Badger Clark was born at Albia, Iowa, in 1883. He moved to Dakota Territory at the age of three months and now lives in the Black Hills of South Dakota. Clark is one of the few men who have lived to see their work become part of folk-lore; many of his songs having been adapted and paraphrased by the cowboys who have made them their own. A version of one of his poems (“The Glory Trail”), after wide circulation among the ranchers and cow-punchers, was printed as an example of anonymous folk-song in _Poetry; A Magazine of Verse_ under the title “High-Chin Bob”—and credited to “Author Unknown.” _Sun and Saddle Leather_ (1915) and _Grass-Grown Trails_ (1917) are the expression of a native singer; happy, spontaneous and seldom “literary.” There is wind in these songs; the smell of camp-smoke and the colors of prairie sunsets rise from them. Free, for the most part, from affectations, Clark achieves an unusual ease in his use of the local vernacular. THE GLORY TRAIL[44] ’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’ve 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!_’”