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Date: 04.12.2017

The Range Rider (1951)

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TV Westerns - Range Rider| FiftiesWeb

Rider of the high trails, equally at ease astride Pegasus or the Roan Cayuse. There is no author attributed in that instance, either. You can see the poem in that Life magazine here , in an edition that has been digitized by Google Book Search.

Thanks to Jeri Dobrowski for the book jacket image; she has a rare copy with a jacket in her collection. Other states were carved or born Texas grew from hide and horn. Other states are long and wide, Texas is a shaggy hide. Dripping blood and crumpled hair; Some fat giant flung it there, Laid the head where valleys drain, Stretched its rump along the plain.

Other soil is full of stones, Texans plow up cattle-bones. Herds are buried on the trail, Underneath the powdered shale; Herds that stiffened like the snow, Where the icy northers go. Other states have built their halls, Humming tunes along the walls. Texans watched the mortar stirred, While they kept the lowing herd. Stamped on Texan wall and roof Gleams the sharp and crescent hoof. High above the hum and stir Jingle bridle rein and spur.

Other states were made or born, Texas grew from hide and horn. O cruel road to Texas, How many hearts you broke Before you gave to Texas The rugged strength of oak! Frank Dobie writes, "The map of Texas looks somewhat like a roughly skinned cowhide spread out on the ground, the tail represented by the tapering peninsula at the mouth of the Rio Grande, the broad head by the Panhandle. In , her book-length poem about Texas was published, The Round-Up.

She had two other books of poetry published, and her work was included in many anthologies. Berta Hart Nance was also an accomplished singer and violinist, and the Old Jail Art Center in Albany, Texas, near her birthplace, includes correspon dence, newspaper articles, her violin, and other materials.

That book also contains her poem, "The Road to Texas," from which the book takes it title. The look upon his youthful face Was sinister and dark, And the pistol in his scabbard Had never missed its mark. The moonlight on the river Was bright as molten ore The ripples broke in whispers Along the sandy shore.

The breath of prairie flowers Had made the night-wind sweet, And a mockingbird made merry In a lacy-leafed mesquite. Death looked toward the river, He looked toward the land He took his broad sombrero off And held it in his hand, And death felt something touch him He could not understand. Death drew his hand across his brow, As if to move a stain, Then slowly turned his pinto horse And rode away again.

A review of that book by C. Montgomery was a farmer, stockman and poet.

When he was fifty, he married poet Vaida Stewart Boyd and they settled in Dallas. They established a publishing house, issued a monthly magazine first called Kaleidoscope, then Kaleidograph , and published more than books of poetry. They are mustering cattle on Brigalow Vale Where the stock-horses whinny and stamp, And where long Andy Ferguson, you may go bail, Is yet boss on a cutting-out camp. Are the pikers as wild and the scrubs just as dense In the brigalow country as when There was never a homestead and never a fence Between Brigalow Vale and The Glen?

Do the yard-wings re-echo the row Of stockwhips and hoofbeats? And what sort of coon Is there riding old Harlequin now? A demon to handle! A devil to ride! I remember the boss—how he chuckled and laughed When they yarded the brown colt for me: Morant worked as a drover and earned his nickname for his skill with horses.

You can read more of his poetry at an Australian site here. The film, Breaker Morant, brought his story to a wide audience. There are a number of books about him, and about his war experiences, including Scapegoats of the Empire: I have seen them ride the ponies In the sage-brush and the bad land; I have seen them buck and beller And turn almost inside out, While the rider sat the saddle And watched each snaky motion, While the others yelled "Stay with him" As loud as they could shout.

And often on the round-up I have watched the cayuse antics, When the devil got the upper-hand— And I know he crawled inside, And when you hit the saddle You had just one thought before you: To hook your spurs into the cinch And settle down and ride. But the wildest, meanest horses That ever have been ridden Or ever have been saddled, Either here or anywhere, As they rode and scratched them They never once pulled leather; They just quirted and hollered And never once turned hair.

But when you needed riders And was out upon the circle, They were a bunch of bone-heads And could not ride at all. Whilt, from Mountain Memories, James W. Kessinger Books has a reprint edition of Mountain Memories. There is an earlier photo of Whilt posted on a site here. The accident happened on the Betts ranch, where Whilt was engaged in trapping for the government. Doctors Houston, Cockrell and Conway were notified, and Dr. Conway at once started for the ranch. Meantime, a car from the Betts ranch started for Kalispell with the wounded man, and was met by Dr.

The patient was transferred to Dr. It was found that the bullet, a 22 long, had perforated the liver, passed through the stomach and lodged in the back. The patient stood the operation well, and Dr. Houston states today that there is every indication of a rapid recovery. It is said that Whilt placed the gun on his saddle when he started out to make the rounds of his traps, and in attempting to remove it the gun was discharged.

This is accounted for by the fact that the safety catch had become worn and frequently failed to work. Whilt, born about , died March 10, in Flathead County, age In submitting this little booklet to the public I am doing so for the simple reason that every season when I arrive in the park my suitcase had not stopped rocking before some dude asked me why I did not put some of the park vocabulary into print so they could take back home some of the western phrases so they could show their friends to just what extent the English language has been roped, abused hog-tied and even murdered.

So my pen started leaking and this is what leaked out. There are two versions of a dude wrangler. One is that no man can wrangle dudes without going wrong in his bean. The other is, he has to be squirrel food for at least that long before he will even attempt the job of dude wrangler. But the last ruling in the park has helped the guide to a very great extent, viz: So, with the last gleam of intelligence left in this weak but overworked brain of mine, I am going to set down a few facts about wrangling dudes, before my candle sputters out into utter darkness.

First of all, a guide must dress Western—big hat, chaps, spurs, tough rag and what have you—be mannerly, courteous and, in fact, he should show a glint of human intelligence even though he is not housebroke.

In the case of manners, that never bothered me individually as mine were as good as new, never having used them.

As to looks, which has been a great help to me, for when a dude looked at me he or she could never exactly tell just whether I was laughing or crying. Being a beautiful child at birth, I was the envy of the whole countryside.

In fact, the neighbors used to borrow me when they went visiting, locking their own offspring in the cellar. But at the age of four a large wart appeared on my face.

My parents sent for a remedy, but after using two bottles my face disappeared but to my sorrow the wart stayed. Being the son of western pioneers, I just grew up.

Sometimes the grazing was powerful short and they painted my legs green and I was roamed all over the ponds and marshes, taken care of by snipes.

The other children, younger than myself, were cared for in a different manner. Red rags were tied on their heads and they were set up on fence posts and were fed by the woodpeckers. So growing up thusly fitted me for my present occupation. And these are excerpts: One dude asked him if people fell off there very often. There was a time when they used long horses in the park, three saddles to a horse, but the park trail-makers put in the switchbacks on the trails and the long horses could not get their hind legs around the corners, so the horse company had to get shorter horses.

403 - Forbidden

Speaking of sheep, we have the usual bighorn. Some old rams have horns so large they are unable to carry them them naturally.

They have conceived the idea of putting two small wheels under their chins so as to support the weight of their horns. In winter they substitute runners in place of the wheels.

The Range Rider (TV Series 1951–1953) - IMDbPro

We have two kinds of sheep. Every spring we have to round up the latter and shear them, for it is the iron sheep that furnishes the steel wool. Having spent the major part of my life in the Rocky Mountains as timber cruiser, packer, trapper and guide, I have learned to love their beauty and grandeur; enjoy their solitude and feel that they are a part of me.

Where the denizens of the wild roam unmolested as they did for ages past, when man first came to this Virgin Paradise. Where camp-fires still glow at eventide,—their smoke wreaths adding incense to the freshness of air. While my words cannot express even in one detail the beauty as I see it, I truly and sincerely hope these few humble rhymes will paint in your mind a mental picture that time itself may impair but not erase.

With these thoughts ever vividly before me, I dedicate this book to the Rocky Mountains and their "wonder child"—the Glacier National Park.