Ham’ Streeter drove the Gungy stage
for more than thirty year,
An’
never lost a piece o’ mail or package in his care;
He never had no timidness, he never
had no fear,
Jest
cracked his whip an’ rolled along the grass-growed thoroughfare.
“Big Ham” they christened him for
short, he was so awful big,
He
stood six foot four inches high in his big woolen socks,
He weighed three hundred pound when
he was in his winter rig,
An’
made a most imposin’ site when perched upon his box.
He handled his four hosses like
they was a pair o’ cats,
An’
ev’rything got out the way when Streeter whooped along;
He thundered down the hillsides an’
acrost the medder flats,
An’
always whistled ‘Greenville’ when he didn’t hum a song.
He had a face as rosy as a sunset
in the fall,
His
eyes were blue as summer skies an’ twinkled like a gem,
An’ Ham he was a favorite with men
folks one and all,
But
when it came to women, well he stood O.K. with them.
Ham Streeter had a whip that measured
twenty foot or so,
An’
he could crack a chestnut burr an’ never miss his aim;
Could pick an apple from a tree
when he was on the go
Or
fetch his hosses forward ears, an’ of’un did the same.
One day when he was comin’ through
a lonely wooded place,
A
man was by the roadside in a biznez attitude,
A gun was in his fingers an’ a mask
upon his face,
He
pointed straight at Streeter an’ the driver understood.
Ham had no pistol handy, but he
wasn’t stuck, O, no,
His
thought was quick as lightnin’ an’ his deed was like a flash;
He curled that whip like lightnin’
in a most tremenjous blow,
An’
on that robber’s forehead cut a deep an’ awful gash.
He dropped right in his footprints,
then Ham Streeter bound him tight,
An’
throwed him in his wagon an’ went singing off to town,
An’ when he’d throwed the mailbags
on the P.O. steps that night
He
‘lowed he had a special piece of mail for sheriff Brown.
Ham Streeter drove the Gungy stage
for thirty years or more,
An’
sung an’ whistled on his way just like a boy of nine;
His heart was big an’ tender, an’
the children mauled him o’er,
An’
ev’rybody hailed him as he whooped her down the line.
There warn’t no rain too heavy, an’
there warn’t no wind too tough,
To
keep him from his duty or to stop the Gungy mail;
Ham Streeter e’en from natur’
wouldn’t stan’ no kind o’ fluff,
An’
in his dictionary there was no such word as fail.
One night we set in Stokes’ an’ the
snow was pilin’ high,
Three
foot upon the level an’ still comin’ thick an’ fast
“No mail tonight” says Crockett, as
he shet his weather eye,
“I’ll
bet you ha’f a dollar,” says Ezekiel Pendergrast.
“Ham Streeter never’ll make it, why
they’s seven feet o’ snow
Down
in the ‘Foxtown Ledges’,” added Crockett looking wise;
“Don’t care if there is forty, Streeter’ll
git here, that I know,”
Our
Zekiel pulled his corncob an’ awaited their replies.
An’ hour went by the usual time for
Streeter to yell “Whoa!”
An’
we was growin’ nervous, gittin’ ready to depart,
Just then there was a stampin’ an’
a shuffle in the snow,
An’
“Ham” stood in the doorway an’ we give an’ awful start.
He dropped from off his shoulder
two big mail bags on the floor,
On
’tother he’d a bundle wrapped in blankets from the storm;
It was a woman passenger, an’ there
in Stokes’ store
Ham
Streeter dropped her gently down, all safe an’ sound an’ warm!
He’d left his hosses in a shed a
mile or so behind,
An’
come the rest the way afoot a bringin’ of his freight,
“I tell you boys,” said
Pendergrast, when we had got resigned,
“Ham
fetched the mail, an’ female too, an’ then warn’t special late.”
Ham Streeter’s gone from Gungywump,
the stage coach is no more,
A
train now brings the daily mail with grunt an’ groan an’ splash;
But memory has got a spot for Ham
of days of yore
Who
whistled “Greenville” on his box, an’ cracked his mighty lash.
Dec.
3, ‘09
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