The New Bloomfield, Pa. times. (New Bloomfield, Pa.) 1877-188?, 1878-01-22
the OLD MAN AND the FAST MAIL.

borrow your chair for awhile,
To cit by your Office window, where the golden
sunbeams smile,
For I've travelled some miles since morning,
although am old and gray,
To see Uncle Sans pet hobby, the fast white
mail, to-day.
How Time keeps ringing his changes II ain't
many years ago,
Since / travelled this same road, youngster, in
a stage. coach, old and slow.
There wasn't sign of railroad, nor tele-
graph pole In sight,
And the earth lay asleep In mantle of snow
flakes, pure and white.
A little log cabin yonder, peeped out at the
edge of the woods,
Like the uut.brown face of q maiden from
under a snow-whlte hood,
And there we unhtched our horses, In twilight
cold and gray,
To rest in the brown log cabin till the dawn of
another day.
Then came here again the next Summer, when
the meadows with grass were green,
When the birds In the oaks were slngln', and
the fish were at play In the stream,
And built, in little clearing, way yonder
over the hill,
A cabin o. logs and brushwood, and, stranger,
| live there still.
But the cabin o. logs has vanished, and there
stands in its place to-day
A mansion of brick and granite, while over
across the way
My lad has built him a cottage, cottage he
calls his own,
That discounts the big brick mansion where
the old man isn't at home.
For old dogs don't learn new habits, and an
old mans hard to please,
1t amt easy to rest from labor when one isn't
used to ease;
Yet don't know as I'd be willin' to toll in
the fields again,
A workln' for paper dollars and KILN both
heart and brain.
Once week we got our mails, then, folks
wasn't hurry to go,
They didn't think that the stage-coach was
lumberin', old and slow,
And you couldn't have made us believe 1t, If
you'd argued an hour more,
They'd be carrying mails by steam power, and
throwin' 'em off at the door.
Now cars run over their roadways with the
speed of gust of wind,
They've left the lumbern' etage-coach and the
old-fashioned ways behind,
And they tell me, to lands far westward, where
the eagle has left his trail
Uncle Sam is sendin' EN- letters by way of
fast white mail.
So I've driven from home since morning, al
though am old and gray,
To see Uncle Sans pet hobby, the fast white
mail, to-day;
For in twenty-six hours, I've heard 1t, and it
beats an old man like me,
They've the ocean mail a readln' by "the
queen o. the inland seas
Well, time is changin' surely, one is never too
old to learn,
Though there may be flaws in the marble that
my old eyes can't discern,
Yet Pm tired of the Deacon's croakin', and l
wish he'd "give us a rest 70
Gods runnin' the world, l reckon, and He
doeth what seems the best.
Now I'll move my chair here, youngster, and
sit where the bright sun smiles,
IT'LL hear on the curve, down yonder, the
whistle o. old John Miles,
For they tell me he's runnin' an engine on the
fast white mail to-day,
And he runs like wild young fellow, If his
hair is turnin' gray"
The old man sat by the window till he saw
o'er the curve below
The smoke from the engine rising like the
wings of great black crow,
Then he crept with gait unsteady across the
office floor,
And stood like statue watching THE train
from the open door.
1t came like great white arrow tipped with
barb o. steel,
spurning the road beneath 1t with the touch of
its iron-shod heel,
Catching the mail while passing with de-
mon g outstretched hand,
To be scattered in showers of blessings afar
o'er the peaceful land.
Miles, with his hand on the lever, looked out
as he passed the door,
Looked out at the sunbeams stealing down
toward the lakes green shore,
Then pulled the throttle wide open, ,and seemed
with his air to say,
"Uncle Sam, have run like lightning with
your fast white mail to-day !"
The old man looked in wonder, as they caught
the mail below;
Aye! time is FAST" he muttered, " for that