Harry Herbert Knibbs was born at Niagara Falls, October 24, 1874. After a desultory schooling, he attended Harvard for three years when he was thirty-four. “Somebody said I took honors in English,” says Knibbs, “but I never saw them.” He wrote his first book, _Lost Farm Camp_, a novel, as a class exercise. Half a dozen volumes followed, _Overland Red_ (1914) and _Tang of Life_ (1917) being the most popular. In 1911, Knibbs settled in Los Angeles, California, where he has lived ever since. In _Riders of the Stars_ (1916) and _Songs of the Trail_ (1920), Knibbs carries on the tradition of Bret Harte and the Pike County Ballads. High-hearted verse this is, with more than an occasional flash of poetry. To the typical Western breeziness, Knibbs adds a wider whimsicality, a rough-shod but nimble imagination. THE VALLEY THAT GOD FORGOT Out in the desert spaces, edged by a hazy blue, Davison sought the faces of the long-lost friends he knew: They were there, in the distance dreaming Their dreams that were worn and old; They were there, to his frenzied seeming, Still burrowing down for gold. Davison’s face was leather; his mouth was a swollen blot, His mind was a floating feather, in The Valley That God Forgot; Wild as a dog gone loco, Or sullen or meek, by turns, He mumbled a “Poco! Poco!” And whispered of pools and ferns. Gold! Why his, for the finding! But water was never found, Save in deep caverns winding miles through the underground: Cool, far, shadowy places Edged by the mirrored trees, When—Davison saw the faces! And fear let loose his knees. There was Shorty who owed him money, and Billing who bossed the crowd; And Steve whom the boys called “Sunny,” and Collins who talked so loud: Miguel with the handsome daughter, And the rustler, Ed McCray; Five—and they begged for water, And offered him gold, in pay. Gold? It was never cheaper. And Davison shook his head: “The price of a drink is steeper out here than in town,” he said. He laughed as they mouthed and muttered Through lips that were cracked and dried; The pulse in his ear-drum fluttered: “I’m through with the game!” he cried. “I’m through!” And he knelt and fumbled the cap of his dry canteen Then, rising, he swayed and stumbled into a black ravine: His ghostly comrades followed, For Davison’s end was near, And a shallow grave they hollowed, When up from it, cool and clear Bubbled the water—hidden a pick-stroke beneath the sand; Davison, phantom-ridden, scooped with a shaking hand ... Davison swears they made it, The Well where we drank to-day. Davison’s game? He played it And won—so the town-folk say: