We always ran out when we heard it come —
The chuck-a-luck of the coach and the thrum
Of hooves — barnboys, drummers, chambermaid —
For it was a sight as it swooped down the grade
At the end of the old Calapooia trail;
The yellow-wheeled stage of the Limited Mail,
Harness and buckles and doubletrees spun
Of silver and jet in the setting sun;
The three pairs of horses as galloping-white
As foam on a mountain torrent at night.
We could soon see the driver — he was belted to place
On the high rocking seat of the thoroughbrace —
Rising to give them the silk; heard him shout
As the length of his thirty-foot lash cracked out
Over withers and haunches! How the pebbles sprayed
From the pounding feet at the fusillade!
As if they were shod, not with iron, but with wings,
The leads skimmed the road, the lather-flecked swings
Pressing them close, and riding their hocks
The lumbering wheels striking fire from the rocks.
And always we cheered when they whirled through the gate
To the steps of the station with never a wait
Nor lessening of speed — the sudden stop peeling
Half moons in the sod, the brakeshoe squealing,
Barnboys already unhooking the traces
Before the passengers stepped from their places,
While the guard leapt off the boot with a gun
Packing the mailsacks and " dust " on the run,
The driver lighting a big black cigar,
Mustaches a-twirl, strode in to the bar
And the keeper with many a jovial sally
Boomed out a welcome to Umpqua valley.
Then the station door slammed to on the din —
The Six-Horse Limited Mail was in!