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Now Mr. Boomer Johnson was a gettin' old in spots, But you don't expect a bad man to go wrastlin' pans and pots; But he'd done his share of killin' and his draw was gettin' slow, S…
Henry Herbert Knibbs was born to American parents on October 24, 1874, in Clifton, Ontario (later known as Niagara Falls). He became fascinated by the fiddle and learned to play at an early age. He suffered from a respiratory ailment for most of his life. Knibbs never worked as a cowboy, but he wrote western short stories, novels and poems. His father, George Knibbs, was a bank clerk at Pierce, Howard and Co., Bankers in Niagara Falls, Ontario. Eventually the company failed, casting the family into hard times. Knibbs spent summer vacations at his grandparents' farm in Pennsylvania. On the farm, he developed a love of horses nearly as great as that for his fiddle. Though he never earned a college degree, Knibbs attended Woodstock College and Bishop Ridley College in Ontario and studied English at Harvard. Leaving college, he spent two years hoboing in the American Midwest. In 1899, he married Ida Julia Pfeifer and went to work for the railroad in Buffalo, N.Y. In 1910, he moved to California and wrote his first Western novel, Lost Farm Camp. He then left on a long trip through New Mexico, Arizona and California to soak up local color for his writing. In 1929, Knibbs left his wife to live with Turbesé Lummis Fiske. Ida refused to grant him a divorce and wrote him daily begging him to return home. Turbesé, whose father, Charles Lummis, was a Western writer, influenced and edited much of his later work. Knibbs wrote 13 novels and six books of poems. His novels are out of print and largely forgotten, but his poetry remains popular in cowboy poet circles. Among his best remembered poems are Boomer Johnson and When the Ponies Come to Drink. Seven films made between 1919 and 1930 were based on his stories and novels. Knibbs career as a Western write came to a sudden halt when he mistakenly gave the period of a mare's gestation as nine months in a story published in the Saturday Evening Post. He was crucified by his peers for the mistake. He certainly knew that the correct period was 11 months, but this slip of the pen cost him his writing career, as he was never able to get another piece published. He died in San Diego, California, on May 17, 1945, from respiratory illness.)
Henry Herbert Knibbs şiirleri
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Oh, my heart it is just achin' For a little bit of bacon A hunk of bread, a little mug of brew I'm tired of seein' scenery…
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Sing me a home beyond the stars, and if the song be fair, I'll dwell awhile with melody--as long as mortal dare. But sing me to the earth again on wide, descending wings, That I ma…
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My pony knickers at the corral bars, The fog drifts landward from the evening sea: The trail we rode is dim beneath the stars... Do you remember, friend who rode with me?…
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Never twice in the world you find, A lad whose heart is the gold you spend, And his free hand of your heart, in kind, When the joy of each is to give, not lend:…
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Bought him of the Navajos—shadow of a pony, Over near the Largo draw, runnin' up and down; Twenty pesos turned the trick—broke me cold and stony; Then I set to figure as I rambled…
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Little Bronc, I'm goin' to ride you—you a-hidin' in between Blue and Baldy! Think you're bluffin' With your snortin' and your puffin'; Quit! and save yourself a roughin',…
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Make me no grave within that quiet place Where friends shall sadly view the grassy mound, Politely solemn for a little space, As though the spirit slept beneath the ground.…
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My pony was standin' thinkin' deep; Can hosses think? Well, I reckon so! And I was squattin', half asleep, When into the firelight stepped a Bo.…
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Come, all you young waddies, I'll sing you a song, Stand back from the wagon--stay where you belong: I've heard you observin' I'm fussy and slow While you're punchin' cattle and I'…
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Twenty abreast down the golden street, ten thousand riders marched; Bow-legged boys in their swinging chaps, all clumsily keeping time; And the Angel Host to the lone, last ghost t…
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'Save your hoss for the hills ahead,' is the cowboy's placid song. While his clear eyes follow the twinkling train as the Titan speeds along; He grins as the tail lights die in spa…
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On, out in the West where the riders are ready, They sing an old song and they tell an old tale, And its moral is plain: Take it easy, go steady, While riding a horse on the Malibu…
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Chinook, you're free: there's plenty pasture there: Your gallant years have earned you more ... and yet .. Go on and graze! Don't stand like that and stare!…
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My dam was a mustang white and proud, My sire was as black as a thunder cloud; I was foaled on the mesas cold and high, Where the strong ones live and the weak ones die,…
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