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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: 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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