a charge of fire through my veins, </p>
+<p class="i2">   And I milled around the whiskey and the fightin' and the fun </p>
+<p class="i4">
+<span class="pagenum"><a id="page31" name="page31"></a>[31]</span>
+
+                  'Mong the other mav'ricks drifted from the plains. </p>
+<p class="i2">   Ay! the pot bubbled hot, while you reckoned I'd forgot, </p>
+<p class="i4">     And the devil smacked the young blood in his stew, </p>
+<p class="i2">   Yet I'm lovin' every mile that's nearer you,  Good folks, </p>
+<p class="i4">     Lovin' every blessed mile that's nearer you. </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">   Oh, mebbe it was good at the roundup in the Fall </p>
+<p class="i4">     When the clouds of bawlin' dust before us ran, </p>
+<p class="i2">   And the pride of rope and saddle was a-drivin' of us all </p>
+<p class="i4">     To a stretch of nerve and muscle, man and man. </p>
+<p class="i2">   But the pride sort of died when the man got weary eyed; </p>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page32" name="page32"></a>[32]</span></p>
+
+<div class="poem">
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i4">     'Twas a sleepy boy that rode the night-guard through, </p>
+<p class="i2">   And he dreamed himself along a trail to you, Old folks, </p>
+<p class="i4">     Dreamed himself along a happy trail to you. </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">   The coyote's Winter howl cuts the dusk behind the hill, </p>
+<p class="i4">     But the ranch's shinin' window I kin see, </p>
+<p class="i2">   And though I don't deserve it and, I reckon, never will, </p>
+<p class="i4">     There'll be room beside the fire kep' for me. </p>
+<p class="i2">   Skimp my plate 'cause I'm late. Let me hit the old kid gait, </p>
+<p class="i4">     For tonight I'm stumblin' tired of the new </p>
+<p class="i2">   And I'm ridin' up the Christmas trail to you, Old folks, </p>
+<p class="i4">     I'm a-ridin' up the Christmas trail to you. </p>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page33" name="page33"></a>[33]</span></p>
+
+<div><a name="h2H_4_0010" id="h2H_4_0010"><!-- H2 anchor --></a></div>
+
+<div style="height: 4em;"><br /><br /><br /><br /></div>
+
+<h2>
+    A BORDER AFFAIR
+</h2>
+
+<div class="poem">
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">   Spanish is the lovin' tongue, </p>
+<p class="i4">     Soft as music, light as spray. </p>
+<p class="i2">   'Twas a girl I learnt it from, </p>
+<p class="i4">     Livin' down Sonora way. </p>
+<p class="i2">   I don't look much like a lover, </p>
+<p class="i2">   Yet I say her love words over </p>
+<p class="i4">     Often when I'm all alone&mdash; </p>
+<p class="i4">     "Mi amor, mi corazon." </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">   Nights when she knew where I'd ride </p>
+<p class="i4">     She would listen for my spurs, </p>
+<p class="i2">   Fling the big door open wide, </p>
+<p class="i4">     Raise them laughin' eyes of hers </p>
+<p class="i2">   And my heart would nigh stop beatin' </p>
+<p class="i2">   When I heard her tender greetin', </p>
+<p class="i4">     Whispered soft for me alone&mdash; </p>
+<p class="i4">     "Mi amor! mi corazon!" </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">
+<span class="pagenum"><a id="page34" name="page34"></a>[34]</span>
+
+                 Moonlight in the patio, </p>
+<p class="i4">     Old Seņora noddin' near, </p>
+<p class="i2">   Me and Juana talkin' low </p>
+<p class="i4">     So the Madre couldn't hear&mdash; </p>
+<p class="i2">   How those hours would go a-flyin'! </p>
+<p class="i2">   And too soon I'd hear her sighin' </p>
+<p class="i4">     In her little sorry tone&mdash; </p>
+<p class="i4">     "Adios, mi corazon!" </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">   But one time I had to fly </p>
+<p class="i4">     For a foolish gamblin' fight, </p>
+<p class="i2">   And we said a swift goodbye </p>
+<p class="i4">     In that black, unlucky night. </p>
+<p class="i2">   When I'd loosed her arms from clingin' </p>
+<p class="i2">   With her words the hoofs kep' ringin' </p>
+<p class="i4">     As I galloped north alone&mdash; </p>
+<p class="i4">     "Adios, mi corazon!" </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">
+<span class="pagenum"><a id="page35" name="page35"></a>[35]</span>
+
+                 Never seen her since that night. </p>
+<p class="i4">     I kaint cross the Line, you know. </p>
+<p class="i2">   She was Mex and I was white; </p>
+<p class="i4">     Like as not it's better so. </p>
+<p class="i2">   Yet I've always sort of missed her </p>
+<p class="i2">   Since that last wild night I kissed her, </p>
+<p class="i4">     Left her heart and lost my own&mdash; </p>
+<p class="i4">     "Adios, mi corazon!" </p>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page36" name="page36"></a>[36]</span></p>
+
+<div><a name="h2H_4_0011" id="h2H_4_0011"><!-- H2 anchor --></a></div>
+
+<div style="height: 4em;"><br /><br /><br /><br /></div>
+
+<h2>
+    THE BUNK-HOUSE ORCHESTRA
+</h2>
+
+<div class="poem">
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">  Wrangle up your mouth-harps, drag your banjo out, </p>
+<p class="i2">  Tune your old guitarra till she twangs right stout, </p>
+<p class="i2">  For the snow is on the mountains and the wind is on the plain, </p>
+<p class="i2">  But we'll cut the chimney's moanin' with a livelier refrain. </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i4">    <i>Shinin' 'dobe fireplace, shadows on the wall&mdash;</i> </p>
+<p class="i4">    <i>(See old Shorty's friv'lous toes a-twitchin' at the call:)</i> </p>
+<p class="i4">    <i>It's the best grand high that there is within the law</i> </p>
+<p class="i4">    <i>When seven jolly punchers tackle "Turkey in the Straw."</i> </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">
+<span class="pagenum"><a id="page37" name="page37"></a>[37]</span>
+
+                Freezy was the day's ride, lengthy was the trail, </p>
+<p class="i2">  Ev'ry steer was haughty with a high arched tail, </p>
+<p class="i2">  But we held 'em and we shoved 'em, for our longin' hearts were tried </p>
+<p class="i2">  By a yearnin' for tobacker and our dear fireside. </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i4">    <i>Swing 'er into stop-time, don't you let 'er droop!</i> </p>
+<p class="i4">    <i>(You're about as tuneful as a coyote with the croup!)</i> </p>
+<p class="i4">    <i>Ay, the cold wind bit when we drifted down the draw,</i> </p>
+<p class="i4">    <i>But we drifted on to comfort and to "Turkey in the Straw."</i> </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">
+<span class="pagenum"><a id="page38" name="page38"></a>[38]</span>
+
+                Snarlin' when the rain whipped, cussin' at the ford&mdash; </p>
+<p class="i2">  Ev'ry mile of twenty was a long discord, </p>
+<p class="i2">  But the night is brimmin' music and its glory is complete </p>
+<p class="i2">  When the eye is razzle-dazzled by the flip o' Shorty's feet! </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i4">    <i>Snappy for the dance, now, fill she up and shoots!</i> </p>
+<p class="i4">    <i>(Don't he beat the devil's wife for jiggin' in 'is boots?)</i> </p>
+<p class="i4">    <i>Shorty got throwed high and we laughed till he was raw,</i> </p>
+<p class="i4">    <i>But tonight he's done forgot it prancin' "Turkey in the Straw."</i> </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">
+<span class="pagenum"><a id="page39" name="page39"></a>[39]</span>
+
+                Rainy dark or firelight, bacon rind or pie, </p>
+<p class="i2">  Livin' is a luxury that don't come high; </p>
+<p class="i2">  Oh, be happy and onruly while our years and luck allow, </p>
+<p class="i2">  For we all must die or marry less than forty years from now! </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i4">    <i>Lively on the last turn! lope 'er to the death!</i> </p>
+<p class="i4">    <i>(Reddy's soul is willin' but he's gettin' short o' breath.)</i> </p>
+<p class="i4">    <i>Ay, the storm wind sings and old trouble sucks his paw</i> </p>
+<p class="i4">    <i>When we have an hour of firelight set to "Turkey in the Straw!"</i> </p>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page40" name="page40"></a>[40]</span></p>
+
+<div><a name="h2H_4_0012" id="h2H_4_0012"><!-- H2 anchor --></a></div>
+
+<div style="height: 4em;"><br /><br /><br /><br /></div>
+
+<h2>
+    THE OUTLAW
+</h2>
+
+<div class="poem">
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">   When my rope takes hold on a two-year-old, </p>
+<p class="i4">     By the foot or the neck or the horn, </p>
+<p class="i2">   He kin plunge and fight till his eyes go white </p>
+<p class="i4">     But I'll throw him as sure as you're born. </p>
+<p class="i2">   Though the taut ropes sing like a banjo string </p>
+<p class="i4">     And the latigoes creak and strain, </p>
+<p class="i2">   Yet I got no fear of an outlaw steer </p>
+<p class="i4">     And I'll tumble him on the plain. </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i4">   <i>For a man is a man, but a steer is a beast,</i> </p>
+<p class="i6">     <i>And the man is the boss of the herd,</i> </p>
+<p class="i4">   <i>And each of the bunch, from the biggest to least,</i> </p>
+<p class="i6">     <i>Must come down when he says the word.</i> </p>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="nopage21" name="nopage21"></a>[pg]</span></p>
+
+<div class="figure" style="width: 600px;">
+<a name="image-0006"><!--IMG--></a>
+<a href="images/ill-05.jpg"><img src="images/ill-05-s.jpg" width="500" height="260"
+alt="The taut ropes sing like a banjo string ..." /></a>
+<br />
+  <div class="poem">
+  <div class="stanza">
+  <p class="i2">    "<i>The taut ropes sing like a banjo string</i> </p>
+  <p class="i4">      <i>And the latigoes creak and strain.</i>" </p>
+  </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="nopage22" name="nopage22"></a>[pg]</span></p>
+
+<div style="height: 2em;"><br /><br /></div>
+
+<p><!--[Blank Page]--><br /></p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page41" name="page41"></a>[41]</span></p>
+
+<div class="poem">
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">   When my leg swings 'cross on an outlaw hawse </p>
+<p class="i4">     And my spurs clinch into his hide, </p>
+<p class="i2">   He kin r'ar and pitch over hill and ditch, </p>
+<p class="i4">     But wherever he goes I'll ride. </p>
+<p class="i2">   Let 'im spin and flop like a crazy top </p>
+<p class="i4">     Or flit like a wind-whipped smoke, </p>
+<p class="i2">   But he'll know the feel of my rowelled heel </p>
+<p class="i4">     Till he's happy to own he's broke. </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i4">   <i>For a man is a man and a hawse is a brute,</i> </p>
+<p class="i6">     <i>And the hawse may be prince of his clan</i> </p>
+<p class="i4">   <i>But he'll bow to the bit and the steel-shod boot</i> </p>
+<p class="i6">     <i>And own that his boss is the man.</i> </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">
+<span class="pagenum"><a id="page42" name="page42"></a>[42]</span>
+
+                 When the devil at rest underneath my vest </p>
+<p class="i4">     Gets up and begins to paw </p>
+<p class="i2">   And my hot tongue strains at its bridle reins, </p>
+<p class="i4">     Then I tackle the real outlaw. </p>
+<p class="i2">   When I get plumb riled and my sense goes wild </p>
+<p class="i4">     And my temper is fractious growed, </p>
+<p class="i2">   If he'll hump his neck just a triflin' speck, </p>
+<p class="i4">     Then it's dollars to dimes I'm throwed. </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i4">   <i>For a man is a man, but he's partly a beast.</i> </p>
+<p class="i6">     <i>He kin brag till he makes you deaf,</i> </p>
+<p class="i4">   <i>But the one lone brute, from the west to the east,</i> </p>
+<p class="i6">     <i>That he kaint quite break is himse'f.</i> </p>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page43" name="page43"></a>[43]</span></p>
+
+<div><a name="h2H_4_0013" id="h2H_4_0013"><!-- H2 anchor --></a></div>
+
+<div style="height: 4em;"><br /><br /><br /><br /></div>
+
+<h2>
+    THE LEGEND OF BOASTFUL BILL
+</h2>
+
+<div class="poem">
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">   At a roundup on the Gily, </p>
+<p class="i4">     One sweet mornin' long ago, </p>
+<p class="i2">   Ten of us was throwed right freely </p>
+<p class="i4">     By a hawse from Idaho. </p>
+<p class="i2">   And we thought he'd go-a-beggin' </p>
+<p class="i4">     For a man to break his pride </p>
+<p class="i2">   Till, a-hitchin' up one leggin, </p>
+<p class="i4">     Boastful Bill cut loose and cried&mdash; </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i4">   "<i>I'm a on'ry proposition for to hurt;</i> </p>
+<p class="i4">   <i>I fulfil my earthly mission with a quirt;</i> </p>
+<p class="i6">     <i>I kin ride the highest liver</i> </p>
+<p class="i6">     <i>'Tween the Gulf and Powder River,</i> </p>
+<p class="i4">   <i>And I'll break this thing as easy as I'd flirt.</i>" </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">
+<span class="pagenum"><a id="page44" name="page44"></a>[44]</span>
+
+                 So Bill climbed the Northern Fury </p>
+<p class="i4">     And they mangled up the air </p>
+<p class="i2">   Till a native of Missouri </p>
+<p class="i4">     Would have owned his brag was fair. </p>
+<p class="i2">   Though the plunges kep' him reelin' </p>
+<p class="i4">     And the wind it flapped his shirt, </p>
+<p class="i2">   Loud above the hawse's squealin' </p>
+<p class="i4">     We could hear our friend assert </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i4">   "<i>I'm the one to take such rakin's as a joke.</i> </p>
+<p class="i4">   <i>Some one hand me up the makin's of a smoke!</i> </p>
+<p class="i6">     <i>If you think my fame needs bright'nin'</i> </p>
+<p class="i6">     <i>W'y, I'll rope a streak of lightnin'</i> </p>
+<p class="i4">   <i>And I'll cinch 'im up and spur 'im till he's broke.</i>" </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">
+<span class="pagenum"><a id="page45" name="page45"></a>[45]</span>
+
+                 Then one caper of repulsion </p>
+<p class="i4">     Broke that hawse's back in two. </p>
+<p class="i2">   Cinches snapped in the convulsion; </p>
+<p class="i4">     Skyward man and saddle flew. </p>
+<p class="i2">   Up he mounted, never laggin', </p>
+<p class="i4">     While we watched him through our tears, </p>
+<p class="i2">   And his last thin bit of braggin' </p>
+<p class="i6">       Came a-droppin' to our ears. </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i4">   "<i>If you'd ever watched my habits very close</i> </p>
+<p class="i4">   <i>You would know I've broke such rabbits by the gross.</i> </p>
+<p class="i6">     <i>I have kep' my talent hidin';</i> </p>
+<p class="i6">     <i>I'm too good for earthly ridin'</i> </p>
+<p class="i4">   <i>And I'm off to bust the lightnin's,&mdash;Adios!</i>" </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">
+<span class="pagenum"><a id="page46" name="page46"></a>[46]</span>
+
+                 Years have gone since that ascension. </p>
+<p class="i4">     Boastful Bill ain't never lit, </p>
+<p class="i2">   So we reckon that he's wrenchin' </p>
+<p class="i4">     Some celestial outlaw's bit. </p>
+<p class="i2">   When the night rain beats our slickers </p>
+<p class="i4">     And the wind is swift and stout </p>
+<p class="i2">   And the lightnin' flares and flickers, </p>
+<p class="i4">     We kin sometimes hear him shout&mdash; </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i4">   "<i>I'm a bronco-twistin' wonder on the fly;</i> </p>
+<p class="i4">   <i>I'm the ridin' son-of-thunder of the sky.</i> </p>
+<p class="i6">     <i>Hi! you earthlin's, shut your winders</i> </p>
+<p class="i6">     <i>While we're rippin' clouds to flinders.</i> </p>
+<p class="i4">   <i>If this blue-eyed darlin' kicks at you, you die!</i>" </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">
+<span class="pagenum"><a id="page47" name="page47"></a>[47]</span>
+
+                 Stardust on his chaps and saddle, </p>
+<p class="i4">     Scornful still of jar and jolt, </p>
+<p class="i2">   He'll come back some day, astraddle </p>
+<p class="i4">     Of a bald-faced thunderbolt. </p>
+<p class="i2">   And the thin-skinned generation </p>
+<p class="i4">     Of that dim and distant day </p>
+<p class="i2">   Sure will stare with admiration </p>
+<p class="i4">     When they hear old Boastful say&mdash; </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i4">   "<i>I was first, as old rawhiders all confessed.</i> </p>
+<p class="i4">   <i>Now I'm last of all rough riders, and the best.</i> </p>
+<p class="i6">     <i>Huh! you soft and dainty floaters,</i> </p>
+<p class="i6">     <i>With your a'roplanes and motors&mdash;</i> </p>
+<p class="i4">   <i>Huh! are you the great grandchildren of the West!</i>" </p>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page48" name="page48"></a>[48]</span></p>
+
+<div><a name="h2H_4_0014" id="h2H_4_0014"><!-- H2 anchor --></a></div>
+
+<div style="height: 4em;"><br /><br /><br /><br /></div>
+
+<h2>
+    THE TIED MAVERICK
+</h2>
+
+<div class="poem">
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">   Lay on the iron! the tie holds fast </p>
+<p class="i4">     And my wild record closes. </p>
+<p class="i2">   This maverick is down at last </p>
+<p class="i4">     Just roped and tied with roses. </p>
+<p class="i2">   And one small girl's to blame for it, </p>
+<p class="i2">   Yet I don't fight with shame for it&mdash; </p>
+<p class="i2">   Lay on the iron; I'm game for it, </p>
+<p class="i4">     Just roped and tied with roses. </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">   I loped among the wildest band </p>
+<p class="i4">     Of saddle-hatin' winners&mdash; </p>
+<p class="i2">   Gay colts that never felt a brand </p>
+<p class="i4">     And scarred old outlaw sinners. </p>
+<p class="i2">   The wind was rein and guide to us; </p>
+<p class="i2">   The world was pasture wide to us </p>
+<p class="i2">   And our wild name was pride to us&mdash; </p>
+<p class="i4">     High headed bronco sinners! </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">
+<span class="pagenum"><a id="page49" name="page49"></a>[49]</span>
+
+                 So, loose and light we raced and fought </p>
+<p class="i4">     And every range we tasted, </p>
+<p class="i2">   But now, since I'm corralled and caught, </p>
+<p class="i4">     I know them days were wasted. </p>
+<p class="i2">   From now, the all-day gait for me, </p>
+<p class="i2">   The trail that's hard but straight for me, </p>
+<p class="i2">   For down that trail, who'll wait for me! </p>
+<p class="i4">     Ay! them old days were wasted! </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">   But though I'm broke, I'll never be </p>
+<p class="i4">     A saddle-marked old groaner, </p>
+<p class="i2">   For never worthless bronc like me </p>
+<p class="i4">     Got such a gentle owner. </p>
+<p class="i2">   There could be colt days glad as mine </p>
+<p class="i2">   Or outlaw runs as mad as mine </p>
+<p class="i2">   Or rope-flung falls as bad as mine, </p>
+<p class="i4">     But never such an owner. </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">
+<span class="pagenum"><a id="page50" name="page50"></a>[50]</span>
+
+                 Lay on the iron, and lay it red! </p>
+<p class="i4">     I'll take it kind and clever. </p>
+<p class="i2">   Who wouldn't hold a prouder head </p>
+<p class="i4">     To wear that mark forever? </p>
+<p class="i2">   I'll never break and stray from her; </p>
+<p class="i2">   I'd starve and die away from her. </p>
+<p class="i2">   Lay on the iron&mdash;it's play from her&mdash; </p>
+<p class="i4">     And brand me hers forever! </p>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page51" name="page51"></a>[51]</span></p>
+
+<div><a name="h2H_4_0015" id="h2H_4_0015"><!-- H2 anchor --></a></div>
+
+<div style="height: 4em;"><br /><br /><br /><br /></div>
+
+<h2>
+    A ROUNDUP LULLABY
+</h2>
+
+<div class="poem">
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">   Desert blue and silver in the still moonshine, </p>
+<p class="i4">     Coyote yappin' lazy on the hill, </p>
+<p class="i2">   Sleepy winks of lightnin' down the far sky line, </p>
+<p class="i4">     Time for millin' cattle to be still. </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i4">     <i>So&mdash;o now, the lightnin's far away,</i> </p>
+<p class="i6">       <i>The coyote's nothiny skeery;</i> </p>
+<p class="i6">       <i>He's singin' to his dearie&mdash;</i> </p>
+<p class="i4">     <i>Hee&mdash;ya, tammalalleday!</i> </p>
+<p class="i6">       <i>Settle down, you cattle, till the mornin'.</i> </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">   Nothin' out the hazy range that you folks need, </p>
+<p class="i4">     Nothin' we kin see to take your eye. </p>
+<p class="i2">   Yet we got to watch you or you'd all stampede, </p>
+<p class="i4">     Plungin' down some 'royo bank to die. </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i4">
+<span class="pagenum"><a id="page52" name="page52"></a>[52]</span>
+
+                  <i>So&mdash;o, now, for still the shadows stay;</i> </p>
+<p class="i6">      <i>The moon is slow and steady;</i> </p>
+<p class="i6">      <i>The sun comes when he's ready.</i> </p>
+<p class="i4">    <i>Hee&mdash;ya, tammalalleday!</i> </p>
+<p class="i6">      <i>No use runnin' out to meet the mornin'.</i> </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">  Cows and men are foolish when the light grows dim, </p>
+<p class="i4">    Dreamin' of a land too far to see. </p>
+<p class="i2">  There, you dream, is wavin' grass and streams that brim </p>
+<p class="i4">    And it often seems the same to me. </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i4">    <i>So&mdash;o, now, for dreams they never pay.</i> </p>
+<p class="i6">      <i>The dust it keeps us blinkin',</i> </p>
+<p class="i6">      <i>We're seven miles from drinkin'.</i> </p>
+<p class="i4">    <i>Hee&mdash;ya, tammalalleday!</i> </p>
+<p class="i6">      <i>But we got to stand it till the mornin'.</i> </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">
+<span class="pagenum"><a id="page53" name="page53"></a>[53]</span>
+
+                 Mostly it's a moonlight world our trail winds through. </p>
+<p class="i4">     Kaint see much beyond our saddle horns. </p>
+<p class="i2">   Always far away is misty silver-blue; </p>
+<p class="i4">     Always underfoot it's rocks and thorns. </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i4">     <i>So&mdash;o, now. It must be this away&mdash;</i> </p>
+<p class="i6">       <i>The lonesome owl a-callin',</i> </p>
+<p class="i6">       <i>The mournful coyote squallin'.</i> </p>
+<p class="i4">     <i>Hee&mdash;ya, tammalalleday!</i> </p>
+<p class="i6">       <i>Mockin-birds don't sing until the mornin'.</i> </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">   Always seein' 'wayoff dreams of silver-blue, </p>
+<p class="i4">     Always feelin' thorns that slab and sting. </p>
+<p class="i2">   Yet stampedin' never made a dream come true, </p>
+<p class="i4">     So I ride around myself and sing. </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i4">
+<span class="pagenum"><a id="page54" name="page54"></a>[54]</span>
+
+                  <i>So&mdash;o, now, a man has got to stay,</i> </p>
+<p class="i6">      <i>A-likin' or a-hatin',</i> </p>
+<p class="i6">      <i>But workin' on and waitin'.</i> </p>
+<p class="i4">    <i>Hee&mdash;ya, tammalalleday!</i> </p>
+<p class="i6">      <i>All of us are waitin' for the mornin'.</i> </p>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page55" name="page55"></a>[55]</span></p>
+
+<div><a name="h2H_4_0016" id="h2H_4_0016"><!-- H2 anchor --></a></div>
+
+<div style="height: 4em;"><br /><br /><br /><br /></div>
+
+<h2>
+    THE TRAIL O' LOVE
+</h2>
+
+<div class="poem">
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">   My love was swift and slender </p>
+<p class="i4">     As an antelope at play, </p>
+<p class="i2">   And her eyes were gray and tender </p>
+<p class="i4">     As the east at break o' day, </p>
+<p class="i2">   And I sure was shaky hearted </p>
+<p class="i4">     And her flower face was pale </p>
+<p class="i2">   On that silver night we parted, </p>
+<p class="i4">     When I sang along the trail: </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i4">     <i>Forever&mdash;forever&mdash;</i> </p>
+<p class="i6">       <i>Oh, moon above the pine,</i> </p>
+<p class="i4">     <i>Like the matin' birds in Springtime,</i> </p>
+<p class="i6">       <i>I will twitter while you shine.</i> </p>
+<p class="i4">     <i>Rich as ore with gold a-glowin',</i> </p>
+<p class="i4">     <i>Sweet as sparklin' springs a-flowin',</i> </p>
+<p class="i4">     <i>Strong as redwoods ever growin',</i> </p>
+<p class="i6">       <i>So will be this love o' mine.</i> </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">
+<span class="pagenum"><a id="page56" name="page56"></a>[56]</span>
+
+                 I rode across the river </p>
+<p class="i4">     And beyond the far divide, </p>
+<p class="i2">   Till the echo of "forever" </p>
+<p class="i4">     Staggered faint behind and died. </p>
+<p class="i2">   For the long trail smiled and beckoned </p>
+<p class="i4">     And the free wind blowed so sweet, </p>
+<p class="i2">   That life's gayest tune, I reckoned, </p>
+<p class="i4">     Was my hawse's ringin' feet. </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i4">     <i>Forever&mdash;forever&mdash;</i> </p>
+<p class="i6">       <i>Oh, stars, look down and sigh,</i> </p>
+<p class="i4">     <i>For a poison spring will sparkle</i> </p>
+<p class="i6">       <i>And the trustin' drinker die.</i> </p>
+<p class="i4">     <i>And a rovin' bird will twitter</i> </p>
+<p class="i4">     <i>And a worthless rock will glitter</i> </p>
+<p class="i4">     <i>And the maiden's love is bitter</i> </p>
+<p class="i6">       <i>When the man's is proved a lie.</i> </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">
+<span class="pagenum"><a id="page57" name="page57"></a>[57]</span>
+
+                 Last the rover's circle guidin' </p>
+<p class="i4">     Brought me where I used to be, </p>
+<p class="i2">   And I met her, gaily ridin' </p>
+<p class="i4">     With a smarter man than me. </p>
+<p class="i2">   Then I raised my dusty cover </p>
+<p class="i4">     But she didn't see nor hear, </p>
+<p class="i2">   So I hummed the old tune over, </p>
+<p class="i4">     Laughin' in my hawse's ear: </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i4">     <i>If the snowflake specks the desert</i> </p>
+<p class="i6">       <i>Or the yucca blooms awhile.</i> </p>
+<p class="i4">     <i>Ay! what gloom the mountain covers</i> </p>
+<p class="i4">     <i>Where the driftin' cloud shade hovers!</i> </p>
+<p class="i4">     <i>Ay! the trail o' parted lovers,</i> </p>
+<p class="i6">       <i>Where "forever" lasts a mile!</i> </p>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page58" name="page58"></a>[58]</span></p>
+
+<div><a name="h2H_4_0017" id="h2H_4_0017"><!-- H2 anchor --></a></div>
+
+<div style="height: 4em;"><br /><br /><br /><br /></div>
+
+<h2>
+    BACHIN'
+</h2>
+
+<div class="poem">
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">   Our lives are hid; our trails are strange; </p>
+<p class="i4">     We're scattered through the West </p>
+<p class="i2">   In canyon cool, on blistered range </p>
+<p class="i4">     Or windy mountain crest. </p>
+<p class="i2">   Wherever Nature drops her ears </p>
+<p class="i4">     And bares her claws to scratch, </p>
+<p class="i2">   From Yuma to the north frontiers, </p>
+<p class="i4">     You'll likely find the bach', </p>
+<p class="i8">         You will, </p>
+<p class="i4">     The shy and sober bach'! </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">   Our days are sun and storm and mist, </p>
+<p class="i4">     The same as any life, </p>
+<p class="i2">   Except that in our trouble list </p>
+<p class="i4">     We never count a wife. </p>
+<p class="i2">   Each has a reason why he's lone, </p>
+<p class="i4">     But keeps it 'neath his hat; </p>
+<p class="i2">   Or, if he's got to tell some one, </p>
+<p class="i4">
+<span class="pagenum"><a id="page59" name="page59"></a>[59]</span>
+
+                   Confides it to his cat, </p>
+<p class="i8">         He does, </p>
+<p class="i4">     Just tells it to his cat. </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">   We're young or old or slow or fast, </p>
+<p class="i4">     But all plumb versatyle. </p>
+<p class="i2">   The mighty bach' that fires the blast </p>
+<p class="i4">     Kin serve up beans in style. </p>
+<p class="i2">   The bach' that ropes the plungin' cows </p>
+<p class="i4">     Kin mix the biscuits true&mdash; </p>
+<p class="i2">   We earn our grub by drippin' brows </p>
+<p class="i4">     And cook it by 'em too, </p>
+<p class="i8">         We do, </p>
+<p class="i4">     We cook it by 'em too. </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">   We like to breathe unbranded air, </p>
+<p class="i4">     Be free of foot and mind, </p>
+<p class="i2">   And go or stay, or sing or swear, </p>
+<p class="i4">     Whichever we're inclined. </p>
+<p class="i2">
+<span class="pagenum"><a id="page60" name="page60"></a>[60]</span>
+
+                 An appetite, a conscience clear, </p>
+<p class="i4">     A pipe that's rich and old </p>
+<p class="i2">   Are loves that always bless and cheer </p>
+<p class="i4">     And never cry nor scold, </p>
+<p class="i8">         They don't. </p>
+<p class="i4">     They never cry nor scold. </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">   Old Adam bached some ages back </p>
+<p class="i4">     And smoked his pipe so free, </p>
+<p class="i2">   A-loafin' in a palm-leaf shack </p>
+<p class="i4">     Beneath a mango tree. </p>
+<p class="i2">   He'd best have stuck to bachin' ways, </p>
+<p class="i4">     And scripture proves the same, </p>
+<p class="i2">   For Adam's only happy days </p>
+<p class="i4">     Was 'fore the woman came, </p>
+<p class="i8">         They was, </p>
+<p class="i4">     All 'fore the woman came. </p>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page61" name="page61"></a>[61]</span></p>
+
+<div><a name="h2H_4_0018" id="h2H_4_0018"><!-- H2 anchor --></a></div>
+
+<div style="height: 4em;"><br /><br /><br /><br /></div>
+
+<h2>
+    THE GLORY TRAIL
+</h2>
+
+<div class="poem">
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">   'Way high up the Mogollons, </p>
+<p class="i4">     Among the mountain tops, </p>
+<p class="i2">   A lion cleaned a yearlin's bones </p>
+<p class="i4">     And licked his thankful chops, </p>
+<p class="i2">   When on the picture who should ride, </p>
+<p class="i4">     A-trippin' down a slope, </p>
+<p class="i2">   But High-Chin Bob, with sinful pride </p>
+<p class="i4">     And mav'rick-hungry rope. </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i4">     "<i>Oh, glory be to me," says he,</i> </p>
+<p class="i6">       "<i>And fame's unfadin' flowers!</i> </p>
+<p class="i4">     <i>All meddlin' hands are far away;</i> </p>
+<p class="i4">     <i>I ride my good top-hawse today</i> </p>
+<p class="i4">     <i>And I'm top-rope of the Lazy J&mdash;&mdash;</i> </p>
+<p class="i6">       <i>Hi! kitty cat, you're ours!</i>" </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">   That lion licked his paw so brown </p>
+<p class="i4">     And dreamed soft dreams of veal&mdash; </p>
+<p class="i2">   And then the circlin' loop sung down </p>
+<p class="i4">     And roped him 'round his meal. </p>
+<p class="i2">
+<span class="pagenum"><a id="page62" name="page62"></a>[62]</span>
+
+                 He yowled quick fury to the world </p>
+<p class="i4">     Till all the hills yelled back; </p>
+<p class="i2">   The top-hawse gave a snort and whirled </p>
+<p class="i4">     And Bob caught up the slack. </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i4">     "<i>Oh, glory be to me," laughs he.</i> </p>
+<p class="i6">       "<i>We hit the glory trail.</i> </p>
+<p class="i4">     <i>No human man as I have read</i> </p>
+<p class="i4">     <i>Darst loop a ragin' lion's head,</i> </p>
+<p class="i4">     <i>Nor ever hawse could drag one dead</i> </p>
+<p class="i6">       <i>Until we told the tale.</i>" </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">   'Way high up the Mogollons </p>
+<p class="i4">     That top-hawse done his best, </p>
+<p class="i2">   Through whippin' brush and rattlin' stones, </p>
+<p class="i4">     From canyon-floor to crest. </p>
+<p class="i2">   But ever when Bob turned and hoped </p>
+<p class="i4">     A limp remains to find, </p>
+<p class="i2">   A red-eyed lion, belly roped </p>
+<p class="i4">     But healthy, loped behind. </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i4">
+<span class="pagenum"><a id="page63" name="page63"></a>[63]</span>
+
+                   "<i>Oh, glory be to me" grunts he.</i> </p>
+<p class="i6">       "<i>This glory trail is rough,</i> </p>
+<p class="i4">     <i>Yet even till the Judgment Morn</i> </p>
+<p class="i4">     <i>I'll keep this dally 'round the horn,</i> </p>
+<p class="i4">     <i>For never any hero born</i> </p>
+<p class="i6">       <i>Could stoop to holler: Nuff!</i>'" </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">   Three suns had rode their circle home </p>
+<p class="i4">     Beyond the desert's rim, </p>
+<p class="i2">   And turned their star-herds loose to roam </p>
+<p class="i4">     The ranges high and dim; </p>
+<p class="i2">   Yet up and down and 'round and 'cross </p>
+<p class="i4">     Bob pounded, weak and wan, </p>
+<p class="i2">   For pride still glued him to his hawse </p>
+<p class="i4">     And glory drove him on. </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i4">     "<i>Oh, glory be to me," sighs he.</i> </p>
+<p class="i6">       "<i>He kaint be drug to death,</i> </p>
+<p class="i4">     <i>But now I know beyond a doubt</i> </p>
+<p class="i4">     <i>Them heroes I have read about</i> </p>
+<p class="i4">     <i>Was only fools that stuck it out</i> </p>
+<p class="i6">       <i>To end of mortal breath.</i>" </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">
+<span class="pagenum"><a id="page64" name="page64"></a>[64]</span>
+
+                 'Way high up the Mogollons </p>
+<p class="i4">     A prospect man did swear </p>
+<p class="i2">   That moon dreams melted down his bones </p>
+<p class="i4">     And hoisted up his hair: </p>
+<p class="i2">   A ribby cow-hawse thundered by, </p>
+<p class="i4">     A lion trailed along, </p>
+<p class="i2">   A rider, ga'nt but chin on high, </p>
+<p class="i4">     Yelled out a crazy song. </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i4">     "<i>Oh, glory be to me!" cries he,</i> </p>
+<p class="i6">       "<i>And to my noble noose!</i> </p>
+<p class="i4">     <i>Oh, stranger, tell my pards below</i> </p>
+<p class="i4">     <i>I took a rampin' dream in tow,</i> </p>
+<p class="i4">     <i>And if I never lay him low,</i> </p>
+<p class="i6">       <i>I'll never turn him loose!</i>" </p>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page65" name="page65"></a>[65]</span></p>
+
+<div><a name="h2H_4_0019" id="h2H_4_0019"><!-- H2 anchor --></a></div>
+
+<div style="height: 4em;"><br /><br /><br /><br /></div>
+
+<h2>
+    BACON
+</h2>
+
+<div class="poem">
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">   You're salty and greasy and smoky as sin </p>
+<p class="i4">     But of all grub we love you the best. </p>
+<p class="i2">   You stuck to us closer than nighest of kin </p>
+<p class="i4">     And helped us win out in the West, </p>
+<p class="i2">   You froze with us up on the Laramie trail; </p>
+<p class="i4">     You sweat with us down at Tucson; </p>
+<p class="i2">   When Injun was painted and white man was pale </p>
+<p class="i2">   You nerved us to grip our last chance by the tail </p>
+<p class="i4">     And load up our Colts and hang on. </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">   You've sizzled by mountain and mesa and plain </p>
+<p class="i4">     Over campfires of sagebrush and oak; </p>
+<p class="i2">   The breezes that blow from the Platte to the main </p>
+<p class="i4">     Have carried your savory smoke. </p>
+<p class="i2">   You're friendly to miner or puncher or priest; </p>
+<p class="i4">
+<span class="pagenum"><a id="page66" name="page66"></a>[66]</span>
+
+                   You're as good in December as May; </p>
+<p class="i2">   You always came in when the fresh meat had ceased </p>
+<p class="i2">   And the rough course of empire to westward was greased </p>
+<p class="i4">     By the bacon we fried on the way. </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">   We've said that you weren't fit for white men to eat </p>
+<p class="i4">     And your virtues we often forget. </p>
+<p class="i2">   We've called you by names that I darsn't repeat, </p>
+<p class="i4">     But we love you and swear by you yet. </p>
+<p class="i2">   Here's to you, old bacon, fat, lean streak and rin', </p>
+<p class="i4">     All the westerners join in the toast, </p>
+<p class="i2">   From mesquite and yucca to sagebrush and pine, </p>
+<p class="i2">   From Canada down to the Mexican Line, </p>
+<p class="i4">     From Omaha out to the coast! </p>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page67" name="page67"></a>[67]</span></p>
+
+<div><a name="h2H_4_0020" id="h2H_4_0020"><!-- H2 anchor --></a></div>
+
+<div style="height: 4em;"><br /><br /><br /><br /></div>
+
+<h2>
+    THE LOST PARDNER
+</h2>
+
+<div class="poem">
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">   I ride alone and hate the boys I meet. </p>
+<p class="i4">     Today, some way, their laughin' hurts me so. </p>
+<p class="i2">   I hate the mockin'-birds in the mesquite&mdash; </p>
+<p class="i4">     And yet I liked 'em just a week ago. </p>
+<p class="i2">   I hate the steady sun that glares, and glares! </p>
+<p class="i4">     The bird songs make me sore. </p>
+<p class="i2">   I seem the only thing on earth that cares </p>
+<p class="i4">     'Cause Al ain't here no more! </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">   'Twas just a stumblin' hawse, a tangled spur&mdash; </p>
+<p class="i4">     And, when I raised him up so limp and weak, </p>
+<p class="i2">   One look before his eyes begun to blur </p>
+<p class="i4">     And then&mdash;the blood that wouldn't let 'im speak! </p>
+<p class="i2">
+<span class="pagenum"><a id="page68" name="page68"></a>[68]</span>
+
+                 And him so strong, and yet so quick he died, </p>
+<p class="i4">     And after year on year </p>
+<p class="i2">   When we had always trailed it side by side, </p>
+<p class="i4">     He went&mdash;and left me here! </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">   We loved each other in the way men do </p>
+<p class="i4">     And never spoke about it, Al and me, </p>
+<p class="i2">   But we both <i>knowed</i>, and knowin' it so true </p>
+<p class="i4">     Was more than any woman's kiss could be. </p>
+<p class="i2">   We knowed&mdash;and if the way was smooth or rough, </p>
+<p class="i4">     The weather shine or pour, </p>
+<p class="i2">   While I had him the rest seemed good enough&mdash; </p>
+<p class="i4">     But he ain't here no more! </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">   What is there out beyond the last divide? </p>
+<p class="i4">     Seems like that country must be cold and dim. </p>
+<p class="i2">   He'd miss this sunny range he used to ride, </p>
+<p class="i4">     And he'd miss me, the same as I do him. </p>
+<!--following 4 lines moved up from page 69-->
+<p class="i2">   It's no use thinkin'&mdash;all I'd think or say </p>
+<p class="i4">     Could never make it clear. </p>
+<p class="i2">   Out that dim trail that only leads one way </p>
+<p class="i4">     He's gone&mdash;and left me here! </p>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="nopage23" name="nopage23"></a>[pg]</span></p>
+
+<div class="figure" style="width:600px;">
+<a name="image-0007"><!--IMG--></a>
+<a href="images/ill-06.jpg"><img src="images/ill-06-s.jpg" width="500" height="260"
+alt="I wait to hear him ridin' up behind." /></a>
+<br />
+  <div class="poem">
+  <div class="stanza">
+  <p class="i2">   "<i>I wait to hear him ridin' up behind.</i>" </p>
+  </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="nopage24" name="nopage24"></a>[pg]</span></p>
+
+<div style="height: 2em;"><br /><br /></div>
+
+<p><!--[Blank Page]--><br /></p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page69" name="page69"></a>[69]</span></p>
+
+<div class="poem">
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">   The range is empty and the trails are blind, </p>
+<p class="i4">     And I don't seem but half myself today. </p>
+<p class="i2">   I wait to hear him ridin' up behind </p>
+<p class="i4">     And feel his knee rub mine the good old way. </p>
+<p class="i2">   He's dead&mdash;and what that means no man kin tell. </p>
+<p class="i6">       Some call it "gone before." </p>
+<p class="i2">   Where? I don't know, but God! I know so well </p>
+<p class="i4">     That he ain't here no more! </p>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page70" name="page70"></a>[70]</span></p>
+
+<div><a name="h2H_4_0021" id="h2H_4_0021"><!-- H2 anchor --></a></div>
+
+<div style="height: 4em;"><br /><br /><br /><br /></div>
+
+<h2>
+    GOD'S RESERVES
+</h2>
+
+<div class="poem">
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">   One time, 'way back where the year marks fade, </p>
+<p class="i4">     God said: "I see I must lose my West, </p>
+<p class="i2">   The prettiest part of the world I made, </p>
+<p class="i4">     The place where I've always come to rest, </p>
+<p class="i2">   For the White Man grows till he fights for bread </p>
+<p class="i2">   And he begs and prays for a chance to spread. </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">   "Yet I won't give all of my last retreat; </p>
+<p class="i4">     I'll help him to fight his long trail through, </p>
+<p class="i2">   But I'll keep some land from his field and street </p>
+<p class="i4">     The way that it was when the world was new. </p>
+<p class="i2">   He'll cry for it all, for that's his way, </p>
+<p class="i2">   And yet he may understand some day." </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">
+<span class="pagenum"><a id="page71" name="page71"></a>[71]</span>
+
+                 And so, from the painted Bad Lands, 'way </p>
+<p class="i4">     To the sun-beat home of the 'Pache kin, </p>
+<p class="i2">   God stripped some places to sand and clay </p>
+<p class="i4">     And dried up the beds where the streams had been. </p>
+<p class="i2">   He marked His reserves with these plain signs </p>
+<p class="i2">   And stationed His rangers to guard the lines. </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">   Then the White Man came, as the East growed old, </p>
+<p class="i4">     And blazed his trail with the wreck of war. </p>
+<p class="i2">   He riled the rivers to hunt for gold </p>
+<p class="i4">     And found the stuff he was lookin' for; </p>
+<p class="i2">   Then he trampled the Injun trails to ruts </p>
+<p class="i2">   And gashed through the hills with railroad cuts. </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">   He flung out his barb-wire fences wide </p>
+<p class="i4">     And plowed up the ground where the grass was high. </p>
+<p class="i2">
+<span class="pagenum"><a id="page72" name="page72"></a>[72]</span>
+
+                 He stripped off the trees from the mountain side </p>
+<p class="i4">     And ground out his ore where the streams run by, </p>
+<p class="i2">   Till last came the cities, with smoke and roar, </p>
+<p class="i2">   And the White Man was feelin' at home once more. </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">   But Barrenness, Loneliness, suchlike things </p>
+<p class="i4">     That gall and grate on the White Man's nerves, </p>
+<p class="i2">   Was the rangers that camped by the bitter springs </p>
+<p class="i4">     And guarded the lines of God's reserves. </p>
+<p class="i2">   So the folks all shy from the desert land, </p>
+<p class="i2">   'Cept mebbe a few that kin understand. </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">   There the world's the same as the day 'twas new, </p>
+<p class="i4">     With the land as clean as the smokeless sky </p>
+<p class="i2">
+<span class="pagenum"><a id="page73" name="page73"></a>[73]</span>
+
+                 And never a noise as the years have flew, </p>
+<p class="i4">     But the sound of the warm wind driftin' by; </p>
+<p class="i2">   And there, alone, with the man's world far, </p>
+<p class="i2">   There's a chance to think who you really are. </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">   And over the reach of the desert bare, </p>
+<p class="i4">     When the sun drops low and the day wind stills, </p>
+<p class="i2">   Sometimes you kin almost see Him there, </p>
+<p class="i4">     As He sits alone on the blue-gray hills, </p>
+<p class="i2">   A-thinkin' of things that's beyond our ken </p>
+<p class="i2">   And restin' Himself from the noise of men. </p>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page74" name="page74"></a>[74]</span></p>
+
+<div><a name="h2H_4_0022" id="h2H_4_0022"><!-- H2 anchor --></a></div>
+
+<div style="height: 4em;"><br /><br /><br /><br /></div>
+
+<h2>
+    THE MARRIED MAN
+</h2>
+
+<div class="poem">
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">   There's an old pard of mine that sits by his door </p>
+<p class="i4">     And watches the evenin' skies. </p>
+<p class="i2">   He's sat there a thousand of evenin's before </p>
+<p class="i4">     And I reckon he will till he dies. </p>
+<p class="i2">   El pobre! I reckon he will till he dies, </p>
+<p class="i4">     And hear through the dim, quiet air </p>
+<p class="i2">   Far cattle that call and the crickets that cheep </p>
+<p class="i2">   And his woman a-singin' a kid to sleep </p>
+<p class="i4">     And the creak of her rockabye chair. </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">   Once we made camp where the last light would fail </p>
+<p class="i4">     And the east wasn't white till we'd start, </p>
+<p class="i2">   But now he is deaf to the call of the trail </p>
+<p class="i4">     And the song of the restless heart. </p>
+<p class="i2">   El pobre! the song of the restless heart </p>
+<p class="i4">     That you hear in the wind from the dawn! </p>
+<p class="i2">
+<span class="pagenum"><a id="page75" name="page75"></a>[75]</span>
+
+                 He's left it, with all the good, free-footed things, </p>
+<p class="i2">   For a slow little song that a tired woman sings </p>
+<p class="i4">     And a smoke when his dry day is gone. </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">   I've rode in and told him of lands that were strange, </p>
+<p class="i4">     Where I'd drifted from glory to dread. </p>
+<p class="i2">   He'd tell me the news of his little old range </p>
+<p class="i4">     And the cute things his kids had said! </p>
+<p class="i2">   El pobre! the cute things his kids had said! </p>
+<p class="i4">     And the way six-year Billy could ride! </p>
+<p class="i2">   And the dark would creep in from the gray chaparral </p>
+<p class="i2">   And the woman would hum, while I pitied my pal </p>
+<p class="i4">     And thought of him like he had died. </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">
+<span class="pagenum"><a id="page76" name="page76"></a>[76]</span>
+
+                 He rides in old circles and looks at old sights </p>
+<p class="i4">     And his life is as flat as a pond. </p>
+<p class="i2">   He loves the old skyline he watches of nights </p>
+<p class="i4">     And he don't seem to care for beyond. </p>
+<p class="i2">   El pobre! he don't seem to dream of beyond, </p>
+<p class="i4">     Nor the room he could find, there, for joy. </p>
+<p class="i2">   "Ain't you ever oneasy?" says I one day. </p>
+<p class="i2">   But he only just smiled in a pityin' way </p>
+<p class="i4">     While he braided a quirt for his boy. </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">   He preaches that I orter fold up my wings </p>
+<p class="i4">     And that even wild geese find a nest. </p>
+<p class="i2">   That "woman" and "wimmen" are different things </p>
+<p class="i4">     And a saddle nap isn't a rest. </p>
+<p class="i2">   El pobre! he's more for the shade and the rest </p>
+<p class="i4">     And he's less for the wind and the fight, </p>
+<p class="i2">   Yet out in strange hills, when the blue shadows rise </p>
+<p class="i2">
+<span class="pagenum"><a id="page77" name="page77"></a>[77]</span>
+
+                 And I'm tired from the wind and the sun in my eyes, </p>
+<p class="i4">     I wonder, sometimes, if he's right. </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">   I've courted the wind and I've followed her free </p>
+<p class="i4">     From the snows that the low stars have kissed </p>
+<p class="i2">   To the heave and the dip of the wavy old sea, </p>
+<p class="i4">     Yet I reckon there's somethin' I've missed. </p>
+<p class="i2">   El pobre! Yes, mebbe there's somethin' I've missed, </p>
+<p class="i4">     And it mebbe is more than I've won&mdash; </p>
+<p class="i2">   Just a door that's my own, while the cool shadows creep, </p>
+<p class="i2">   And a woman a-singin' my kid to sleep </p>
+<p class="i4">     When I'm tired from the wind and the sun. </p>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<p>
+<span class="sc">Note.</span>&mdash;"El pobre," Spanish, "Poor fellow."
+</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page78" name="page78"></a>[78]</span></p>
+
+<div><a name="h2H_4_0023" id="h2H_4_0023"><!-- H2 anchor --></a></div>
+
+<div style="height: 4em;"><br /><br /><br /><br /></div>
+
+<h2>
+    THE OLD COW MAN
+</h2>
+
+<div class="poem">
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">   I rode across a valley range </p>
+<p class="i4">     I hadn't seen for years. </p>
+<p class="i2">   The trail was all so spoilt and strange </p>
+<p class="i4">     It nearly fetched the tears. </p>
+<p class="i2">   I had to let ten fences down </p>
+<p class="i4">     (The fussy lanes ran wrong) </p>
+<p class="i2">   And each new line would make me frown </p>
+<p class="i4">     And hum a mournin' song. </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i4">     <i>Oh, it's squeak! squeak! squeak!</i> </p>
+<p class="i6">       <i>Hear 'em stretchin' of the wire!</i> </p>
+<p class="i4">     <i>The nester brand is on the land;</i> </p>
+<p class="i6">       <i>I reckon I'll retire,</i> </p>
+<p class="i4">     <i>While progress toots her brassy horn</i> </p>
+<p class="i6">       <i>And makes her motor buzz,</i> </p>
+<p class="i4">     <i>I thank the Lord I wasn't born</i> </p>
+<p class="i6">       <i>No later than I was.</i> </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">
+<span class="pagenum"><a id="page79" name="page79"></a>[79]</span>
+
+                 'Twas good to live when all the sod, </p>
+<p class="i4">     Without no fence nor fuss, </p>
+<p class="i2">   Belonged in pardnership to God, </p>
+<p class="i4">     The Gover'ment and us. </p>
+<p class="i2">   With skyline bounds from east to west </p>
+<p class="i4">     And room to go and come, </p>
+<p class="i2">   I loved my fellow man the best </p>
+<p class="i4">     When he was scattered some. </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i4">     <i>Oh, it's squeak! squeak! squeak!</i> </p>
+<p class="i6">       <i>Close and closer cramps the wire.</i> </p>
+<p class="i4">     <i>There's hardly play to back away</i> </p>
+<p class="i6">       <i>And call a man a liar.</i> </p>
+<p class="i4">     <i>Their house has locks on every door;</i> </p>
+<p class="i6">       <i>Their land is in a crate.</i> </p>
+<p class="i4">     <i>These ain't the plains of God no more,</i> </p>
+<p class="i6">       <i>They're only real estate.</i> </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">
+<span class="pagenum"><a id="page80" name="page80"></a>[80]</span>
+
+                 There's land where yet no ditchers dig </p>
+<p class="i4">     Nor cranks experiment; </p>
+<p class="i2">   It's only lovely, free and big </p>
+<p class="i4">     And isn't worth a cent. </p>
+<p class="i2">   I pray that them who come to spoil </p>
+<p class="i4">     May wait till I am dead </p>
+<p class="i2">   Before they foul that blessed soil </p>
+<p class="i4">     With fence and cabbage head. </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i4">     <i>Yet it's squeak! squeak! squeak!</i> </p>
+<p class="i6">       <i>Far and farther crawls the wire.</i> </p>
+<p class="i4">     <i>To crowd and pinch another inch</i> </p>
+<p class="i6">       <i>Is all their heart's desire.</i> </p>
+<p class="i4">     <i>The world is overstocked with men</i> </p>
+<p class="i6">       <i>And some will see the day</i> </p>
+<p class="i4">     <i>When each must keep his little pen,</i> </p>
+<p class="i6">       <i>But I'll be far away.</i> </p>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="nopage25" name="nopage25"></a>[pg]</span></p>
+
+<div class="figure" style="width:600px;">
+<a name="image-0008"><!--IMG--></a>
+<a href="images/ill-07.jpg"><img src="images/ill-07-s.jpg" width="500" height="260"
+alt="There's land where yet no ditchers dig ..." /></a>
+<br />
+  <div class="poem">
+  <div class="stanza">
+  <p class="i2">   "<i>There's land where yet no ditchers dig</i> </p>
+  <p class="i4">     <i>Nor cranks experiment;</i> </p>
+  <p class="i2">   <i>It's only lovely, free and big</i> </p>
+  <p class="i6">       <i>And isn't worth a cent.</i>" </p>
+  </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="nopage26" name="nopage26"></a>[pg]</span></p>
+
+<div style="height: 2em;"><br /><br /></div>
+
+<p><!--[Blank Page]--><br /></p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page81" name="page81"></a>[81]</span></p>
+
+<div class="poem">
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">   When my old soul hunts range and rest </p>
+<p class="i4">     Beyond the last divide, </p>
+<p class="i2">   Just plant me in some stretch of West </p>
+<p class="i4">     That's sunny, lone and wide. </p>
+<p class="i2">   Let cattle rub my tombstone down </p>
+<p class="i4">     And coyotes mourn their kin, </p>
+<p class="i2">   Let hawses paw and tromp the moun' </p>
+<p class="i4">     But don't you fence it in! </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i4">     <i>Oh, it's squeak! squeak! squeak!</i> </p>
+<p class="i6">       <i>And they pen the land with wire.</i> </p>
+<p class="i4">     <i>They figure fence and copper cents</i> </p>
+<p class="i6">       <i>Where we laughed 'round the fire.</i> </p>
+<p class="i4">     <i>Job cussed his birthday, night and morn.</i> </p>
+<p class="i6">       <i>In his old land of Uz,</i> </p>
+<p class="i4">     <i>But I'm just glad I wasn't born</i> </p>
+<p class="i6">       <i>No later than I was!</i> </p>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page82" name="page82"></a>[82]</span></p>
+
+<div><a name="h2H_4_0024" id="h2H_4_0024"><!-- H2 anchor --></a></div>
+
+<div style="height: 4em;"><br /><br /><br /><br /></div>
+
+<h2>
+    THE PLAINSMEN
+</h2>
+
+<div class="poem">
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">   Men of the older, gentler soil, </p>
+<p class="i4">     Loving the things that their fathers wrought&mdash; </p>
+<p class="i2">   Worn old fields of their fathers' toil, </p>
+<p class="i4">     Scarred old hills where their fathers fought&mdash; </p>
+<p class="i2">   Loving their land for each ancient trace, </p>
+<p class="i2">   Like a mother dear for her wrinkled face, </p>
+<p class="i4">     Such as they never can understand </p>
+<p class="i4">     The way we have loved you, young, young land! </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">   Born of a free, world-wandering race, </p>
+<p class="i4">     Little we yearned o'er an oft-turned sod. </p>
+<p class="i2">   What did we care for the fathers' place, </p>
+<p class="i4">     Having ours fresh from the hand of God? </p>
+<p class="i2">   Who feared the strangeness or wiles of you </p>
+<p class="i2">   When from the unreckoned miles of you, </p>
+<!--following two lines moved up from page 83-->
+<p class="i4">     Thrilling the wind with a sweet command, </p>
+<p class="i4">     Youth unto youth called, young, young land? </p>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="nopage27" name="nopage27"></a>[pg]</span></p>
+
+<div class="figure" style="width:600px;">
+<a name="image-0009"><!--IMG--></a>
+<a href="images/ill-08.jpg"><img src="images/ill-08-s.jpg" width="500" height="260"
+alt="Born of a free, world-wandering race ..." /></a>
+<br />
+  <div class="poem">
+  <div class="stanza">
+  <p class="i2">  "<i>Born of a free, world-wandering race,</i> </p>
+  <p class="i4">    <i>Little we yearned o'er an oft-turned sod.</i>" </p>
+  </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="nopage28" name="nopage28"></a>[pg]</span></p>
+
+<div style="height: 2em;"><br /><br /></div>
+
+<p><!--[Blank Page]--><br /></p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page83" name="page83"></a>[83]</span></p>
+
+<div class="poem">
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">   North, where the hurrying seasons changed </p>
+<p class="i4">     Over great gray plains where the trails lay long, </p>
+<p class="i2">   Free as the sweeping Chinook we ranged, </p>
+<p class="i4">     Setting our days to a saddle song. </p>
+<p class="i2">   Through the icy challenge you flung to us, </p>
+<p class="i2">   Through your shy Spring kisses that clung to us, </p>
+<p class="i4">     Following far as the rainbow spanned, </p>
+<p class="i4">     Fiercely we wooed you, young, young land! </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">   South, where the sullen black mountains guard </p>
+<p class="i4">     Limitless, shimmering lands of the sun, </p>
+<p class="i2">   Over blinding trails where the hoofs rang hard, </p>
+<p class="i4">
+<span class="pagenum"><a id="page84" name="page84"></a>[84]</span>
+
+                   Laughing or cursing, we rode and won. </p>
+<p class="i2">   Drunk with the virgin white fire of you, </p>
+<p class="i2">   Hotter than thirst was desire of you; </p>
+<p class="i4">     Straight in our faces you burned your brand, </p>
+<p class="i4">     Marking your chosen ones, young, young land. </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">   When did we long for the sheltered gloom </p>
+<p class="i4">     Of the older game with its cautious odds? </p>
+<p class="i2">   Gloried we always in sun and room, </p>
+<p class="i4">     Spending our strength like the younger gods. </p>
+<p class="i2">   By the wild sweet ardor that ran in us, </p>
+<p class="i2">   By the pain that tested the man in us, </p>
+<p class="i4">     By the shadowy springs and the glaring sand, </p>
+<p class="i4">     You were our true-love, young, young land. </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">
+<span class="pagenum"><a id="page85" name="page85"></a>[85]</span>
+
+                 When the last free trail is a prim, fenced lane </p>
+<p class="i4">     And our graves grow weeds through forgetful Mays, </p>
+<p class="i2">   Richer and statelier then you'll reign, </p>
+<p class="i4">     Mother of men whom the world will praise. </p>
+<p class="i2">   And your sons will love you and sigh for you, </p>
+<p class="i2">   Labor and battle and die for you, </p>
+<p class="i4">     But never the fondest will understand </p>
+<p class="i4">     The way we have loved you, young, young land. </p>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page86" name="page86"></a>[86]</span></p>
+
+<div><a name="h2H_4_0025" id="h2H_4_0025"><!-- H2 anchor --></a></div>
+
+<div style="height: 4em;"><br /><br /><br /><br /></div>
+
+<h2>
+    THE WESTERNER
+</h2>
+
+<div class="poem">
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">   My fathers sleep on the sunrise plains, </p>
+<p class="i4">     And each one sleeps alone. </p>
+<p class="i2">   Their trails may dim to the grass and rains, </p>
+<p class="i4">     For I choose to make my own. </p>
+<p class="i2">   I lay proud claim to their blood and name, </p>
+<p class="i4">     But I lean on no dead kin; </p>
+<p class="i2">   My name is mine, for the praise or scorn, </p>
+<p class="i2">   And the world began when I was born </p>
+<p class="i4">     And the world is mine to win. </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">   They built high towns on their old log sills, </p>
+<p class="i4">     Where the great, slow rivers gleamed, </p>
+<p class="i2">   But with new, live rock from the savage hills </p>
+<p class="i4">     I'll build as they only dreamed. </p>
+<p class="i2">   The smoke scarce dies where the trail camp lies, </p>
+<p class="i4">     Till the rails glint down the pass; </p>
+<p class="i2">   The desert springs into fruit and wheat </p>
+<p class="i2">   And I lay the stones of a solid street </p>
+<p class="i4">     Over yesterday's untrod grass. </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">
+<span class="pagenum"><a id="page87" name="page87"></a>[87]</span>
+
+                 I waste no thought on my neighbor's birth </p>
+<p class="i4">     Or the way he makes his prayer. </p>
+<p class="i2">   I grant him a white man's room on earth </p>
+<p class="i4">     If his game is only square. </p>
+<p class="i2">   While he plays it straight I'll call him mate; </p>
+<p class="i4">     If he cheats I drop him flat. </p>
+<p class="i2">   Old class and rank are a wornout lie, </p>
+<p class="i2">   For all clean men are as good as I, </p>
+<p class="i4">     And a king is only that. </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">   I dream no dreams of a nurse-maid state </p>
+<p class="i4">     That will spoon me out my food. </p>
+<p class="i2">   A stout heart sings in the fray with fate </p>
+<p class="i4">     And the shock and sweat are good. </p>
+<p class="i2">   From noon to noon all the earthly boon </p>
+<p class="i4">     That I ask my God to spare </p>
+<p class="i2">   Is a little daily bread in store, </p>
+<p class="i2">   With the room to fight the strong for more, </p>
+<p class="i4">     And the weak shall get their share. </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">
+<span class="pagenum"><a id="page88" name="page88"></a>[88]</span>
+
+                 The sunrise plains are a tender haze </p>
+<p class="i4">     And the sunset seas are gray, </p>
+<p class="i2">   But I stand here, where the bright skies blaze </p>
+<p class="i4">     Over me and the big today. </p>
+<p class="i2">   What good to me is a vague "may be" </p>
+<p class="i4">     Or a mournful "might have been," </p>
+<p class="i2">   For the sun wheels swift from morn to morn </p>
+<p class="i2">   And the world began when I was born </p>
+<p class="i4">     And the world is mine to win. </p>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page89" name="page89"></a>[89]</span></p>
+
+<div><a name="h2H_4_0026" id="h2H_4_0026"><!-- H2 anchor --></a></div>
+
+<div style="height: 4em;"><br /><br /><br /><br /></div>
+
+<h2>
+    THE WIND IS BLOWIN'
+</h2>
+
+<div class="poem">
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">   My tired hawse nickers for his own home bars; </p>
+<p class="i4">     A hoof clicks out a spark. </p>
+<p class="i2">   The dim creek flickers to the lonesome stars; </p>
+<p class="i4">     The trail twists down the dark. </p>
+<p class="i2">   The ridge pines whimper to the pines below. </p>
+<p class="i2">   The wind is blowin' and I want you so. </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">   The birch has yellowed since I saw you last, </p>
+<p class="i4">     The Fall haze blued the creeks, </p>
+<p class="i2">   The big pine bellowed as the snow swished past, </p>
+<p class="i4">     But still, above the peaks, </p>
+<p class="i2">   The same stars twinkle that we used to know. </p>
+<p class="i2">   The wind is blowin' and I want you so. </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">
+<span class="pagenum"><a id="page90" name="page90"></a>[90]</span>
+                 The stars up yonder wait the end of time </p>
+<p class="i4">     But earth fires soon go black. </p>
+<p class="i2">   I trip and wander on the trail I climb&mdash; </p>
+<p class="i4">     A fool who will look back </p>
+<p class="i2">   To glimpse a fire dead a year ago. </p>
+<p class="i2">   The wind is blowin' and I want you so. </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">   Who says the lover kills the man in me? </p>
+<p class="i4">     Beneath the day's hot blue </p>
+<p class="i2">   This thing hunts cover and my heart fights free </p>
+<p class="i4">     To laugh an hour or two. </p>
+<p class="i2">   But now it wavers like a wounded doe. </p>
+<p class="i2">   The wind is blowin' and I want you so. </p>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page91" name="page91"></a>[91]</span></p>
+
+<div><a name="h2H_4_0027" id="h2H_4_0027"><!-- H2 anchor --></a></div>
+
+<div style="height: 4em;"><br /><br /><br /><br /></div>
+
+<h2>
+    ON BOOT HILL
+</h2>
+
+<div class="poem">
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">   Up from the prairie and through the pines, </p>
+<p class="i2">   Over your straggling headboard lines </p>
+<p class="i4">     Winds of the West go by. </p>
+<p class="i2">   You must love them, you booted dead, </p>
+<p class="i2">   More than the dreamers who died in bed&mdash; </p>
+<p class="i2">   You old-timers who took your lead </p>
+<p class="i4">     Under the open sky! </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">   Leathery knights of the dim old trail, </p>
+<p class="i2">   Lawful fighters or scamps from jail, </p>
+<p class="i4">     Dimly your virtues shine. </p>
+<p class="i2">   Yet who am I that I judge your wars, </p>
+<p class="i2">   Deeds that my daintier soul abhors, </p>
+<p class="i2">   Wide-open sins of the wide outdoors, </p>
+<p class="i4">     Manlier sins than mine. </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">
+<span class="pagenum"><a id="page92" name="page92"></a>[92]</span>
+
+                 Dear old mavericks, customs mend. </p>
+<p class="i2">   I would not glory to make an end </p>
+<p class="i4">     Marked like a homemade sieve. </p>
+<p class="i2">   But with a touch of your own old pride </p>
+<p class="i2">   Grant me to travel the trail I ride. </p>
+<p class="i2">   Gamely and gaily, the way you died, </p>
+<p class="i4">     Give me the nerve to live. </p>
+</div>
+<div class="stanza">
+<p class="i2">   Ay, and for you I will dare assume </p>
+<p class="i2">   Some Valhalla of sun and room </p>
+<p class="i4">     Over the last divide. </p>
+<p class="i2">   There, in eternally fenceless West, </p>
+<p class="i2">   Rest to your souls, if they care to rest, </p>
+<p class="i2">   Or else fresh horses beyond the crest </p>
+<p class="i4">     And a star-speckled range to ride. </p>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<div style="height: 6em;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div>
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+<pre>
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Sun and Saddle Leather, by Badger Clark
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+</body>
+</html>
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@@ -0,0 +1,2007 @@
+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Sun and Saddle Leather, by Badger Clark
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: Sun and Saddle Leather
+       Including Grass Grown Trails and New Poems
+
+Author: Badger Clark
+
+Release Date: July 17, 2011 [EBook #36770]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ASCII
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SUN AND SADDLE LEATHER ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Roberta Staehlin, David Garcia and the Online
+Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
+file was produced from images generously made available
+by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
+
+
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration: "_When the last free trail is a prim, fenced lane_
+                 _And our graves grow weeds through forgetful Mays,_
+               _Richer and statelier then you'll reign,_
+                 _Mother of men whom the world will praise._
+               _And your sons will love you and sigh for you,_
+               _Labor and battle and die for you,_
+                 _But never the fondest will understand_
+                 _The way we have loved you, young, young land._"]
+
+
+
+
+
+
+SUN AND SADDLE LEATHER
+
+BY BADGER CLARK
+
+Illustrations from Photographs by L. A. HUFFMAN
+
+THIRD EDITION
+
+[Illustration]
+
+  BOSTON
+  RICHARD G. BADGER
+  THE GORHAM PRESS
+
+
+Copyright, 1915, 1917 and 1919 by Badger Clark
+
+All Rights Reserved
+
+MADE IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
+
+The Gorham Press, Boston, U. S. A.
+
+
+
+
+TO MY FATHER, _who, in his long life, has seldom been conscious
+of a man's rough exterior, or unconscious of his obscurest virtue._
+
+
+
+
+PREFACE TO THE THIRD EDITION
+
+
+Cowboys are the sternest critics of those who would represent the West.
+No hypocrisy, no bluff, no pose can evade them.
+
+Yet cowboys have made Badger Clark's songs their own. So readily have
+they circulated that often the man who sings the song could not tell
+you where it started. Many of the poems have become folk songs of the
+West, we may say of America, for they speak of freedom and the open.
+
+Generous has been the praise given _Sun and Saddle Leather_, but
+perhaps no criticism has summed up the work so satisfactorily as the
+comment of the old cow man who said, "You can break me if there's a
+dead poem in the book, I read the hull of it. Who in H---- is this kid
+Clark, anyway? I don't know how he knowed, but he _knows_."
+
+That is what proves Badger Clark the real poet. He knows. Beyond his
+wonderful presentation of the West is the quality of universal appeal
+that makes his work real art. He has tied the West to the universe.
+
+The old cow man is not the only one who has wondered who Badger Clark
+was. Charles Wharton Stork speaking of _Sun and Saddle Leather_, said,
+"It has splendid flavor and fine artistic handling as well. I should
+like to know more of the author, whether he was a cow puncher or merely
+got inside his psychology by imagination."
+
+Badger Clark was brought up in the West. As a boy he lived in Deadwood,
+South Dakota. The town at that time was trying to live down the
+reputation for exuberant indecorum which she had acquired during the
+gold rush; but her five churches operating two hours a week could make
+little headway against the competition of two dance halls and
+twenty-six saloons running twenty-four hours a day.
+
+Perhaps it was these early impressions that make _The Piano at Red's_
+in Mr. Clark's later volume _Grass Grown Trails_ so vivid.
+
+  Scuffling feet and thud of fists,
+    Curses hot as fire--
+  Still the music sang of love,
+    Longin', lost desire,
+  Dreams that never could have been
+    Joys that couldn't stay--
+  While the man upon the floor
+    Wiped the blood away.
+
+After Clark had grown up, in the cow country near the Mexican border,
+he stumbled unexpectedly into paradise. He was given charge of a small
+ranch and the responsibility for a bunch of cattle just large enough to
+amuse him, but too small to demand a full day's work once a month. The
+sky was persistently blue, the sunlight was richly golden, the folds of
+the barren mountains and the wide reaches of the range were full of many
+lovely colors, and his nearest neighbor was eight miles away.
+
+The cow men who dropped in for a meal now and then in the course of
+their interminable riding appeared to have ridden directly out of books
+of adventure, with old-young faces full of sun wrinkles, careless
+mouths full of bad grammar, strange oaths and stranger yarns, and
+hearts for the most part as open and shadowless as the country they
+daily ranged.
+
+In the evenings as Clark placed his boot heels on the porch railing,
+smote the strings of his guitar and broke the tense silence of the
+warm, dry twilight with song, he often wondered, as his eyes rested
+dreamily on the spikey yuccas that stood out sharp and black against
+the clear lemon color of the sunset west, why hermit life in the desert
+was traditionally a sad, penitential affair.
+
+In a letter to his mother a month or two after settling in Arizona he
+found prose too weak to express his utter content and perpetrated his
+first verses. She, with natural pride, sent the verses to a magazine,
+the old _Pacific Monthly_, and a week or two later the desert dweller
+was astonished beyond measure to receive his first editorial check.
+The  discovery that certain people in the world were willing to pay
+money for such rhymes as he could write bent the whole course of his
+subsequent life, for good or evil, and the occasional lyric impulse
+hardened into a habit which has consumed much of his time and most of
+his serious thought since that date. The verses written to his mother
+were _Ridin'_, the first poem in his first book, _Sun and Saddle
+Leather_, and the greater part of the poems in both _Sun and Saddle
+Leather_ and _Grass Grown Trails_ were written in Arizona.
+
+_Sun and Saddle Leather_ and _Grass Grown Trails_ are books of Western
+songs, simple and ringing and yet with an ample vision that makes them
+unique among poems written in a local vernacular. The spirit of them
+is eternal, the spirit of youth in the open, and their background is
+"God's Reserves," the vast reach of Western mesa and plain that will
+always remain free--"the way that it was when the world was new."
+
+Every poem carries a breath of plains, wind-flavored with a tang of
+camp smoke; and, varied as they are in tune and tone, they do not
+contain a single note that is labored or unnatural. They are of native
+Western stock, as indigenous to the soil as the agile cow ponies whose
+hoofs evidently beat the time for their swinging measures; and it is
+this quality, as well as their appealing music, that has already given
+them such wide popularity, East and West.
+
+That they were born in the saddle and written for love rather than for
+publication is a conviction that the reader of them can hardly escape.
+From the impish merriment of _From Town_ to the deep but fearless piety
+of _The Cowboy's Prayer_, these songs ring true; and are as healthy as
+the big, bright country whence they came.
+
+In 1917, about the time our first edition of _Sun and Saddle Leather_
+began to run low, we fortunately discovered L. A. Huffman, of Miles
+City, Montana, the illustrator who in 1878 began taking photographs
+from the saddle with crude cameras he made over to meet his needs.
+These same views were the first of the now famous "Huffman Pictures,"
+beginning with the Indians and buffaloes round about Ft. Keogh on the
+Yellowstone where he was post photographer for General Miles' army
+during those stirring territorial days. The Huffman Studio is still one
+of the show places of Miles City, and the sales headquarters also for
+Montana and adjacent states for both of Mr. Clark's books, _Sun and
+Saddle Leather_ and _Grass Grown Trails_. In a recent letter Mr. Huffman
+says, "I have just come back from a trip to 'Powder River' and along the
+Wyoming-Montana border. It's all too true! Clark saw and wrote it none
+too soon in _The Passing of the Trail_."
+
+
+  The trail's a lane, the trail's a lane.
+  Dead is the branding fire.
+  The prairies wild are tame and mild
+  All close-corralled with wire.
+  The sunburnt demigods who ranged
+  And laughed and loved so free
+  Have topped the last divide, or changed
+  To men like you and me.
+
+
+
+
+CONTENTS
+
+
+                                                                      PAGE
+
+  Ridin'                                                                13
+  The Song of the Leather                                               16
+  A Bad Half Hour                                                       19
+  From Town                                                             22
+  A Cowboy's Prayer                                                     26
+  The Christmas Trail                                                   29
+  A Border Affair                                                       33
+  The Bunk-House Orchestra                                              36
+  The Outlaw                                                            40
+  The Legend of Boastful Bill                                           43
+  The Tied Maverick                                                     48
+  A Roundup Lullaby                                                     51
+  The Trail o' Love                                                     55
+  Bachin'                                                               58
+  The Glory Trail                                                       61
+  Bacon                                                                 65
+  The Lost Pardner                                                      67
+  God's Reserves                                                        70
+  The Married Man                                                       74
+  The Old Cow Man                                                       78
+  The Plainsmen                                                         82
+  The Westerner                                                         86
+  The Wind is Blowin'                                                   89
+  On Boot Hill                                                          91
+
+
+
+
+LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
+
+
+  _When the last free trail is a prim, fenced lane_
+    _And our graves grow weeds through forgetful Mays,_
+  _Richer and statelier then you'll reign,_
+  _Mother of men whom the world will praise._
+  _And your sons will love you and sigh for you,_
+  _Labor and battle and die for you,_
+    _But never the fondest will understand_
+    _The way we have loved you, young, young land._      --_Frontispiece._
+
+                                                                    FACING
+                                                                      PAGE
+
+  _When my feet is in the stirrups_
+    _And my hawse is on the bust._                                      14
+
+  _There's a time to be slow and a time to be quick._                   18
+
+  _We have gathered fightin' pointers from the famous bronco steed._    24
+
+  _The taut ropes sing like a banjo string_
+    _And the latigoes creak and strain._                                40
+
+  _I wait to hear him ridin' up behind._                                68
+
+  _There's land where yet no ditchers dig_
+    _Nor cranks experiment;_
+  _It's only lovely, free and big_
+    _And isn't worth a cent._                                           80
+
+  _Born of a free, world-wandering race_
+    _Little we yearned o'er an oft-turned sod._                         82
+
+
+
+
+SUN AND SADDLE LEATHER
+
+
+
+
+RIDIN'
+
+
+  There is some that likes the city--
+    Grass that's curried smooth and green,
+  Theaytres and stranglin' collars,
+    Wagons run by gasoline--
+  But for me it's hawse and saddle
+    Every day without a change,
+  And a desert sun a-blazin'
+    On a hundred miles of range.
+
+  _Just a-ridin', a-ridin'--_
+    _Desert ripplin' in the sun,_
+  _Mountains blue along the skyline--_
+    _I don't envy anyone_
+        _When I'm ridin'._
+
+  When my feet is in the stirrups
+    And my hawse is on the bust,
+  With his hoofs a-flashin' lightnin'
+    From a cloud of golden dust,
+  And the bawlin' of the cattle
+    Is a-coming' down the wind
+  Then a finer life than ridin'
+    Would be mighty hard to find.
+
+  _Just a-ridin, a-ridin'--_
+    _Splittin' long cracks through the air,_
+  _Stirrin' up a baby cyclone,_
+    _Rippin' up the prickly pear_
+        _As I'm ridin'._
+
+  I don't need no art exhibits
+    When the sunset does her best,
+  Paintin' everlastin' glory
+    On the mountains to the west
+  And your opery looks foolish
+    When the night-bird starts his tune
+  And the desert's silver mounted
+    By the touches of the moon.
+
+  _Just a-ridin', a-ridin',_
+    _Who kin envy kings and czars_
+  _When the coyotes down the valley_
+    _Are a-singin' to the stars,_
+        _If he's ridin'?_
+
+  When my earthly trail is ended
+    And my final bacon curled
+  And the last great roundup's finished
+    At the Home Ranch of the world
+  I don't want no harps nor haloes,
+    Robes nor other dressed up things--
+  Let me ride the starry ranges
+    On a pinto hawse with wings!
+
+  _Just a-ridin', a-ridin'--_
+    _Nothin' I'd like half so well_
+  _As a-roundin' up the sinners_
+    _That have wandered out of Hell,_
+        _And a-ridin'._
+
+[Illustration: "_When my feet is in the stirrups
+                 And my hawse is on the bust._"]
+
+
+
+
+THE SONG OF THE LEATHER
+
+
+  When my trail stretches out to the edge of the sky
+    Through the desert so empty and bright,
+  When I'm watchin' the miles as they go crawlin' by
+    And a-hopin' I'll get there by night,
+  Then my hawse never speaks through the long sunny day,
+    But my saddle he sings in his creaky old way:
+
+          "_Easy--easy--easy--_
+    _For a temperit pace ain't a crime._
+  _Let your mount hit it steady, but give him his ease,_
+  _For the sun hammers hard and there's never a breeze._
+    _We kin get there in plenty of time._"
+
+  When I'm after some critter that's hit the high lope,
+    And a-spurrin' my hawse till he flies,
+  When I'm watchin' the chances for throwin' my rope
+    And a-winkin' the sweat from my eyes,
+  Then the leathers they squeal with the lunge and the swing
+    And I work to the livelier tune that they sing:
+
+          "_Reach 'im! reach 'im! reach 'im!_
+      _If you lather your hawse to the heel!_
+  _There's a time to be slow and a time to be quick;_
+  _Never mind if it's rough and the bushes are thick--_
+      _Pull your hat down and fling in the steel!_"
+
+  When I've rustled all day till I'm achin' for rest
+    And I'm ordered a night-guard to ride,
+  With the tired little moon hangin' low in the west
+    And my sleepiness fightin' my pride,
+  Then I nod and I blink at the dark herd below
+    And the saddle he sings as my hawse paces slow:
+
+        "_Sleepy--sleepy--sleepy--_
+      _We was ordered a close watch to keep,_
+  _But I'll sing you a song in a drowsy old key;_
+  _All the world is a-snoozin' so why shouldn't we?_
+      _Go to sleep, pardner mine, go to sleep._"
+
+[Illustration: "_There's a time to be slow and a time to be quick._"]
+
+
+
+
+A BAD HALF HOUR
+
+
+  Wonder why I feel so restless;
+    Moon is shinin' still and bright,
+  Cattle all is restin' easy,
+    But I just kaint sleep tonight.
+  Ain't no cactus in my blankets,
+    Don't know why they feel so hard--
+  'Less it's Warblin' Jim a-singin'
+    "Annie Laurie" out on guard.
+
+  "Annie Laurie"--wish he'd quit it!
+    Couldn't sleep now if I tried.
+  Makes the night seem big and lonesome,
+    And my throat feels sore inside.
+  How _my_ Annie used to sing it!
+    And it sounded good and gay
+  Nights I drove her home from dances
+    When the east was turnin' gray.
+
+  Yes, "her brow was like the snowdrift"
+    And her eyes like quiet streams,
+  "And her face"--I still kin see it
+    Much too frequent in my dreams;
+  And her hand was soft and trembly
+    That night underneath the tree,
+  When I couldn't help but tell her
+    She was "all the world to me."
+
+  But her folks said I was "shif'less,"
+    "Wild," "unsettled,"--they was right,
+  For I leaned to punchin' cattle
+    And I'm at it still tonight.
+  And she married young Doc Wilkins--
+    Oh my Lord! but that was hard!
+  Wish that fool would quit his singin'
+    "Annie Laurie" out on guard!
+
+  Oh, I just kaint stand it thinkin'
+    Of the things that happened then.
+  Good old times, and all apast me!
+    Never seem to come again--
+  My turn? Sure. I'll come a-runnin'.
+    Warm me up some coffee, pard--
+  But I'll stop that Jim from singin'
+    "Annie Laurie" out on guard.
+
+
+
+
+FROM TOWN
+
+
+  We're the children of the open and we hate the haunts o' men,
+    But we had to come to town to get the mail.
+  And we're ridin' home at daybreak--'cause the air is cooler then--
+    All 'cept one of us that stopped behind in jail.
+  Shorty's nose won't bear paradin', Bill's off eye is darkly fadin',
+    All our toilets show a touch of disarray,
+  For we found that city life is a constant round of strife
+    And we ain't the breed for shyin' from a fray.
+
+  Chant your warwhoop, pardners dear, while the east turns pale with fear
+    And the chaparral is tremblin' all aroun'
+  For we're wicked to the marrer; we're a midnight dream of terror
+    When we're ridin' up the rocky trail from town!
+
+  We acquired our hasty temper from our friend, the centipede.
+    From the rattlesnake we learnt to guard our rights.
+  We have gathered fightin' pointers from the famous bronco steed
+    And the bobcat teached us reppertee that bites.
+  So when some high-collared herrin' jeered the garb that I was wearin'
+    'Twas't long till we had got where talkin' ends,
+  And he et his illbred chat, with a sauce of derby hat,
+    While my merry pardners entertained his friends.
+
+  Sing 'er out, my buckeroos! Let the desert hear the news.
+    Tell the stars the way we rubbed the haughty down.
+  We're the fiercest wolves a-prowlin' and it's just our night for howlin'
+    When we're ridin' up the rocky trail from town.
+
+  Since the days that Lot and Abram split the Jordan range in halves,
+    Just to fix it so their punchers wouldn't fight,
+  Since old Jacob skinned his dad-in-law for six years' crop of calves
+    And then hit the trail for Canaan in the night,
+  There has been a taste for battle 'mong the men that follow cattle
+    And a love of doin' things that's wild and strange,
+  And the warmth of Laban's words when he missed his speckled herds
+    Still is useful in the language of the range.
+
+  Sing 'er out, my bold coyotes! leather fists and leather throats,
+    For we wear the brand of Ishm'el like a crown.
+  We're the sons o' desolation, we're the outlaws of creation--
+    Ee--yow! a-ridin' up the rocky trail from town!
+
+[Illustration: "_We have gathered fightin' pointers from the famous
+bronco steed._"]
+
+
+
+
+A COWBOY'S PRAYER
+
+(_Written for Mother_)
+
+
+  Oh Lord. I've never lived where churches grow.
+    I love creation better as it stood
+  That day You finished it so long ago
+    And looked upon Your work and called it good.
+  I know that others find You in the light
+    That's sifted down through tinted window panes,
+  And yet I seem to feel You near tonight
+    In this dim, quiet starlight on the plains.
+
+  I thank You, Lord, that I am placed so well,
+    That You have made my freedom so complete;
+  That I'm no slave of whistle, clock or bell,
+    Nor weak-eyed prisoner of wall and street.
+  Just let me live my life as I've begun
+    And give me work that's open to the sky;
+  Make me a pardner of the wind and sun,
+    And I won't ask a life that's soft or high.
+
+  Let me be easy on the man that's down;
+    Let me be square and generous with all.
+  I'm careless sometimes, Lord, when I'm in town,
+    But never let 'em say I'm mean or small!
+  Make me as big and open as the plains,
+    As honest as the hawse between my knees,
+  Clean as the wind that blows behind the rains,
+    Free as the hawk that circles down the breeze!
+
+  Forgive me, Lord, if sometimes I forget.
+    You know about the reasons that are hid.
+  You understand the things that gall and fret;
+    You know me better than my mother did.
+  Just keep an eye on all that's done and said
+    And right me, sometimes, when I turn aside,
+  And guide me on the long, dim trail ahead
+    That stretches upward toward the Great Divide.
+
+
+
+
+THE CHRISTMAS TRAIL
+
+
+  The wind is blowin' cold down the mountain tips of snow
+    And 'cross the ranges layin' brown and dead;
+  It's cryin' through the valley trees that wear the mistletoe
+    And mournin' with the gray clouds overhead.
+  Yet it's sweet with the beat of my little hawse's feet
+    And I whistle like the air was warm and blue,
+  For I'm ridin' up the Christmas trail to you, Old folks,
+    I'm a-ridin' up the Christmas trail to you.
+
+  Oh, mebbe it was good when the whinny of the Spring
+    Had wheedled me to hoppin' of the bars,
+  And livin' in the shadow of a sailin' buzzard's wing
+    And sleepin' underneath a roof of stars.
+  But the bright campfire light only dances for a night,
+    While the home-fire burns forever clear and true,
+  So 'round the year I circle back to you, Old folks,
+    'Round the rovin' year I circle back to you.
+
+  Oh, mebbe it was good when the reckless Summer sun
+    Had shot a charge of fire through my veins,
+  And I milled around the whiskey and the fightin' and the fun
+    'Mong the other mav'ricks drifted from the plains.
+  Ay! the pot bubbled hot, while you reckoned I'd forgot,
+    And the devil smacked the young blood in his stew,
+  Yet I'm lovin' every mile that's nearer you,  Good folks,
+    Lovin' every blessed mile that's nearer you.
+
+  Oh, mebbe it was good at the roundup in the Fall
+    When the clouds of bawlin' dust before us ran,
+  And the pride of rope and saddle was a-drivin' of us all
+    To a stretch of nerve and muscle, man and man.
+  But the pride sort of died when the man got weary eyed;
+    'Twas a sleepy boy that rode the night-guard through,
+  And he dreamed himself along a trail to you, Old folks,
+    Dreamed himself along a happy trail to you.
+
+  The coyote's Winter howl cuts the dusk behind the hill,
+    But the ranch's shinin' window I kin see,
+  And though I don't deserve it and, I reckon, never will,
+    There'll be room beside the fire kep' for me.
+  Skimp my plate 'cause I'm late. Let me hit the old kid gait,
+    For tonight I'm stumblin' tired of the new
+  And I'm ridin' up the Christmas trail to you, Old folks,
+    I'm a-ridin' up the Christmas trail to you.
+
+
+
+
+A BORDER AFFAIR
+
+
+  Spanish is the lovin' tongue,
+    Soft as music, light as spray.
+  'Twas a girl I learnt it from,
+    Livin' down Sonora way.
+  I don't look much like a lover,
+  Yet I say her love words over
+    Often when I'm all alone--
+    "Mi amor, mi corazon."
+
+  Nights when she knew where I'd ride
+    She would listen for my spurs,
+  Fling the big door open wide,
+    Raise them laughin' eyes of hers
+  And my heart would nigh stop beatin'
+  When I heard her tender greetin',
+    Whispered soft for me alone--
+    "Mi amor! mi corazon!"
+
+  Moonlight in the patio,
+    Old Senora noddin' near,
+  Me and Juana talkin' low
+    So the Madre couldn't hear--
+  How those hours would go a-flyin'!
+  And too soon I'd hear her sighin'
+    In her little sorry tone--
+    "Adios, mi corazon!"
+
+  But one time I had to fly
+    For a foolish gamblin' fight,
+  And we said a swift goodbye
+    In that black, unlucky night.
+  When I'd loosed her arms from clingin'
+  With her words the hoofs kep' ringin'
+    As I galloped north alone--
+    "Adios, mi corazon!"
+
+  Never seen her since that night.
+    I kaint cross the Line, you know.
+  She was Mex and I was white;
+    Like as not it's better so.
+  Yet I've always sort of missed her
+  Since that last wild night I kissed her,
+    Left her heart and lost my own--
+    "Adios, mi corazon!"
+
+
+
+
+THE BUNK-HOUSE ORCHESTRA
+
+
+  Wrangle up your mouth-harps, drag your banjo out,
+  Tune your old guitarra till she twangs right stout,
+  For the snow is on the mountains and the wind is on the plain,
+  But we'll cut the chimney's moanin' with a livelier refrain.
+
+    _Shinin' 'dobe fireplace, shadows on the wall--_
+    _(See old Shorty's friv'lous toes a-twitchin' at the call:)_
+    _It's the best grand high that there is within the law_
+    _When seven jolly punchers tackle "Turkey in the Straw."_
+
+  Freezy was the day's ride, lengthy was the trail,
+  Ev'ry steer was haughty with a high arched tail,
+  But we held 'em and we shoved 'em, for our longin' hearts were tried
+  By a yearnin' for tobacker and our dear fireside.
+
+    _Swing 'er into stop-time, don't you let 'er droop!_
+    _(You're about as tuneful as a coyote with the croup!)_
+    _Ay, the cold wind bit when we drifted down the draw,_
+    _But we drifted on to comfort and to "Turkey in the Straw."_
+
+  Snarlin' when the rain whipped, cussin' at the ford--
+  Ev'ry mile of twenty was a long discord,
+  But the night is brimmin' music and its glory is complete
+  When the eye is razzle-dazzled by the flip o' Shorty's feet!
+
+    _Snappy for the dance, now, fill she up and shoots!_
+    _(Don't he beat the devil's wife for jiggin' in 'is boots?)_
+    _Shorty got throwed high and we laughed till he was raw,_
+    _But tonight he's done forgot it prancin' "Turkey in the Straw."_
+
+  Rainy dark or firelight, bacon rind or pie,
+  Livin' is a luxury that don't come high;
+  Oh, be happy and onruly while our years and luck allow,
+  For we all must die or marry less than forty years from now!
+
+    _Lively on the last turn! lope 'er to the death!_
+    _(Reddy's soul is willin' but he's gettin' short o' breath.)_
+    _Ay, the storm wind sings and old trouble sucks his paw_
+    _When we have an hour of firelight set to "Turkey in the Straw!"_
+
+
+
+
+THE OUTLAW
+
+
+  When my rope takes hold on a two-year-old,
+    By the foot or the neck or the horn,
+  He kin plunge and fight till his eyes go white
+    But I'll throw him as sure as you're born.
+  Though the taut ropes sing like a banjo string
+    And the latigoes creak and strain,
+  Yet I got no fear of an outlaw steer
+    And I'll tumble him on the plain.
+
+    _For a man is a man, but a steer is a beast,_
+      _And the man is the boss of the herd,_
+    _And each of the bunch, from the biggest to least,_
+      _Must come down when he says the word._
+
+  When my leg swings 'cross on an outlaw hawse
+    And my spurs clinch into his hide,
+  He kin r'ar and pitch over hill and ditch,
+    But wherever he goes I'll ride.
+  Let 'im spin and flop like a crazy top
+    Or flit like a wind-whipped smoke,
+  But he'll know the feel of my rowelled heel
+    Till he's happy to own he's broke.
+
+    _For a man is a man and a hawse is a brute,_
+      _And the hawse may be prince of his clan_
+    _But he'll bow to the bit and the steel-shod boot_
+       _And own that his boss is the man._
+
+  When the devil at rest underneath my vest
+    Gets up and begins to paw
+  And my hot tongue strains at its bridle reins,
+    Then I tackle the real outlaw.
+  When I get plumb riled and my sense goes wild
+    And my temper is fractious growed,
+  If he'll hump his neck just a triflin' speck,
+    Then it's dollars to dimes I'm throwed.
+
+    _For a man is a man, but he's partly a beast._
+      _He kin brag till he makes you deaf,_
+    _But the one lone brute, from the west to the east,_
+      _That he kaint quite break is himse'f._
+
+[Illustration: "_The taut ropes sing like a banjo string_
+                 _And the latigoes creak and strain._"]
+
+
+
+
+THE LEGEND OF BOASTFUL BILL
+
+
+  At a roundup on the Gily,
+    One sweet mornin' long ago,
+  Ten of us was throwed right freely
+    By a hawse from Idaho.
+  And we thought he'd go-a-beggin'
+    For a man to break his pride
+  Till, a-hitchin' up one leggin,
+    Boastful Bill cut loose and cried--
+
+    "_I'm a on'ry proposition for to hurt;_
+    _I fulfil my earthly mission with a quirt;_
+      _I kin ride the highest liver_
+      _'Tween the Gulf and Powder River,_
+    _And I'll break this thing as easy as I'd flirt._"
+
+  So Bill climbed the Northern Fury
+    And they mangled up the air
+  Till a native of Missouri
+    Would have owned his brag was fair.
+  Though the plunges kep' him reelin'
+    And the wind it flapped his shirt,
+  Loud above the hawse's squealin'
+    We could hear our friend assert
+
+    "_I'm the one to take such rakin's as a joke._
+    _Some one hand me up the makin's of a smoke!_
+      _If you think my fame needs bright'nin'_
+      _W'y, I'll rope a streak of lightnin'_
+    _And I'll cinch 'im up and spur 'im till he's broke._"
+
+  Then one caper of repulsion
+    Broke that hawse's back in two.
+  Cinches snapped in the convulsion;
+    Skyward man and saddle flew.
+  Up he mounted, never laggin',
+    While we watched him through our tears,
+  And his last thin bit of braggin'
+      Came a-droppin' to our ears.
+
+    "_If you'd ever watched my habits very close_
+    _You would know I've broke such rabbits by the gross._
+      _I have kep' my talent hidin';_
+      _I'm too good for earthly ridin'_
+    _And I'm off to bust the lightnin's,--Adios!_"
+
+  Years have gone since that ascension.
+    Boastful Bill ain't never lit,
+  So we reckon that he's wrenchin'
+    Some celestial outlaw's bit.
+  When the night rain beats our slickers
+    And the wind is swift and stout
+  And the lightnin' flares and flickers,
+    We kin sometimes hear him shout--
+
+    "_I'm a bronco-twistin' wonder on the fly;_
+    _I'm the ridin' son-of-thunder of the sky._
+      _Hi! you earthlin's, shut your winders_
+      _While we're rippin' clouds to flinders._
+    _If this blue-eyed darlin' kicks at you, you die!_"
+
+  Stardust on his chaps and saddle,
+    Scornful still of jar and jolt,
+  He'll come back some day, astraddle
+    Of a bald-faced thunderbolt.
+  And the thin-skinned generation
+    Of that dim and distant day
+  Sure will stare with admiration
+    When they hear old Boastful say--
+
+    "_I was first, as old rawhiders all confessed._
+    _Now I'm last of all rough riders, and the best._
+      _Huh! you soft and dainty floaters,_
+      _With your a'roplanes and motors--_
+    _Huh! are you the great grandchildren of the West!_"
+
+
+
+
+THE TIED MAVERICK
+
+
+  Lay on the iron! the tie holds fast
+    And my wild record closes.
+  This maverick is down at last
+    Just roped and tied with roses.
+  And one small girl's to blame for it,
+  Yet I don't fight with shame for it--
+  Lay on the iron; I'm game for it,
+    Just roped and tied with roses.
+
+  I loped among the wildest band
+    Of saddle-hatin' winners--
+  Gay colts that never felt a brand
+    And scarred old outlaw sinners.
+  The wind was rein and guide to us;
+  The world was pasture wide to us
+  And our wild name was pride to us--
+    High headed bronco sinners!
+
+  So, loose and light we raced and fought
+    And every range we tasted,
+  But now, since I'm corralled and caught,
+    I know them days were wasted.
+  From now, the all-day gait for me,
+  The trail that's hard but straight for me,
+  For down that trail, who'll wait for me!
+    Ay! them old days were wasted!
+
+  But though I'm broke, I'll never be
+    A saddle-marked old groaner,
+  For never worthless bronc like me
+    Got such a gentle owner.
+  There could be colt days glad as mine
+  Or outlaw runs as mad as mine
+  Or rope-flung falls as bad as mine,
+    But never such an owner.
+
+  Lay on the iron, and lay it red!
+    I'll take it kind and clever.
+  Who wouldn't hold a prouder head
+    To wear that mark forever?
+  I'll never break and stray from her;
+  I'd starve and die away from her.
+  Lay on the iron--it's play from her--
+    And brand me hers forever!
+
+
+
+
+A ROUNDUP LULLABY
+
+
+  Desert blue and silver in the still moonshine,
+    Coyote yappin' lazy on the hill,
+  Sleepy winks of lightnin' down the far sky line,
+    Time for millin' cattle to be still.
+
+    _So--o now, the lightnin's far away,_
+      _The coyote's nothiny skeery;_
+      _He's singin' to his dearie--_
+    _Hee--ya, tammalalleday!_
+      _Settle down, you cattle, till the mornin'._
+
+  Nothin' out the hazy range that you folks need,
+    Nothin' we kin see to take your eye.
+  Yet we got to watch you or you'd all stampede,
+    Plungin' down some 'royo bank to die.
+
+    _So--o, now, for still the shadows stay;_
+      _The moon is slow and steady;_
+      _The sun comes when he's ready._
+    _Hee--ya, tammalalleday!_
+      _No use runnin' out to meet the mornin'._
+
+  Cows and men are foolish when the light grows dim,
+    Dreamin' of a land too far to see.
+  There, you dream, is wavin' grass and streams that brim
+    And it often seems the same to me.
+
+    _So--o, now, for dreams they never pay._
+      _The dust it keeps us blinkin',_
+      _We're seven miles from drinkin'._
+    _Hee--ya, tammalalleday!_
+      _But we got to stand it till the mornin'._
+
+  Mostly it's a moonlight world our trail winds through.
+    Kaint see much beyond our saddle horns.
+  Always far away is misty silver-blue;
+    Always underfoot it's rocks and thorns.
+
+    _So--o, now. It must be this away--_
+      _The lonesome owl a-callin',_
+      _The mournful coyote squallin'._
+    _Hee--ya, tammalalleday!_
+      _Mockin-birds don't sing until the mornin'._
+
+  Always seein' 'wayoff dreams of silver-blue,
+    Always feelin' thorns that slab and sting.
+  Yet stampedin' never made a dream come true,
+    So I ride around myself and sing.
+
+    _So--o, now, a man has got to stay,_
+      _A-likin' or a-hatin',_
+      _But workin' on and waitin'._
+    _Hee--ya, tammalalleday!_
+      _All of us are waitin' for the mornin'._
+
+
+
+
+THE TRAIL O' LOVE
+
+
+  My love was swift and slender
+    As an antelope at play,
+  And her eyes were gray and tender
+    As the east at break o' day,
+  And I sure was shaky hearted
+    And her flower face was pale
+  On that silver night we parted,
+    When I sang along the trail:
+
+    _Forever--forever--_
+      _Oh, moon above the pine,_
+    _Like the matin' birds in Springtime,_
+      _I will twitter while you shine._
+    _Rich as ore with gold a-glowin',_
+    _Sweet as sparklin' springs a-flowin',_
+    _Strong as redwoods ever growin',_
+      _So will be this love o' mine._
+
+  I rode across the river
+    And beyond the far divide,
+  Till the echo of "forever"
+    Staggered faint behind and died.
+  For the long trail smiled and beckoned
+    And the free wind blowed so sweet,
+  That life's gayest tune, I reckoned,
+    Was my hawse's ringin' feet.
+
+    _Forever--forever--_
+      _Oh, stars, look down and sigh,_
+    _For a poison spring will sparkle_
+      _And the trustin' drinker die._
+    _And a rovin' bird will twitter_
+    _And a worthless rock will glitter_
+    _And the maiden's love is bitter_
+      _When the man's is proved a lie._
+
+  Last the rover's circle guidin'
+    Brought me where I used to be,
+  And I met her, gaily ridin'
+    With a smarter man than me.
+  Then I raised my dusty cover
+    But she didn't see nor hear,
+  So I hummed the old tune over,
+    Laughin' in my hawse's ear:
+
+    _If the snowflake specks the desert_
+      _Or the yucca blooms awhile._
+    _Ay! what gloom the mountain covers_
+    _Where the driftin' cloud shade hovers!_
+    _Ay! the trail o' parted lovers,_
+      _Where "forever" lasts a mile!_
+
+
+
+
+BACHIN'
+
+
+  Our lives are hid; our trails are strange;
+    We're scattered through the West
+  In canyon cool, on blistered range
+    Or windy mountain crest.
+  Wherever Nature drops her ears
+    And bares her claws to scratch,
+  From Yuma to the north frontiers,
+    You'll likely find the bach',
+        You will,
+    The shy and sober bach'!
+
+  Our days are sun and storm and mist,
+    The same as any life,
+  Except that in our trouble list
+    We never count a wife.
+  Each has a reason why he's lone,
+    But keeps it 'neath his hat;
+  Or, if he's got to tell some one,
+    Confides it to his cat,
+        He does,
+    Just tells it to his cat.
+
+  We're young or old or slow or fast,
+    But all plumb versatyle.
+  The mighty bach' that fires the blast
+    Kin serve up beans in style.
+  The bach' that ropes the plungin' cows
+    Kin mix the biscuits true--
+  We earn our grub by drippin' brows
+    And cook it by 'em too,
+        We do,
+    We cook it by 'em too.
+
+  We like to breathe unbranded air,
+    Be free of foot and mind,
+  And go or stay, or sing or swear,
+    Whichever we're inclined.
+  An appetite, a conscience clear,
+    A pipe that's rich and old
+  Are loves that always bless and cheer
+    And never cry nor scold,
+        They don't.
+    They never cry nor scold.
+
+  Old Adam bached some ages back
+    And smoked his pipe so free,
+  A-loafin' in a palm-leaf shack
+    Beneath a mango tree.
+  He'd best have stuck to bachin' ways,
+    And scripture proves the same,
+  For Adam's only happy days
+    Was 'fore the woman came,
+        They was,
+    All 'fore the woman came.
+
+
+
+
+THE GLORY TRAIL
+
+
+  'Way high up the Mogollons,
+    Among the mountain tops,
+  A lion cleaned a yearlin's bones
+    And licked his thankful chops,
+  When on the picture who should ride,
+    A-trippin' down a slope,
+  But High-Chin Bob, with sinful pride
+    And mav'rick-hungry rope.
+
+    "_Oh, glory be to me," says he,_
+      "_And fame's unfadin' flowers!_
+    _All meddlin' hands are far away;_
+    _I ride my good top-hawse today_
+    _And I'm top-rope of the Lazy J----_
+      _Hi! kitty cat, you're ours!_"
+
+  That lion licked his paw so brown
+    And dreamed soft dreams of veal--
+  And then the circlin' loop sung down
+    And roped him 'round his meal.
+  He yowled quick fury to the world
+    Till all the hills yelled back;
+  The top-hawse gave a snort and whirled
+    And Bob caught up the slack.
+
+    "_Oh, glory be to me," laughs he._
+      "_We hit the glory trail._
+    _No human man as I have read_
+    _Darst loop a ragin' lion's head,_
+    _Nor ever hawse could drag one dead_
+      _Until we told the tale._"
+
+  'Way high up the Mogollons
+    That top-hawse done his best,
+  Through whippin' brush and rattlin' stones,
+    From canyon-floor to crest.
+  But ever when Bob turned and hoped
+    A limp remains to find,
+  A red-eyed lion, belly roped
+    But healthy, loped behind.
+
+    "_Oh, glory be to me" grunts he._
+      "_This glory trail is rough,_
+    _Yet even till the Judgment Morn_
+    _I'll keep this dally 'round the horn,_
+    _For never any hero born_
+      _Could stoop to holler: Nuff!_'"
+
+  Three suns had rode their circle home
+    Beyond the desert's rim,
+  And turned their star-herds loose to roam
+    The ranges high and dim;
+  Yet up and down and 'round and 'cross
+    Bob pounded, weak and wan,
+  For pride still glued him to his hawse
+    And glory drove him on.
+
+    "_Oh, glory be to me," sighs he._
+      "_He kaint be drug to death,_
+    _But now I know beyond a doubt_
+    _Them heroes I have read about_
+    _Was only fools that stuck it out_
+      _To end of mortal breath._"
+
+  'Way high up the Mogollons
+    A prospect man did swear
+  That moon dreams melted down his bones
+    And hoisted up his hair:
+  A ribby cow-hawse thundered by,
+    A lion trailed along,
+  A rider, ga'nt but chin on high,
+    Yelled out a crazy song.
+
+    "_Oh, glory be to me!" cries he,_
+      "_And to my noble noose!_
+    _Oh, stranger, tell my pards below_
+    _I took a rampin' dream in tow,_
+    _And if I never lay him low,_
+      _I'll never turn him loose!_"
+
+
+
+
+BACON
+
+
+  You're salty and greasy and smoky as sin
+    But of all grub we love you the best.
+  You stuck to us closer than nighest of kin
+    And helped us win out in the West,
+  You froze with us up on the Laramie trail;
+    You sweat with us down at Tucson;
+  When Injun was painted and white man was pale
+  You nerved us to grip our last chance by the tail
+    And load up our Colts and hang on.
+
+  You've sizzled by mountain and mesa and plain
+    Over campfires of sagebrush and oak;
+  The breezes that blow from the Platte to the main
+    Have carried your savory smoke.
+  You're friendly to miner or puncher or priest;
+    You're as good in December as May;
+  You always came in when the fresh meat had ceased
+  And the rough course of empire to westward was greased
+    By the bacon we fried on the way.
+
+  We've said that you weren't fit for white men to eat
+    And your virtues we often forget.
+  We've called you by names that I darsn't repeat,
+    But we love you and swear by you yet.
+  Here's to you, old bacon, fat, lean streak and rin',
+    All the westerners join in the toast,
+  From mesquite and yucca to sagebrush and pine,
+  From Canada down to the Mexican Line,
+    From Omaha out to the coast!
+
+
+
+
+THE LOST PARDNER
+
+
+  I ride alone and hate the boys I meet.
+    Today, some way, their laughin' hurts me so.
+  I hate the mockin'-birds in the mesquite--
+    And yet I liked 'em just a week ago.
+  I hate the steady sun that glares, and glares!
+    The bird songs make me sore.
+  I seem the only thing on earth that cares
+    'Cause Al ain't here no more!
+
+  'Twas just a stumblin' hawse, a tangled spur--
+    And, when I raised him up so limp and weak,
+  One look before his eyes begun to blur
+    And then--the blood that wouldn't let 'im speak!
+  And him so strong, and yet so quick he died,
+    And after year on year
+  When we had always trailed it side by side,
+    He went--and left me here!
+
+  We loved each other in the way men do
+    And never spoke about it, Al and me,
+  But we both _knowed_, and knowin' it so true
+    Was more than any woman's kiss could be.
+  We knowed--and if the way was smooth or rough,
+    The weather shine or pour,
+  While I had him the rest seemed good enough--
+    But he ain't here no more!
+
+  What is there out beyond the last divide?
+    Seems like that country must be cold and dim.
+  He'd miss this sunny range he used to ride,
+    And he'd miss me, the same as I do him.
+  It's no use thinkin'--all I'd think or say
+    Could never make it clear.
+  Out that dim trail that only leads one way
+    He's gone--and left me here!
+
+  The range is empty and the trails are blind,
+    And I don't seem but half myself today.
+  I wait to hear him ridin' up behind
+    And feel his knee rub mine the good old way.
+  He's dead--and what that means no man kin tell.
+      Some call it "gone before."
+  Where? I don't know, but God! I know so well
+    That he ain't here no more!
+
+[Illustration: "_I wait to hear him ridin' up behind._"]
+
+
+
+
+GOD'S RESERVES
+
+
+  One time, 'way back where the year marks fade,
+    God said: "I see I must lose my West,
+  The prettiest part of the world I made,
+    The place where I've always come to rest,
+  For the White Man grows till he fights for bread
+  And he begs and prays for a chance to spread.
+
+  "Yet I won't give all of my last retreat;
+    I'll help him to fight his long trail through,
+  But I'll keep some land from his field and street
+    The way that it was when the world was new.
+  He'll cry for it all, for that's his way,
+  And yet he may understand some day."
+
+  And so, from the painted Bad Lands, 'way
+    To the sun-beat home of the 'Pache kin,
+  God stripped some places to sand and clay
+    And dried up the beds where the streams had been.
+  He marked His reserves with these plain signs
+  And stationed His rangers to guard the lines.
+
+  Then the White Man came, as the East growed old,
+    And blazed his trail with the wreck of war.
+  He riled the rivers to hunt for gold
+    And found the stuff he was lookin' for;
+  Then he trampled the Injun trails to ruts
+  And gashed through the hills with railroad cuts.
+
+  He flung out his barb-wire fences wide
+    And plowed up the ground where the grass was high.
+  He stripped off the trees from the mountain side
+    And ground out his ore where the streams run by,
+  Till last came the cities, with smoke and roar,
+  And the White Man was feelin' at home once more.
+
+  But Barrenness, Loneliness, suchlike things
+    That gall and grate on the White Man's nerves,
+  Was the rangers that camped by the bitter springs
+    And guarded the lines of God's reserves.
+  So the folks all shy from the desert land,
+  'Cept mebbe a few that kin understand.
+
+  There the world's the same as the day 'twas new,
+    With the land as clean as the smokeless sky
+  And never a noise as the years have flew,
+    But the sound of the warm wind driftin' by;
+  And there, alone, with the man's world far,
+  There's a chance to think who you really are.
+
+  And over the reach of the desert bare,
+    When the sun drops low and the day wind stills,
+  Sometimes you kin almost see Him there,
+    As He sits alone on the blue-gray hills,
+  A-thinkin' of things that's beyond our ken
+  And restin' Himself from the noise of men.
+
+
+
+
+THE MARRIED MAN
+
+
+  There's an old pard of mine that sits by his door
+    And watches the evenin' skies.
+  He's sat there a thousand of evenin's before
+    And I reckon he will till he dies.
+  El pobre! I reckon he will till he dies,
+    And hear through the dim, quiet air
+  Far cattle that call and the crickets that cheep
+  And his woman a-singin' a kid to sleep
+    And the creak of her rockabye chair.
+
+  Once we made camp where the last light would fail
+    And the east wasn't white till we'd start,
+  But now he is deaf to the call of the trail
+    And the song of the restless heart.
+  El pobre! the song of the restless heart
+    That you hear in the wind from the dawn!
+  He's left it, with all the good, free-footed things,
+  For a slow little song that a tired woman sings
+    And a smoke when his dry day is gone.
+
+  I've rode in and told him of lands that were strange,
+    Where I'd drifted from glory to dread.
+  He'd tell me the news of his little old range
+    And the cute things his kids had said!
+  El pobre! the cute things his kids had said!
+    And the way six-year Billy could ride!
+  And the dark would creep in from the gray chaparral
+  And the woman would hum, while I pitied my pal
+    And thought of him like he had died.
+
+  He rides in old circles and looks at old sights
+    And his life is as flat as a pond.
+  He loves the old skyline he watches of nights
+    And he don't seem to care for beyond.
+  El pobre! he don't seem to dream of beyond,
+    Nor the room he could find, there, for joy.
+  "Ain't you ever oneasy?" says I one day.
+  But he only just smiled in a pityin' way
+    While he braided a quirt for his boy.
+
+  He preaches that I orter fold up my wings
+    And that even wild geese find a nest.
+  That "woman" and "wimmen" are different things
+    And a saddle nap isn't a rest.
+  El pobre! he's more for the shade and the rest
+    And he's less for the wind and the fight,
+  Yet out in strange hills, when the blue shadows rise
+  And I'm tired from the wind and the sun in my eyes,
+    I wonder, sometimes, if he's right.
+
+  I've courted the wind and I've followed her free
+    From the snows that the low stars have kissed
+  To the heave and the dip of the wavy old sea,
+    Yet I reckon there's somethin' I've missed.
+  El pobre! Yes, mebbe there's somethin' I've missed,
+    And it mebbe is more than I've won--
+  Just a door that's my own, while the cool shadows creep,
+  And a woman a-singin' my kid to sleep
+    When I'm tired from the wind and the sun.
+
+
+NOTE.--"El pobre," Spanish, "Poor fellow."
+
+
+
+
+THE OLD COW MAN
+
+
+  I rode across a valley range
+    I hadn't seen for years.
+  The trail was all so spoilt and strange
+    It nearly fetched the tears.
+  I had to let ten fences down
+    (The fussy lanes ran wrong)
+  And each new line would make me frown
+    And hum a mournin' song.
+
+    _Oh, it's squeak! squeak! squeak!_
+      _Hear 'em stretchin' of the wire!_
+    _The nester brand is on the land;_
+      _I reckon I'll retire,_
+    _While progress toots her brassy horn_
+      _And makes her motor buzz,_
+    _I thank the Lord I wasn't born_
+      _No later than I was._
+
+  'Twas good to live when all the sod,
+    Without no fence nor fuss,
+  Belonged in pardnership to God,
+    The Gover'ment and us.
+  With skyline bounds from east to west
+    And room to go and come,
+  I loved my fellow man the best
+    When he was scattered some.
+
+    _Oh, it's squeak! squeak! squeak!_
+      _Close and closer cramps the wire._
+    _There's hardly play to back away_
+      _And call a man a liar._
+    _Their house has locks on every door;_
+      _Their land is in a crate._
+    _These ain't the plains of God no more,_
+      _They're only real estate._
+
+  There's land where yet no ditchers dig
+    Nor cranks experiment;
+  It's only lovely, free and big
+    And isn't worth a cent.
+  I pray that them who come to spoil
+    May wait till I am dead
+  Before they foul that blessed soil
+    With fence and cabbage head.
+
+    _Yet it's squeak! squeak! squeak!_
+      _Far and farther crawls the wire._
+    _To crowd and pinch another inch_
+      _Is all their heart's desire._
+    _The world is overstocked with men_
+      _And some will see the day_
+    _When each must keep his little pen,_
+      _But I'll be far away._
+
+  When my old soul hunts range and rest
+    Beyond the last divide,
+  Just plant me in some stretch of West
+    That's sunny, lone and wide.
+  Let cattle rub my tombstone down
+    And coyotes mourn their kin,
+  Let hawses paw and tromp the moun'
+    But don't you fence it in!
+
+    _Oh, it's squeak! squeak! squeak!_
+      _And they pen the land with wire._
+    _They figure fence and copper cents_
+      _Where we laughed 'round the fire._
+    _Job cussed his birthday, night and morn._
+      _In his old land of Uz,_
+    _But I'm just glad I wasn't born_
+      _No later than I was!_
+
+[Illustration: "_There's land where yet no ditchers dig_
+                 _Nor cranks experiment;_
+               _It's only lovely, free and big_
+                 _And isn't worth a cent._"]
+
+
+
+
+THE PLAINSMEN
+
+
+  Men of the older, gentler soil,
+    Loving the things that their fathers wrought--
+  Worn old fields of their fathers' toil,
+    Scarred old hills where their fathers fought--
+  Loving their land for each ancient trace,
+  Like a mother dear for her wrinkled face,
+    Such as they never can understand
+    The way we have loved you, young, young land!
+
+  Born of a free, world-wandering race,
+    Little we yearned o'er an oft-turned sod.
+  What did we care for the fathers' place,
+    Having ours fresh from the hand of God?
+  Who feared the strangeness or wiles of you
+  When from the unreckoned miles of you,
+    Thrilling the wind with a sweet command,
+    Youth unto youth called, young, young land?
+
+  North, where the hurrying seasons changed
+    Over great gray plains where the trails lay long,
+  Free as the sweeping Chinook we ranged,
+    Setting our days to a saddle song.
+  Through the icy challenge you flung to us,
+  Through your shy Spring kisses that clung to us,
+    Following far as the rainbow spanned,
+    Fiercely we wooed you, young, young land!
+
+  South, where the sullen black mountains guard
+    Limitless, shimmering lands of the sun,
+  Over blinding trails where the hoofs rang hard,
+    Laughing or cursing, we rode and won.
+  Drunk with the virgin white fire of you,
+  Hotter than thirst was desire of you;
+    Straight in our faces you burned your brand,
+    Marking your chosen ones, young, young land.
+
+  When did we long for the sheltered gloom
+    Of the older game with its cautious odds?
+  Gloried we always in sun and room,
+    Spending our strength like the younger gods.
+  By the wild sweet ardor that ran in us,
+  By the pain that tested the man in us,
+    By the shadowy springs and the glaring sand,
+    You were our true-love, young, young land.
+
+  When the last free trail is a prim, fenced lane
+    And our graves grow weeds through forgetful Mays,
+  Richer and statelier then you'll reign,
+    Mother of men whom the world will praise.
+  And your sons will love you and sigh for you,
+  Labor and battle and die for you,
+    But never the fondest will understand
+    The way we have loved you, young, young land.
+
+[Illustration: "_Born of a free, world-wandering race,_
+                 _Little we yearned o'er an oft-turned sod._"]
+
+
+
+
+THE WESTERNER
+
+
+  My fathers sleep on the sunrise plains,
+    And each one sleeps alone.
+  Their trails may dim to the grass and rains,
+    For I choose to make my own.
+  I lay proud claim to their blood and name,
+    But I lean on no dead kin;
+  My name is mine, for the praise or scorn,
+  And the world began when I was born
+    And the world is mine to win.
+
+  They built high towns on their old log sills,
+    Where the great, slow rivers gleamed,
+  But with new, live rock from the savage hills
+    I'll build as they only dreamed.
+  The smoke scarce dies where the trail camp lies,
+    Till the rails glint down the pass;
+  The desert springs into fruit and wheat
+  And I lay the stones of a solid street
+    Over yesterday's untrod grass.
+
+  I waste no thought on my neighbor's birth
+    Or the way he makes his prayer.
+  I grant him a white man's room on earth
+    If his game is only square.
+  While he plays it straight I'll call him mate;
+    If he cheats I drop him flat.
+  Old class and rank are a wornout lie,
+  For all clean men are as good as I,
+    And a king is only that.
+
+  I dream no dreams of a nurse-maid state
+    That will spoon me out my food.
+  A stout heart sings in the fray with fate
+    And the shock and sweat are good.
+  From noon to noon all the earthly boon
+    That I ask my God to spare
+  Is a little daily bread in store,
+  With the room to fight the strong for more,
+    And the weak shall get their share.
+
+  The sunrise plains are a tender haze
+    And the sunset seas are gray,
+  But I stand here, where the bright skies blaze
+    Over me and the big today.
+  What good to me is a vague "may be"
+    Or a mournful "might have been,"
+  For the sun wheels swift from morn to morn
+  And the world began when I was born
+    And the world is mine to win.
+
+
+
+
+THE WIND IS BLOWIN'
+
+
+  My tired hawse nickers for his own home bars;
+    A hoof clicks out a spark.
+  The dim creek flickers to the lonesome stars;
+    The trail twists down the dark.
+  The ridge pines whimper to the pines below.
+  The wind is blowin' and I want you so.
+
+  The birch has yellowed since I saw you last,
+    The Fall haze blued the creeks,
+  The big pine bellowed as the snow swished past,
+    But still, above the peaks,
+  The same stars twinkle that we used to know.
+  The wind is blowin' and I want you so.
+
+  The stars up yonder wait the end of time
+    But earth fires soon go black.
+  I trip and wander on the trail I climb--
+    A fool who will look back
+  To glimpse a fire dead a year ago.
+  The wind is blowin' and I want you so.
+
+  Who says the lover kills the man in me?
+    Beneath the day's hot blue
+  This thing hunts cover and my heart fights free
+    To laugh an hour or two.
+  But now it wavers like a wounded doe.
+  The wind is blowin' and I want you so.
+
+
+
+
+ON BOOT HILL
+
+
+  Up from the prairie and through the pines,
+  Over your straggling headboard lines
+    Winds of the West go by.
+  You must love them, you booted dead,
+  More than the dreamers who died in bed--
+  You old-timers who took your lead
+    Under the open sky!
+
+  Leathery knights of the dim old trail,
+  Lawful fighters or scamps from jail,
+    Dimly your virtues shine.
+  Yet who am I that I judge your wars,
+  Deeds that my daintier soul abhors,
+  Wide-open sins of the wide outdoors,
+    Manlier sins than mine.
+
+  Dear old mavericks, customs mend.
+  I would not glory to make an end
+    Marked like a homemade sieve.
+  But with a touch of your own old pride
+  Grant me to travel the trail I ride.
+  Gamely and gaily, the way you died,
+    Give me the nerve to live.
+
+  Ay, and for you I will dare assume
+  Some Valhalla of sun and room
+    Over the last divide.
+  There, in eternally fenceless West,
+  Rest to your souls, if they care to rest,
+  Or else fresh horses beyond the crest
+    And a star-speckled range to ride.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Sun and Saddle Leather, by Badger Clark
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