This cla.s.s of carryall was at once unique and supreme. It was the one indispensable link in the endless chain of evolution popular and powerful, the only public agent of the Trail and the plains until the unconquerable initiative of the lord of the world had time to steel a highway with trackage for more rapid transit. What a living link was that old overland stage! To look upon an isolated and abandoned relic of earlier pioneerdom is like standing at the marble monument of some human pivot in the mighty march of man's progress.

Before the bold and bustling railway noisily elbowed its way into the affections of travel and commerce and pushed aside the patient wagon of the nation-builders, the tens of thousands of hurried travelers enjoyed (or endured) the hospitality of its rocking thorough-braces as they, hour by hour, day after day, and night after night, and even week after week in the longer journeys, sat atop or inside this leviathan of the sand-ocean making the most rapid trip possible and under safe guidance.

Could such old hulk tell its story, could that dried-up old tongue but begin to wag again, what tales! First would come those of the men too often overworked and underappreciated, like our modern railmen, the drivers of the stage. These, as the ancient Jehu, were compelled to drive furiously on occasion, in order to keep a cramped schedule or make up for the loss of time brought about by a breakdown, a washout, or some Indian depredation. Few drivers there were who did not love their work. It came to be a saying, "Once a driver, always a driver."

The coach-and-four, or more, with booted and belted man on the throne of the swinging chariot, made every boy envious and created in him a desire to become great some day too. Eagle and d.i.c.k, Tom and Rock, Bolly and Bill understood the snap of the whip, or its more wicked crack, as well as they did the tension of the line or the word of the chief charioteer, who, with foot on the long brake-beam, regulated the speed of the often crowded vehicle down the precipitous places which to the novice looked very dangerous. But Jehu is no longer universal king. A Pharaoh who knew him not has heartlessly and definitely usurped some of his places.

In the boot of this old seaworthy craft was hauled many a load of treasure, for the gold-hungry prospector without s.e.xtant and chain surveyed the fastnesses of the hills as well as the illimitation of the prairies, and a care-taking government made a way to his camp to send him his mail. Express companies joined their traffic to that of Uncle Sam, and he of the pick and shovel became the lodestone to popular convenience. With many a load of treasure went a man known as a messenger, who sat beside the driver, carrying a sawed-off gun under his coat, ready to meet the gangster or holdup, who so often robbed both stage and pa.s.senger.

In the hold of this old coach have ridden governors, statesmen of all grades, men and women, good and better (some bad and worse); here were bridal tours, funeral parties, commercial men and gamblers, miners and prospectors, Chinamen and Indians, pleasure-seekers and labor-hunters, officers and convicts.

Men of every station In the eye of fame, On a common level Coming to the same--

is the way Saxe punningly puts it; but more of a leveler was this old coach, for there was of necessity the forceful putting of people of the most heterogeneous character together in the most h.o.m.ogeneous manner as the omnibus (most literal word here), made up its hashy load at the hand and command of the driver, whose word was unappealable law as complete as that of another captain on the high seas. Prodigal, profligate, and pure, maiden or Magdalene, millionaire or Lazarus, all were crowded together as the needs of the hour and the size of the pa.s.sengers demanded, to sit elbow to elbow, side by side to the journey's end.

Huddled thus, they traveled unchanged till the stage station was reached; here the horses were exchanged for fresher ones; the wayside inn had its tables of provisions varying and varied as the region traversed. If in the mountains, there were likely to be trout, saddle of deer, steaks of bear; but if through the sands, there was provided bacon or other coa.r.s.er fare. Usually these crowds were joking and jolly, unless tempered by something requiring more sobriety, but always optimistic, for the fellow who became grouchy the while had generally abundant occasion to repent and mend his ways.

One day, on a road not far from where this is being written, the old coach was toiling up a long mountainside; the driver was drowsy and the pa.s.sengers had exhausted their newest repertoire of stories and had lapsed into stillness such as often seizes a squeezed crowd. The horses were permitted to take their time; the dust was deep, the sun hot, and all possible stillness prevailed.

"Halt!" ordered a low voice very near the road.

The driver, Tom Myers, did not understand the command, and simply looked up, half asleep, and said to the horses, "Gid-dap!"

"Halt!" came the words again, louder and unmistakable.

Myers halted. Standing at the end of an elongated bunch of pines where he had been invisible until the heads of the horses appeared stood the highwayman, with menacing gun covering the head of the driver.

"Throw out your treasure and mail!" came the command.

"I have mail, but no treasure," said my friend Tom, as he afterward pointed out the spot and told the story. "Come and get it."

The lone robber rifled the sacks, turned the pockets of the travelers inside out, and bade them drive on without imitating Lot's wife; he was never caught.

To be sure, this is a tame story, and many readers doubtless can tell one more thrilling; but this one is true.

The stagecoach is a thing of the past, but we still have the hardy, dust-covered, mud-daubed teamster, who yet must haul the freight far back into hills where for ages there will be no railway. To these, G.o.dspeed and good cheer! They live by the Trails; they eat at the wheel; they sleep under the wagon; they are kindly and obliging even when their heavily belled teams of six to fourteen or more head of horses meet another loaded caravan in some narrow pa.s.s where the highest engineering ability is needed to get by in safety; and they never leave a fellow-traveler in distress.

AMONG THE HILLS

To him who in the love of Nature, holds Communion with her visible forms, she speaks A various language;...

The hills Rock-ribbed, and ancient as the sun.

--_Bryant_.

Not vainly did the early Persian make His altar the high places and the peak Of earth-o'ergazing mountains, and thus take A fit and unwalled temple, there to seek The Spirit, in whose honor shrines are weak, Upreared of human hands.... compare Columns and idol-dwellings, Goth or Greek With Nature's realm of worship.

--_Byron_.

THE MOTHER DEER

The ragged sky-line high in air Sits boundary to sight And seems to end the world; But topping it by way well worn by braver pioneer, A fertile, home-filled dale is found Where love holds warm, And schools and churches dot the land.

But while the slow-drawn old stagecoach With load of dust-clad travelers Crawls over jolting, stone-filled ruts, The puffing beasts, sweat-covered, Winding in and out among the stately pines (Where friendly Nature spreads her yellow moss O'er bleaching arms long since deprived of life), May now be seen a mother deer Half hidden 'mong the sloping boughs; Alert, ears high, eyes wide, body so tense And motionless. In silence all The pa.s.sengers admire the instinct-love Which not affrights the spotted babe Fast sleeping at her feet.

"There are no guns aboard!" says one.

"But if there were, how could one's heart Be hard enough to murder mother-love?"

Said I.

THE SHEPHERD

The tired shepherd stands among his ewes That with their lambs are unafraid Of him and keen-eyed dogs; They crouch close in about his feet Whene'er the coyote's cry Or bear's low growl Falls tingling on the timid ear.

Himself thrusts gun to elbow-place And peers amid the dust-dressed sage And scented chaparral so dense, To glimpse the fiery eyeb.a.l.l.s Of the prowler of the hills; While all awatch the faithful collies stand Prepared to fend e'en with their lives The young and helpless not their own.

THE FEATHERED DRUMMER

The wooded thicket holds a drum.

The air in springtime afternoons Is filled with sharp staccato notes Whose echoes clear reverberate From precipice and timbered hills.

No fifer plays accompaniment; No pageant proud or marching throng Keeps step to this deep pulsing ba.s.s Whose sullen solo booms afar.

A double challenge is this gage, A gauntlet flung for love or war; As strutting barnyard chanticleer Defies his neighboring lord: So calls this crested pheasant-king For combat or for peace.

The meek brown mate upon her nest Feels happy and secure While thus her lord by deed and word Displays his woodland bravery And guards their little home.

MORMONDOM

That fellow seems to possess but one idea, and that is the wrong one.--_Samuel Johnson_.

Utah is harder than China.--_Bishop Wiley_.

Utah is the hardest soil into which the Methodist plowshare was ever set.--_Bishop Fowler_.

THE TRAIL OF THE MORMON

By the Trail had gone Jason Lee, in 1834, to plant the st.u.r.dy oak of Methodism in the Willamette Valley and the north Pacific Coast. His task was n.o.bly done; the developments of to-day attest the wisdom of the church in sending him and his coequal coadjutors, Daniel Lee, Cyrus Shepherd, and P. L. Edwards.