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The Mail-Changes

Edward S. Sorenson

Since now no teams in trim array
    Go jogging o’er the ranges,
Along the roads to Faraway
That coaches travelled night and day,
    I miss the old mail-changes.

A sapling-yard was by the creek,
    A hatter’s lonely station,
Where weary horses twice a week
Gave place to others fresh and sleek,
    And found emancipation.

A bark-roofed hut beside it stood,
    Or just a tent and galley;
And all around the scented wood
Flung incense over many a rood
    Of winding ridge and valley.

The groom, who knew his tricky route
    In every kind of weather,
With none his pleasure to dispute,
Made friends and pets of bird and brute
    Of any fur and feather.

A coaching team his only care,
    Except some broken traces,
And with slow-footed hours to spare,
He watched the long bush thoroughfare
    Ofttimes for human faces.

So rovers of the wide ways found
    A welcome at the changes,
And squatted on the grassy ground
What time the news and yarns went round
    Of run and road and ranges.

The fire-glow in the misty night
    Among the trees was cheery;
And often was that friendly light,
Sure-guiding like a beacon bright,
    A haven for the weary.

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