To Him Who Driv the Stage

Here’s a lyric for the man who’s “druv’ the stage,”

For the hero of the webbin’s and the whip;

Who has faced the wind and weather, fingers calloused by the leather,

And in twenty years has never lost a trip.

Here’s a tribute to the sway-back, spotted hoss,

Who has struggled up the stony, gullied hills;

And his dorsal corrugations show the nature of his rations,

—When he stops, he has to lean against the thills.

Here’s obituary notice of the stage,

Chief of hopeless and dilapidated wrecks;

With the cracked enamel awning, and its cush-

ions ripped and yawning,

And the body bumping down upon the “ex.”

Here’s alas and oh, the ancient “buff’ler robe,”

With the baldness of a golden-wedding groom;

When the rain and snow descended, then some wondrous smells were blended,

Till the stage was scented very like a tomb.

Here’s a word for all the weary miles he ploughed,

When the drifts had piled the stage-road mountain high,

When the night shut down around him and the north wind sought and found him,

And the tempest chilled his blood and blurred his eye.

There were only country letters in the bags,

And the bags were lank, and yet his word was

“Must.”

And he felt as if the nation knew his fierce determination

That he’d have the mail sacks through on time or bust.

Here’s rebuke to those contractors who have skinned

The stipends of our Uncle Sam’s star routes,

Till the men who drive the stages hardly get enough in wages

To keep their little shavers’ feet in boots.

Here’s a lyric, then, for him who drives the stage;

When you ride behind his ragged back, don’t frown,

But endure the bang and slamming, for the man who’s earned the damning

Is the contract-sharp who bid the wages down.