BY SARA KEABLES HUNT.
The postman in our Western lands is a common sight to city children; they meet him at every corner, jostle against him on their way to school, and spring for the messages which he brings from far-off friends and distant relatives. No child but has a welcome for the postman.
THE MAIL-RIDER OF THE DESERT.
But the carrier whose strange and picturesque figure is shown in the illustration on the following page has but little resemblance to our daily visitor on his hurrying round through our crowded cities. His route is the desert—a dangerous, solitary, and fatiguing journey. Borne by his lithe dromedary over its arid wastes, he paces the desert track, with no pause in the nine days' travel, save when at some oasis he stops to drink the cool water and to refresh his tired camel. At the edge of the desert he leaves his precious load, taking in exchange the return mail. He seldom penetrates into the cities' depths and crowded bazars, or rests in the fragrant gardens of Damascus, but jogs backward and forward over the dreary waste, loaded with messages from the outer world, and yet indifferent to them all, except to deliver each one in safety.
I wonder if he never wearies of his monotonous existence, or sighs for some excitement in his silent journey, and for some companionship besides that of his enduring steed?
I could never see this express-courier start forth on his desert journey without being reminded of some lone mariner setting sail on a wide sea for some distant port. The desert is so much like the ocean, with its boundless expanse, the same unbroken curve of the horizon, the same tracklessness and solitude. So the camel is often called "the ship of the desert." Yet monotonous as the journey of this postman seems, he has to be continually on the alert. It is not always silent meditation under the burning sky and changeless heavens. There are hidden dangers lurking on every side—plundering Arabs and terrible sand-storms. Many a traveller is buried under the fierce drifts, suffocated by the driving sand sleet.
As this singular postman swings on his way under the coppery sky, his Syrian song fills the silence of the desert noon; the high shrill notes tremble and ring in the air in a dreary strain, harmonizing with the sultry, unchanging landscape. The camel steps more quickly to the music, but the rider seems lost in a deep reverie.
No monk in his cell is more isolated than this old letter-carrier, so shut out from the world, so separated from all human kind, yet carrying messages of such lively interest.