ll young wives who go out
walking with handsome young men. Mr. Kimball's son is now no more. He
sleeps beneath the cypress, the myrtle, and the willow. The music is a
dirge by the eminent pianist for Mr. Kimball's son. He died by request.

I regret to say that efforts were made to make a Mormon of me while I
was in Utah.

It was leap-year when I was there, and seventeen young widows, the
wives of a deceased Mormon, offered me their hearts and hands. I
called on them one day, and, taking their soft white hands in mine,
which made eighteen hands altogether, I found them in tears, and I
said, "Why is this thus? What is the reason of this thusness?"

They hove a sigh--seventeen sighs of different size. They said:

"O, soon thou wilt be gonested away!"

I told them that when I got ready to leave a place I wentested.

They said, "Doth not like us?"

I said, "I doth--I doth."

I also said, "I hope your intentions are honorable, as I am a lone
child, my parents being far--far away."

Then they said, "Wilt not marry us?"

I said, "O, no, it cannot was!"

Again they asked me to marry them, and again I declined, when they
cried,

"O, cruel man! this is too much! O, too much!"

I told them that it was on account of the muchness that I
declined. . . .

(_Pointing to Panorama_)

A more cheerful view of the desert.

The wild snow-storms have left us and we have thrown our wolf-skin
overcoats aside. Certain tribes of far-western Indians bury their
distinguished dead by placing them high in air and covering them with
valuable furs. That is a very fair representation of those mid-air
tombs. Those animals are horses. I know they are, because my artist
says so. I had the picture two years before I discovered the fact.
The artist came to me about six months ago and said, "It is useless to
disguise it from you any longer, they are horses."

It was while crossing this desert that I was surrounded by a band of
Ute Indians. They were splendidly mounted. They were dressed in
beaver-skins, and they were armed with rifles, knives, and pistols.

What could I do? What could a poor old orphan do? I'm a brave man.
The day before the battle of Bull's Run I stood in the highway while
the bullets--those dreadful messengers of death--were passing all
around me thickly--in wagons--on their way to the battle-field. But
there were too many of these Injuns. There were forty of them, and
only one of me, and so I said: