He was born on January 1, 1883 in Albia (Iowa). His family moved to Dakota Territory, where his father served as a Methodist. There were interesting citizens, many made contributions to the state’s cultural growth. South Dakota is one of those western states, which were overrun by gold-hungry whites. Since no whites occupied the Black Hills (before the gold of 1876), none of the characters on Mount Moriah, in Deadwood, were natives. They were merchants, ranchers and school-teachers. Charles Badger Clark was the youngest son of a Methodist minister, who inherited the speaking voice of his father. During his life he achieved recognition as a western poet (the title of South Dakota’s first poet laureate).
SATURDAY NIGHT – Out from the ranch on a Saturday night, riding a hawse that’s a shooting star, close on the flanks of the flying daylight, racing with dark for the J L Bar. Fox-trot and canter will do for the day. It’s a gallop, my love, when I’m riding your way. Up the arroyo the tripping hoofs beat, flinging the hindering gravel wide. Now your light glimmers across the mesquite, glimpsed from the top of a rocky divide. Down through a draw where the shadows are gray I’m coming, my darling, I’m riding your way. West, where the sky is a-blushing afar, matching your cheeks as the daylight dies West, where the shine of a glittering star hints of the light I will find in your eyes, bight-birds are passing the signal to say: “He’s coming, my lady, he’s riding your way.” Hoof beats are measuring seconds so fast, clicking them off with an easy rhyme. Minutes will grow into months at the last, mebbe to bring us a marrying time. Life would be singing and work would be play if every night I was riding your way.
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