He Sings of Sun and Saddle Leather

A Cowboy's Prayer. 3

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.

He Sings of Sur and Saddle Leather The Story of Badger Clark by Charles Franklin Parker.

I SAT one evening at a camp fire high in a mountain retreat and heard the man, who taught me to love and understand the Great West, read poetry. It was unlike the poetry that I had read or ever heard. It was strong poetry full of robustness and yet sanely reverent. It was a man's poetry and yet held the softness and tranquility of a mother's lullaby. It sang melodies and the melodies lingered with me long after the burning embers had ceased to glow.

God of the open, though I am so simple Out in the wind I can travel with you, Noons when the hot mesas ripple and dimple Nights when the stars glitter cool in the blue. Too far you stand for the reach of my hand, Yet I can feel your big heart as it beats Friendly and warm in the sun or the storm. Are you the same as the God of the streets? Yours is the sunny blue roof I ride under; Mountain and plain are the house you have made. Sometimes it roars with the wind and the thunder But in your house I am never afraid.

He? Oh, they give him the license to live, Aim, in their ledgers, to pay him his due, Gather by herds to present him with wordsWords! What are words when my heart talks with you? God of the open, forgive an old ranger Penned among walls where he never sees through. Well do I know, though their God seems a stranger, Earth has no room for another like you. Shut out the roll of the wheels from my soul; Send me a wind that is singing and sweet Into this place where the smoke dims your face. Help me see you in the God of the street.

This and many other poems read that night I learned were lyrics and ballads by a poet of the West, Badger Clark. I was soon familiar with many of his poems and to me they translated much that I had seen and felt. Some years later I was privileged to hear Clark read his owns poems and the lilt of the saddle was real as he read-

Just a-ridin', a-ridin'Desert ripplin' in the sun,

Mountains blue along the skylineI don't envy anyone When I'm ridin'.

I lunched with him that day and found that the man typified his poetry. He had sung of his love and had been able to express in the vernacular the great message of the plains and cow country. Because to me he was the portal to appreciation of this young-old land I have been almost furious because everyone else had not shared with me this magnificent poetic heritage of our West.

BADGER CLARK came to Arizona in 1906 and remained until 1910. His Arizona home was the Cross I Quarter Circle ranch near South Pass in the Dragoon Mountains in Cochise County about twelve miles north of Tombstone. He worked for the Kendall brothers, R. L. and Harry C., who still own the outfit and operate it as the JO Bar. During the first two of these four years he was alone on the ranch and his duties and experiences there have been described in the introduction to the twelfth edition of SUN AND SADDLE LEATHER, thus, "He was given charge of a small ranch and the responsibility for a bunch of cattle just large enough to amuse

"THE MOUNTAINS." God Meets Me in the Mountains

GOD MEETS ME in the mountains when I climb alone and high, Above the wrangling sinners and the jangling devotees, Up where the tapered spruce will guide my glances to the sky And canyon walls will mutely preach their mighty homilies In hush so dense that I can sense is it my pulses drumming, Or God's light footfall coming through the silvery aspen trees?

Some way I seem to lose him in the jostle of the street, But on the twisty deer trail, as I trudge along alone, A mystic presence in the forest often stays my feetNo vision borrowed from a saint-but awesomely my own. I feel it smite my spirit white, the prophet's taintless passion, As ancient as the fashion of the pine trees's rugged cone.

For me no school can give it life, as none can deal it death. Up through the pine's red pillars and across the snow and shale, DECEMBER, 1942Where science and theology alike are but a breath, I follow marks that make the wisest book an idle tale. Why should I squint at faded print to glimpse his time-worn traces? God walks the lonely places yet, where men first found his trail.

Where pines reach up the mountains and the mountains up the blue And, tense with some expectancy, the lifting ledges frown, The high desire of the hills is my desire too, For there my spirit laughs to fling its worldly duffle down And, shaking free exultantly, calls to its great companion. God meets me in the canyon when I miss him in the town.

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 thenAll '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 warhoop, 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' 'Twasn'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 outlaws of creationEe-yow! a ridin' up the rocky trail from town!

Pioneers.

A BROKEN WAGON WHEEL that rots away beside the river, A sunken grave that dimples on the hill above the trail. The wind sweeps, the larks call, the prairie grasses quiver And sing a wistful roving song of hoof and wheel and sail. Pioneers! pioneers! you trailed on to glory. Across the circling deserts to the mountains blue and dim. New England was a night camp; Old England was a story. The new home, the true home lay out beyond the rim. You fretted at the old hearth, the kettle and the cricket, The fathers' little acres, the wood lot and the pond. Ay, better storm and famine and the arrow from the thicket, Along the road to wider lands that glimmered out beyond. Pioneers! pioneers! the quicksand where you wallowed, The rocky hills and thirsty plains they hardly won your heed. You snatched the thorny chance, broke the trail that others followed For sheer joy, for dear joy of marching in the lead. Your wagon trail is laid with steel, your tired dust is sleeping. Your spirit stalks the valleys where a restive nation teems. Your soul has never left them in their sowing and their reaping. The children of the outward trail, their eyes are full of dreams. Pioneers! Pioneers! Your children will not reckon The dangers on a misty trail no man has ever gone. They look beyond the sunset, where the better countries beckon, With old faith, with bold faith to find a wider dawn.