Chapter 27.

Good-bye to England—A Poem—The Master's Question.

I continued to labor pleasantly with Elder Howard O. Spencer until I was released to return home. I remember the sad look that rested on Howard's face when I said goodbye to him; a man of sorrows, but as true and good a man as ever lived.

I borrowed ten dollars of John H. Miles, and sold him my valise for five dollars. Then I bought a suit of clothes that served me until I returned home.

My last Sunday in England I spent with Elder Jacobs. We attended a Methodist open-air meeting on May Hill. There were four local ministers present. They mistook me for one of Spurgeon's elders from London, and invited me to preach. With joy, I accepted the chair; but soon they ordered me down; and when I refused to come down, they tried to pull me down. I appealed to the people, who sustained me. The ministers left in disgust. I talked for one hour on the restoration of the Gospel, then called President Jacobs to the chair, and he bore a strong testimony to the truth of what I had said.

It was thus that I closed my missionary labors in England.

When I came home, I brought Mother Jaynes, the old lady whom I first saw in a dream, while sleeping in a wooden-bottomed chair. Just before starting for home, I received a kind letter from my father-in-law, William M. Black. Brother Black had forgotten my address, and so sent the letter to the Liverpool office. By mistake it had been sent from there into Scotland. It traveled thence all over Scotland and England, and finally found me on the streets of London. The envelope was so worn that a ten-dollar greenback bill was plainly visible, and was kept in its place only by a tow string tied around the envelope. The money, reaching me in that way seemed a miracle, and I resolved to do a charitable deed with it.

At Michael, Dean Hill, in the Bristol conference, lived a family by the name of Burris. The family consisted of father and mother, a son Absalom, nineteen; Emma, seven; and Kissy, three years of age. The father and son were not in the Church; but the home had been a home for our elders for twenty years. When I was there, the elders had been mobbed so much that open-air meetings had been discontinued.

President Joseph F. Smith wrote me to persist in holding them; but the Saints refused to accompany me, so I went at it alone. Only little Emma Burris went with me, and several times I felt that all that kept the mob from doing violence to me, was the presence of that innocent little girl clinging so trustingly to me, and I loved her for it. I wrote to Mr. Burris, and asked him to let me bring Emma home with me. He consented; and with that ten dollars I emigrated her to Salt Lake City. Upon my arrival at father's, her uncles, Joseph and Thomas Morgan, came to see her. They begged me to let her stav with them. I consented on condition that they would bring the family to Zion. They promised to do so, and they kept their covenant.

Upon reaching Zion, Emma's father and Brother Absalom joined the Church and Brother Burris died a faithful worker in the Logan temple. At this writing, 1916, Appie's son is filling a mission in the southern states. What a rich harvest from so small a sowing! And the end of the fruitage is not yet.

How much good I have done, I leave to the Lord. My life has been humble, but active. Starting in for myself without a second coat to my back, I have supported a large family and given much of my time to preaching the Gospel and doing pioneer work.

To my wives and children, for their loyalty to me, I owe much,—more indeed than I may ever repay. In this brief writing, I have endeavored to show that they suffered much, and yet always did a noble, sacrificing part. No man ever had a better family. My father, in his declining years, helped me liberally, and I love his memory. Upon my return from England, I received a hearty welcome from my parents, my family, and my brothers, sisters, and friends.

My wife Albina, and son Silas, met me at Salt Lake City with a team. On our arrival at Orderville, the band came out and gave us a serenade and welcome. I associated with the Orderville organization seven years; laboring to the best of my ability for the good of all, and there was joy in that labor.

After the death of President Brigham Young, the Order was left to stand upon its own merits. At least President Taylor seemed to take but little interest in our affairs. The Orderville people were emerging from the deep poverty they at first had to contend with, and prosperity was coming to them. But with plenty came a spirit of speculation, and speculation brought disunion. I therefore withdrew from them, careful not to do them any wrong.

I moved next to Loa, where my home should be today, 1888; but because I will not put away wives that I married twenty years ago, when there was no law making it a crime, I am compelled to seek the "underground," or else be humiliated by imprisonment, which I will not submit to, if I can possibly avoid it.

One day, while sitting under a tree, writing this journal and watching my sheep, I found in an old newspaper that my dinner was wrapped in, the following verse, with the heading:

"Have ye looked for sheep in the desert,For those that have missed their way?Have ye been in the wild, waste placesWhere the lost and wandering stray?Have ye trodden the lonely highway—The foul and darksome street?It may be ye'd see in the gloaming,The prints of my wounded feet."

To this I made answer in the following verses, which may not unfitly conclude the account of my missionary labors:

Yes, I have sought in the desertFor the sheep that have wandered afar.I have followed the trail o'er the mountainBy the light of the polar star.I have climbed the steep wild pali,Thousands of miles away;I have sought in rain and sunshine,For the sheep that have gone astray.With footsteps faint and weary,I have threaded the darksome street,I have entered the lowly dwelling,Asking for a crust to eat.I have walked from eve till morning,Facing a pelting storm,Earnestly seeking to gather the sheepInto the Master's barn.I have folded home to my bosom,The tender, trembling lamb.I have carried on my shoulder,The weak and helpless dam.I have cried with a voice of kindnessTo the wayward, heedless throng;I have checked the dogs that in blindnessWere worrying the wild and strong.I have left my home and loved ones—The mother who gave me birth—And wandered, weak and lonely,Half way round the earth.From Hawaii's shore to London,My voice by night and day,Has called, as a shepherd's warningTo the sheep that had gone astray.I have used my strength and substance,I have given the little I had,Ever willing to lend a handTo the sinning, and the sad.And though my strength is failing,And I often stumble and fall,Yet would I hunt the desert again,At the blessed Savior's call.For I have seen the prints of His feet,When the spirit rested on me;And when the sheep are gathered, I trust,In the Master's fold to be.

With footsteps faint and weary,I have threaded the darksome street,I have entered the lowly dwelling,Asking for a crust to eat.I have walked from eve till morning,Facing a pelting storm,Earnestly seeking to gather the sheepInto the Master's barn.

I have folded home to my bosom,The tender, trembling lamb.I have carried on my shoulder,The weak and helpless dam.I have cried with a voice of kindnessTo the wayward, heedless throng;I have checked the dogs that in blindnessWere worrying the wild and strong.

I have left my home and loved ones—The mother who gave me birth—And wandered, weak and lonely,Half way round the earth.From Hawaii's shore to London,My voice by night and day,Has called, as a shepherd's warningTo the sheep that had gone astray.

I have used my strength and substance,I have given the little I had,Ever willing to lend a handTo the sinning, and the sad.And though my strength is failing,And I often stumble and fall,Yet would I hunt the desert again,At the blessed Savior's call.For I have seen the prints of His feet,When the spirit rested on me;And when the sheep are gathered, I trust,In the Master's fold to be.

In Memory of My Wife, Albina.—"By Their Fruits Ye Shall Know Them."

In 1858, when I was returning from my first mission to the Sandwich Islands, I met in San Francisco, Lorenzo Sawyer, the attorney-general of the state of California. He was my cousin on my mother's side. At that time the Mormon people were under a cloud of displeasure from the people and government of the United States. Acting upon misrepresentation, and without investigation, President Buchanan had sent an army of two thousand five hundred men under General Albert S. Johnston, to put down the alleged Mormon rebellion in Utah, as already narrated elsewhere in this journal. My cousin, seemingly wishing to snatch me from the doom overshadowing my people, made me this offer:

"If you will stay here, I will put you into the best school in the state of California for three years, then take you into the office with me, a year, and let you study law. Then I will give you a thousand dollars in gold, for you to commence life with."

That was the most liberal offer that ever came to me. I desired an education, but I loved my people more than I loved myself. I said to my cousin, "You do not know the Mormon people. You believe them rebellious and disloyal to our government. It is not so. The reports put in circulation against them are false. I thank you for your kind offer, but decline it."

Albina Terry Young

I returned to Utah, and on the 23rd day of June my cousin Brigham drove me in a one-horse buggy from Provo to Salt Lake City. At Draper I received the kiss of welcome from my dear mother, and my sister Harriet. At the city I found my father, waiting like "a lion in his lair," and ready to apply the torch to his home if the army did not keep its promise to not camp within the limits of our city." At that time father's families had been moved to Spring Creek, seventy-five miles south of the city. As soon as peace was declared, I engaged actively in moving them back to their homes. When that was accomplished. I told father of the offer my cousin made, and said I am now going back to California to get an education.

The next morning, while I was passing the Church office, Uncle Brigham beckoned to me,—then came out and walked with me to Brother Wells' corner. Here we sat down on a pile of lumber, and after I had told him of my plans, he was silent a moment, then asked,

"Johnny, did you ever know me to give unwise counsel?" "Never." "Well, I want to give you a little counsel. Don't you go to California. Don't you study law. Look around, find a good girl, get married and make yourself a home.

Without another word he returned to his office and the brightest dream of my life had been swept away. What should I do? I sat a few minutes as if dazed, then sprang to my feet, saying, "I will accept counsel, let it lead me where it will."

A little later I met my Uncle Joseph. He said, "Johnny, Bishop Stewart wants you to go to Draper and talk to the young folks. Will you go?"

"Yes, when does he want me."

"Next Monday night."

"I will be there."

The schoolhouse was packed full that night. I had commenced talking, when a lady came in and was given a seat in front of the stand. Our eyes met, and I heard a voice say, "That is your wife." After meeting she was introduced to me as Miss Albina Terry. From that hour our life stream began flowing in one channel, but not to anticipate, I will let Albina tell her side of our love story. After we were engaged she confided to me:

"I had been unfortunate and unhappy in my first loves, and it had left me with a bleeding heart. I tried to forget, but could not. My health failed, until my parents became alarmed at my condition. One day in a heart to heart talk, my mother said, 'My daughter, if you will go to the Lord with your sorrows, he will comfort you.' I accepted her counsel. With fasting and prayer I asked the Father for help, and He graciously answered my pleadings. In a dream I saw a rosy-cheeked laughing boy, and a Person said, 'See, your husband.'

"I told my mother the dream; my hope revived, and my health became better. I waited and watched. Suitors came, but I shunned them. Three years had passed, and I was still at home. Johnston's army was coming, and all of our people from Salt Lake City northward, had fled to the south. Our home being only a few rods back from the road, we saw thousands of people pass southward until the stream was exhausted. One day as I sat weaving, my face to the street, a one-horse buggy with two men in it, drove by. The one on the side nearest us turned his face toward me and laughed. Instantly I cried, 'Oh, mother! That is my husband. Who are they?' I came to the meeting, and when I saw you, I knew you. I felt confused, yet a thrill of joy came to me. At the close of the meeting, I sought your sister and went home with her, for I knew you would be there."

On New Year's day we were married—and a blessing had come to me. She was industrious and saving as a housekeeper; she was also a wise counselor, and a loyal wife. As my family became enlarged, I adopted the plan of buying my family supplies by wholesale.

While we were living in Long Valley, I was a farmer, and also a saw-mill man. In the fall I would load my teams with lumber and grain and go to the Washington factory seventy-five miles away, buy my supplies, take them home, and give them to Albina, for I knew that she would divide them justly with every other member of the family. She was big hearted enough to sympathize with the other wives, and if trouble occurred in the family she always took their parts, yet so wisely and soothingly, that she always kept my love and confidence. By nature, I was of a quick, irritable disposition, and her firm calmness was a great help to me. It served as a balance wheel to keep me from flying to pieces. And her life had deeper roots than love for her husband, as the following incident illustrates:

In St. George, in 1864, I had two wives; for four years we had lived in tents and wagon beds, owing to deprivations, resulting from extended missionary labors. I had succeeded in getting up a one-roomed house which I was shingling, when the postman in passing, handed Albina a letter, remarking, "I think Brother Young is called on a mission again." I exclaimed, "I will be if I will go." "O father, don't say that," said my first wife. "You don't want to humiliate us. Think how we would feel if you should refuse to respond to a mission call." Thus did she ever encourage me to be loyal to my duty to the nation and the Church. The following incident, also touched upon elsewhere, illustrates her power of faith:

In 1868, returning from a visit to the Moqui Indians, forty-seven men in our company, we crossed the Colorado river on a raft made of flood-wood. I had charge of the rude ferry. We made five trips, which occupied the entire day; most of the time my feet were in the cold river water, while my body was perspiring with the exertions I had to make. That night I was attacked with cramping colic and suffered fearfully. In the morning, being out of food, we had to move on. Keeping in the saddle gave me great pain. At Kanab the boys found the old cast-away running gears of a wagon. They made a harness out of ropes, and lashing two poles on the running gears, they swung me in a hammock between them, and hauled me to Washington to my house. John Mangum was my driver and nurse, and he was careful and tender to relieve my pain. He gave me in all twenty-two pills and a pint of castor oil, and I carried that load in my stomach nine days.

As soon as we reached Washington, Doctors Israel Ivins and Silas G. Higgins were summoned from St. George. They came and worked five days with me, then gave me up. Bishop Covington came, and "sealed me up unto death," that my sufferings might cease. He kindly offered to watch during the night, but Albina excused him.

As soon as he was gone, my wife sent for Brother Tyler, a humble ward teacher. She next persuaded the family to get a little rest, then sitting by my side, poured out her soul to the Lord, until Brother Tyler's heart was touched; and kneeling by my bed, he too pleaded with the Father to spare me.

While he prayed, I awoke as from a sleep. I saw the two kneeling; I listened to their pleadings, and wondered what it meant. I placed my hand on Albina's head, when she looked up and sprang to her feet crying, "He is saved! He is saved!"

In the morning I dressed, and as the bishop came by, I hailed him, took a seat by his side, and rode in a lumber wagon over to St. George to attend the quarterly conference.

To me, it has ever seemed the womanly strength of character and faith of Albina that saved me.

Albina died on the 8th of January, 1913. From her birth to her grave, she was a pioneer. She drove a yoke of oxen from the Missouri river to Salt Lake City. One of her sons, in learning of her death, wrote:

"The hand is still that bore the whip, across the dreary plain,Heeding neither wind nor dust, nor driving mountain rain;Trusting in a hope divine that ever bore her up,Tasting alike the joy of toil, and of its bitter cup.And thus through life she journeyed on, bravely to the end,And all along her thorny trail, were those who called her friend."

Lydia Knight Young

In Memory of My Wife, Lydia.

When I married Albina, Uncle Brigham and Aunt Clara D. honored me with their presence at the banquet, which father provided. Uncle Brigham told this incident:

"The first time that I spoke on the principle of plural marriage was in the Nauvoo temple, in a room we had finished and dedicated as a prayer-circle room. At the close of our exercises, I gave permission for any one to ask questions. Dr. Bernhisel, who was on a visit from Philadelphia, arose and said:

"I have heard it reported that Joseph taught, and introduced into the Church, a principle called plural, or celestial marriage. Is it true? If so, what is the nature of that principle?'

"I answered, 'Joseph gave us a revelation on celestial marriage, and had Hyrum read it to the high council. Let the brethren of the high council who heard Hyrum read the revelation, hold up their hands.' Several hands were raised. I asked, 'Does that satisfy you that Joseph gave the revelation ?' 'Yes,' 'Very good; now for the principle.'

"We will suppose there are three young men, just starting out on the journey of life for themselves. They resolve that they will be farmers, as that is a labor with which they are acquainted. One says, "I am not going to rush things in the start; I want to enjoy life. I will put in ten acres of grain; that will support me, and that's all I care for.' The second one says, 'I will put in twenty acres. I can care for that amount and not work very hard; and I want to forge ahead a little.' The third one says, 'Boys, I want to make all that I can while I am young and strong. I am going to plant forty acres.'

"Now, we will suppose that they keep up their fences, and properly care for the crops. When the harvest comes, which man receives the greatest reward? You will all answer, 'The man who planted the forty acres.' And Joseph has told us, 'There is a decree eternal, that men shall be rewarded according to their works.'"

I never forgot that story; and one year from that day I married Lydia Knight, daughter of Newell Knight, who was a life-long trusted friend of the Prophet Joseph Smith.

Lydia was a bright, cheery spirit, and I was proud of her. But in some respects she was the very opposite of Albina. I soon found that it required more wisdom and patience to direct the activities of two wives than it did to direct one. Lydia was strong and firm in her spiritual convictions and impressions, active and persistent in character. She became an earnest Church worker in the Relief Society and Primary Association.

For seven years we lived and worked in the Orderville United Order. Lydia had charge of the millinery department, and she put whole souled effort into the work entrusted to her. The members of the Orderville Ward entered into that communal association, believing it to be a sacred duty to do so. We came together as strangers, each handicapped with individual weaknesses, but all imbued with an earnest desire to overcome them. The very fact that 'we had all things common" tended to banish selfishness, and helped us to "love our neighbor as ourselves;" and it is a fact we became deeply attached to one another.

At the commencement of this social experiment, President Young said to us: 'If, at any time, you run up against a problem you don't know how to handle, come to me, and I will give you counsel;" and while he lived, we looked to him, and he never failed us.

Soon after his death, however, a question arose which we were divided upon. The Board of Directors sent me to Salt Lake City to lay the matter before President Taylor, and solicit his counsel. There were several brethren in the office when I stated the case to him. He listened patiently, then arose from his chair, shrugged his shoulders in a way peculiar to himself, and said:

"Brethren, I must tell you a little story. A few years ago, Horace S. Eldredge, while acting as our emigration agent, was down in Missouri buying cattle for our emigrants. Happening toward the close of the day to be in a part of the country that was once owned by the Saints—and from which they were driven by mobs—he was curious to know if any of our people were still living there. Seeing a young man chopping wood, he asked him if there were any Mormons living in the neighborhood. The boy replied, 'Well, dad used to be one of those kind of fellows, but he ain't doing much at it now days.'"

I returned to Orderville, and withdrew from the association, giving as a reason, "If the President of the Church does not approve of our labors, I am not willing to continue the experiment."

My withdrawal gave pain to some of my dearest friends, and was a source of deep sorrow to Lydia. She felt that we were under obligation by the sacred covenant of baptism (for we were all baptized into the Order) to consecrate our lives to help bring about, and establish a social system in which there should be "no rich and no poor;" that we could, and should give our hearts to God, and love our neighbors as ourselves.

However, the later dissolution of the Order by the counsel of Apostle Erastus Snow, brought Lydia back to us, and made unity once more in my family, for which I was truly thankful.

During the period of which I am writing, a wave of brutal terrorism flowing from the evils of the civil war, had inundated the southern states, "compelling the best blood of the south" to organize the "Ku Klux Klan" for self preservation. A ripple of a similar official tyranny later reached and enveloped the Mormon people. In order to enforce the laws enacted for the suppression of polygamy, our fair land was filled with "spotters, spies and deputy marshals" and it is not strange that the government in clothing with new powers so many men of low order of morals, for only characters of that class could be induced to trail honorable men and women for hire, should have some officials who were cruel and unscrupulous. A case in point was enacted when Edward Dalton of Parowan was cowardly and maliciously shot and killed, because he was a polygamist. That act stirred up bitter feeling in my heart. Going to Salt Lake City I consulted with my father who advised me to go to Mexico. I next consulted with my wives. Albina dreaded moving, and begged me to let her remain in the home at Loa, not however through unkind feeling toward me, or the other families. On the contrary, she urged me to take them, and go where I could live in peace with them.

Accordingly I sold my farm, arranging so that Albina could purchase it, and thus secure the home to herself. I then took Lydia and Tamar, with their families, and departed for Mexico. I had one four-horse team, two two-horse teams, and fifteen head of cows. Bishop Joseph H. Wright, and my son-in-law, H. T. Stolworthy, each with a team, and a plural family, accompanied me.

We left Huntington, keeping the main-traveled road for Green River, until we reached the Iron Springs. Then, fearing that we should be arrested at Blake, we turned, crossing the San Rafael desert to Hanksville. We thereby came to a forty mile stretch without water, and while crossing that waterless sand waste we encountered the worst desert blizzard that I ever experienced. The sand drifted into the road so furiously that it was almost impossible to move; and at the close of a hard day's labor, we had not made over four miles progress.

Just at night a short, sharp hail storm swept over us. We camped, blanketed our horses, cuddled into our wagons, and rested the best we could. During the night it froze hard, which proved a blessing to us. The next morning, at three o'clock, keeping the women and children in bed, we pulled out. The road was as hard and smooth as the floor of a house. For fifteen miles we sped merrily along; then the sun's rays melted the frost, and the wagon wheels dropped into the sand five spokes deep. We rested during the day, and broke camp again at midnight; and by nine in the morning, reached Hanksville without any serious suffering.

We struck the Colorado at the Dandy crossing, swam our cattle and horses, and ferried our wagons on a small boat, paying twenty dollars for the use of it. The journey to Mexico was long, tedious and expensive, but we were happy, for we had escaped imprisonment.

Upon reaching Mexico, I bought fifteen acres of land, (it is now a part of the city of Dublan) and made a home on it for Lydia; then moved Tamar to Pacheco.

Soon after that I lost my arm in an accident, and was made a cripple for life. I felt that with only one hand I could not successfully compete with Mexican labor, and as the Manifesto had been issued, giving promise that those already in plural marriage should not be disturbed, I resolved to return to my native land.

Lydia, believing that bitterness and violence would continue to follow us in the United States, chose to remain in Mexico. I deeded to her the little farm; then with Tamar I returned to the United States. I now realize that I did wrong in leaving Lydia without a husband's help when she most needed it in caring for her young family. By nature she was proud spirited, and ambitious to appear well. She therefore toiled beyond her strength, which hastened her to an early grave. She died May 8, 1905, at Dublan, Mexico. In closing, I can affirm, conscientiously, that Lydia died a martyr for the Gospel. She was a noble woman—and under favorable conditions would have been a leader in Church activities. A love of the Gospel was born with her. And many of her sorrows are traceable to her zeal in spiritual matters.

I cannot remember that there were ever disputations, or unkind jealous feelings among my wives; they ever sustained and loved one another. But Lydia and I differed in our interpretation of the Manifesto. She believed it required a severance of marriage covenants between the husband and the plural wife, while I held that it only bound the Latter-day Saints not to enter into new, additional plural marriages, that former plural marriages remained undissolved, and were sacred. On that rock we parted. She remained in Mexico, while I returned to the United States.

In my heart, I have always felt that the Father blessed me with a noble family. I loved them; and I believed in my soul what President Young said about the young man who planted forty acres of grain. I tried to lay a foundation for growth and expansion in the Kingdom of God. I may have over-taxed my strength and ability, and through lack of knowledge, may not have cared wisely for the field I sowed, but I firmly believe that when the day of recompense comes the Lord of the vineyard will confirm to me the family relations I gave my best years' dearest efforts to build up.

In Memory of My Wife, Tamar.

More than four thousand years ago the Lord said to the children of Israel, "Honor thy father and thy mother," and thou shalt inherit a blessing; and today, among Christian or heathen nations, the child that gives love and obedience to its parents is in return loved and honored by his fellow men.

In 1869, I was laboring in President Young's cotton factory at Washington, Utah. Joseph Burch, the superintendent, sent me with a four-horse team loaded with factory goods, to Beaver, with orders to exchange the goods for wheat. I was to store the wheat in the Beaver grist mill, then come home with a load of flour.

One day, when working at the Beaver grist mill, I received a note from Sister Black, stating that her daughter Tamar wished to go back with me to Washington to see her father, who was then running the Washington grist mill. I declined to take her for the reason that it was stormy weather, and that I was heavily loaded.

The next day Sister Black came to see me. She told me her daughter had an offer of marriage from a man of wealth, the owner of a good home. It looked, from a worldly point of view, like a splendid offer; but the girl doubted the man's profession of faith in the Gospel, and she wanted to counsel with her father. I told the sister that without doubt the trip would be muddy and disagreeable, but if the daughter could put up with the inconvenience, she was welcome to go. She went. We were eight days wallowing through the mire and snow.

Tamar Black Young

Tamar was young and bashful, thinly clad, and I know she suffered from the cold, but she did not murmur, for she was going to see her father. Her appreciation of his counsel was supreme. Her devotion and loyalty to her father made her companionship sweet to me.

When I was a boy of sixteen I received my endowments in the old council house. President Heber C. Kimball made the most impressive talk on virtue and chastity that I have ever heard, and purity became, in my mind, an ideal more precious than gold or silver. It was my practice of this ideal that led to the winning of Tamar's love, and that gave me unreservedly her father's blessing.

A few days after returning from Beaver, I walked with Brother Black over to St. George, seven miles, to attend a priesthood meeting. On the way, I asked him what answer Tamar had given the man who wished to marry her. He replied, "I advised her to decline his offer, and she did it." As events turned out, our trip proved providential. Eight days of companionship under such trying circumstances could not fail to awaken a mutual admiration. I too discovered in Tamar a high and lovable type of womanhood, a type that no outward vicissitude of life would daunt or weaken. Perhaps her first appreciation of me was in the nature of perfect trust, and indeed her virtue had been as sacred with me along this lonely road as it would have been with her father or mother.

Fifty years ago, we of Utah had no railroads, nor automobiles, and not even brakes on our wagons. I got my Brother Joseph W.'s big mules, loaded up with cotton yarn, then with Albina and her children, and Tamar, I hiked to Salt Lake to be married. As we got into the wagon Father Black put his arms around Tamar, and said, "My daughter, you are going to marry into a large family. Many trials will come to you; and I want you to remember, 'It is better to suffer wrong, than to do wrong.'" This was splendid counsel, and the daughter never forgot it. The following incident illustrates Tamar's presence of mind in sudden danger.

As I remember, about fifteen miles north of Beaver, we went down a long, serpentine hill. Rains had washed the old road into a deep gully. The new track above it was sidling and very rocky. In the front end of our wagon was a mess box, the lid being level with the top of the wagon bed. A sheepskin on this box formed my seat. As we reached the top of the hill, the wagon began to crowd the mules. I stopped to get out to lock the wheel with the chain fastened to the side of the wagon bed. As the team stopped, the ring in the neckyoke broke, letting the tongue down. The mules sprang forward with fright, and would have jerked me off the wagon; but Tamar, quick as a flash, placed her knees against the mess box, clasped her arms around my body and held me firm; while I, with a grip of iron, held the wagon bunt against the mules. Down the hill we went like a whirlwind, the end of the wagon tongue, in front of the mules, sending the cobble rock flying in every direction. On reaching the level flat, I succeeded in stopping the outfit, and no injury was done, save the shock of fright that we all received.

In 1856, in the Seaman's Bethel in Honolulu, I heard an anti-Mormon lecturer tell an audience that they could readily recognize the "polygamous children," for "they were born imbecile pigmies." No slander against my people could be fouler than this one. Utah's foremost citizens today are of polygamous lineage. Tamar was herself, a splendid refutation of this slander. Tamar's mother was a plural wife, and Tamar measured five feet eight inches in height, and weighed one hundred forty-five pounds. In disposition she was quiet and cheerful, yet in danger was quick and heroic. Here is a notable instance:

After I had lost my arm, in coming back from Mexico, while I was still feeble, when crossing the New Mexico desert, the Navajos were unfriendly. At Captain Toms Wash, they started in to rob us. A big buck, after making an inflammatory speech, sprang upon the wagon hub, caught hold of a sack of provisions to lift it from the wagon. As quick as a flash, Tamar struck him across the nose with a stick of wood. The blood spurted from both nostrils, and the brave, dropping the sack, got off the wheel quicker than he got on. For a moment my heart ceased to beat, for I expected trouble; but the warriors who witnessed the act, roared with laughter, and I soon saw that they were amused at the defeat, by a "squaw," of their windy-mouthed captain.

But it was in the home circle where she shone with the greatest brilliancy; not with a meteoric flare, rather with the continual glow of the summer's sunshine. Perhaps the darkest hour of my life was when I lost my arm, and fell penniless among strangers. But Tamar with a smiling face, nursed the mutilated man, and at the same time whirled the wheel of the washing machine; thus winning the bread that kept the breath of life in us. Tamar calmly and bravely met the responsibilities of married life, grateful for the gift of motherhood, and willing to sacrifice her own life, if need were, in order to give life to others. She believed and practiced the principle that "it is more blessed to give than to receive." I never was so weary or discouraged that her words would not rest and cheer me. She being younger than I by fifteen years, I fondly anticipated that my last hours would be comforted by her ministration.

I often hear the remark that "we never miss the water till the well goes dry," and that "we do not appreciate the loved ones until they are taken from us." Possibly I did not fully value the wealth I possessed in my family, but I always said—and it came from my heart—that God had blessed me with noble wives; that I became a better man through obeying the principle of plural marriage than I ever should have been without it. Joseph Smith was a prophet of God, and no other principle taught by him would have done as much for the uplift of the human family, on the plane of purity and righteousness. The men and women who practiced that principle were not sensual sinners, but they were strong, clean souls, willing to suffer, and die if need were, for the right as they saw the right.

I have partaken of the hospitality of the common people in England and in the United States. I have witnessed the love and happiness that abide in the Christian homes of these Christian nations; but never have I seen more perfect trust, confidence, and love without guile, than I have witnessed in some of the plural families of the Latter-day Saints. Take for instance the father who will give to his beloved daughter, as a parting benediction, "It is better to suffer wrong than to do wrong," and "it is more blessed to give than to receive," and you have a revelation of a clean heart, and a pure spirit.

It may not be possible for mortal man to teach truths as sublime as did the Christ, but if it be true that "from the abundance of the heart the mouth speaketh," then that father possessed a pure heart, certainly the daughter to whom the precious admonition was given was a worthy child; and the diligent practice of those celestial ideals made Tamar B. Young a lovable mother and a peerless wife.

In conclusion, I will say that each of those three wives bore me seven children, making in all seventeen sons and four daughters. They were all strong and healthy children; not a weakling among them. Moreover they have all made honorable and virtuous men and women.

One of my sons, upon learning of the death of his mother, wrote:

"Oh, how thankful I am for my parentage; for the noble souls who gave me life! How I love them for the clean, uncontaminated body with which they blessed my spirit. No loathsome disease fastened to it, no craving for liquor and tobacco, as an hereditary hindrance to my progress. Oh, those noble women! Their crowns will be as bright, and will shine with a splendor equal to that of the Prince at whose side they walked unflinchingly through life, turning their sorrows into joy. Again, how thankful I am for my noble parentage!" And I add:

I am proud of my children, and they are proud of me;When the reaping comes, what will my harvest be?

In the three chapters preceding this, I gave the best statement of motives and experiences of my life as it passed in rain and sunshine, with the three noble wives who shared my joys and sorrows. There is one other wife, who has claim as valid and sacred as the ones that I have so warmly eulogized. The reason that a chapter is not given to her memory is a sad one.

On the 10th of October, 1878, I married in the Salt Lake Temple, Catherine Coles, to me a sweet, chaste girl.

On the 27th day of November, 1879, she gave her life, in giving birth to a sweet baby girl. By her request the babe was named Mary Ellen, and with my consent she was adopted by Aunt Ellen Young, who cuddled her to her breast and held her there until the child grew to womanhood and found a pleasant nest of her own.

In that child's veins flows the blood of a Young. She came honestly and virtuously by that heritage.

The woman does not exist, either dead or alive, who can say that I ever invited her to commit sin.

My wives were given to me in sacred places, by those who had authority to seal on earth, and it was sealed in heaven, and if I can be pure to the end, those ties will be eternal.

Twenty-fourth of July Musings, Sent to President Joseph F. Smith.—Twenty-fourth of July Toast,—Utah—Thrilling Eruption of Kilauea.

Sitting 'neath the pines, in the cold mountain air,Inhaling the inspiration of the chaplain's prayer;Breathing the spirit of the orator's theme,Memory sweeps backward o'er the troubled streamOf my people's lives.

Wild, vivid scenes of frontier life burst like a meteor on the mind. I see the broad prairie lands of our dear Far West, with a hundred new-built, New England fashioned cottages. I hear the ring of the workman's ax, and the noisy laughter of many children,—the evidence of virtuous, happy homes. But the scene changes.

A cloud of dust rises on the horizon, and soon the tramping and neighing of a thousand horses is heard. And the cohorts of Clark's mob militia burst into view. They encircle the village, kindle their camp fires, and place their sentinels. Then commences a raid of pillage and rapine.

Homes are plundered, cows shot down, maidens insulted. Our leading Elders are treacherously arrested and driven at the point of the bayonet, with demoniac yells, into their camp. A court martial is convened. A sentence of death is passed upon the captives—"General Doniphan was to have the honor of shooting them at sunrise the next morning," for they, like the Hebrew children of old, must die for worshiping Israel's God. But when General Doniphan looked into the faces of those youthful, noble-looking men, his heart was touched, and the unjust, cruel sentence was never carried out.

Then followed a less severe, yet heart-rending scene. On the morrow, the prisoners were allowed to take a silent parting with their wives, children and parents; with the added solemn warning that they would never see them again. One clasp of the hand, and a tender look into the eyes of the loved ones, and they were torn away; and like murderous criminals, they were chained together, and driven to "Liberty." Not to Freedom, but to a dungeon, while their unprotected families were driven from their homes, to wander in the cold, biting blasts of winter.

While fleeing from the state of Missouri, among the fleeing exiles I see a woman of majestic appearance. Her firm step and compressed lips denote great will power; while the calm expression of the countenance evidences faith and trust in God. In her arms nestles a two weeks' old baby boy, born since the silent parting with her treacherously arrested husband. That woman was Mary Fielding Smith! That baby boy was our beloved president, Joseph Fielding Smith! Could we follow that mother and child, and their suffering companions, in their winter flight from Missouri to Illinois, and from Nauvoo to Salt Lake Valley; through the perils of mob violence—the burning of homes, the exposure to pitiless storms, the crossing of mighty rivers on treacherous ice, the traversing of unexplored deserts without guides, the bridging of long periods with little food—it would make a story of sacrifice and suffering, of perseverance, and thrilling adventure unparalleled in the history of civilized life.

All these trials our fathers and mothers passed heroically through, marking the pioneer trail with the unlettered graves of their bravest and dearest loved ones. The hands that first scourged them never left their trail, nor ceased applying the fire-brand to their homes and the lash to their naked backs, until the hunted fugitives, with a courage born of despair, (yet mixed with unyielding faith), crossed the Mississippi and plunged fearlessly into the unknown west. And as the hunted deer, with beating heart, flees long after the hounds have given up the chase, so these nationally banished exiles followed their intrepid leaders on, on, and still on, until the glistening sands of the "inland sea" greeted them. Oh, how they loved the rugged mountains, and the deep chasm-scarred canyons that surrounded them, and shielded them from their foes! No mobbings, no house burnings, no tar and feathering here; but peace and freedom, blessed freedom.

Salt Lake City, Utah,July 31, 1918.

Elder John R. Young, Blanding, Utah. My Dear Brother John: It was with a great deal of pleasure that I read your letter which was written from Blanding on the 4th of the present month and reached me on the 11th, and which contained so many reminiscences of our earlier days and recalled old memories and scenes of my childhood and early youth.

I did not attempt to make any answer to your letter before this because I have been for a long time under the weather and have neglected a great many matters which did not require immediate attention. While I have been confined to a very great extent to my room, I have had a great deal of time to devote to reflection and musing over earlier scenes and missionary experiences of my younger days. Your letter brought back very vividly the days of our missionary labors in the islands, where I was sent when only a boy, inexperienced in many things, and yet, through force of circumstances caused by the loss of both father and mother whose counsels I very sorely needed, with a training beyond my years caused by contact with hard necessity in those early pioneer days in a new country where but a few years before scarcely a white man had placed his foot. I recalled my travels across the desert and our journeyings to southern California and from there up to San Francisco; the dangers through which we passed because of hostile bands of Indians; laboring in California in order to get means to make the passage over the ocean to the appointed field of labor and the difficulties encountered after arriving there. I recalled the promises made to me by Brother Parley P. Pratt that I should receive the knowledge of the native language by the gift of God, and how it was fulfilled. I thought of the arrival of our boat and when the natives surrounded us as they came out in the harbor talking what appeared to me as an unintelligible gibberish, how it would be possible for me, or any one else, to learn to speak such a language and preach the Gospel to them in such a tongue. But the Lord blessed me and it was not many days before I was able to converse in the Hawaiian language and preach in my missionary journeyings among that dark, benighted but kind hearted people. I recalled not only the companionship of my friends, John R. Young, Silas Smith, my kinsman, Smith B. Thurston, Washington B. Rodgers, William W. Cluff, Francis A. Hammond and many others, but the many dark skinned natives whose friendship and brotherly love could not be surpassed. How my love went out to them! For are they not also the children of God, and of the seed of Abraham with a right to the promises made by the Lord to Israel? And did they not prove to us their worthiness and integrity even though they had not been taught and trained as we and were filled with the superstitions of their people which had come down for many generations.

And farther back to the days of my childhood in these valleys, my reflections carried me, to the time when as a herd boy I tended my mother's cows and those of others in this Salt Lake Valley where many prosperous farms are now located, to my early school days which were sadly limited because of necessity and then my early departure for the Islands of the Sea.

Yet farther back I went in my wandering to the days of Nauvoo where for so short a time the Saints were happy and I played, amused myself in the home of the Prophet and with his sons as well as in my father's house. Well do I remember the return of my father with the Prophet after they had crossed the river and had started on their journey west, because the false cry was raised that they were deserting the flock and how they went to Carthage never again to return in mortal life, cut down because of the testimony of Jesus in the prime of life and sealing their testimonies with their blood. Then followed the feverish days in which the Saints continued the labor on the Nauvoo Temple until it was complete and endowments were given therein and the wicked expulsion of thousands of innocent people from their homes. I recall the departure of the first companies over the frozen river on the ice in the depths of winter and how, shortly afterwards my mother and her family were forced also to take their departure in poverty and wend their way westward with the rest. My Brother John had gone at an earlier day and we overtook him on the journey. Then came the struggle on the banks of the Mississippi where we tried to save means to continue the journey to the valleys of the mountains and my employment as herdboy while we there sojourned. It was here that I had one of the most thrilling and exciting adventures of my life when the Indians made a raid on our cattle and, although but a child, I remember how the thought came to me that if our cattle were taken our journey to the Salt Lake Valley could not be taken. With more than human effort—for I know the Lord was with me—I turned the cattle and started them for home where they escaped although I was taken captive by the savage redmen, but considered so insignificant that they dropped me on the ground where I was left to survive or perish as chance it may and the horse on which I rode was stolen. Then came the journeying across the plains and after many difficulties the arrival in the valley—the promised land—where we were promised rest at least from enemies thirsting for our blood. We moved out on the Mill Creek and started to farm, but before many years had passed away my beloved mother was called home and I was sent out when but fifteen years of age to perform a man's duty in the world—a duty that was not, however, new to me—for had I not done the like when we crossed the plains?

All these thoughts and a thousand more have coursed through my mind, and I have reflected on many scenes of the days of Missouri, when I was too young to remember the persecutions of the Saints, and on scenes of more recent years, not all of which have been sad, for there have been many bright days in the years that have followed and companionships that have been formed that shall be everlasting. And I remember my old friends, many of whom are now laboring in the great beyond and a few who are still left and scattered throughout Zion. And among these friends I recall my beloved brother and true friend John R. Young. May his days be increased and made happy in his declining years, and may we all meet in the Kingdom of our God when our work is done, there to dwell in joy and happiness forever. This is the prayer of your friend and brother, who greets you in love and remembrance of former days. Respectfully yours, JOSEPH F. SMITH

By John R. Young.

I thank the Mutual Improvement Association of Blanding for the invitation to speak a few words in memory of my boyhood's friend, Joseph F. Smith. I shall not attempt to speak of the activities of his matured life, his splendid manhood and noble, spotless character. It has been well told by his bosom friend, Bishop Charles W. Nibley.

It was my lot, however, to know Joseph in his boyhood. I was with him on his first mission in 1854. We were numbered with the twenty young Elders called to the Sandwich Islands. Joseph was the youngest, (when called he was in his fifteenth year) of the company, but of the thirty men who crossed the desert to southern California together, there were but five who were believed to be his equals in athletic exercises.

As I am limited to time, I shall speak only of the most marked events, delineating his character when a boy. Upon reaching San Francisco, President Parley P. Pratt gave Joseph, William W. Cluff and myself a mission to tract the city. At the close of the first day's tracting Joseph asked to be released. He said, "I can not offer a Book of Mormon without having to listen to a burst of blasphemy and a tirade of falsehood and abuse to my Uncle Joseph, and I cannot be peaceable and hear it." He was released from tracting.

At that time he was lodging at the home of his Aunt Agnes. She was the wife of his Uncle Don Carlos Smith, who died at Nauvoo. After his death she married a man by the name of William Pickett, a man whose heart was full of bitterness toward President Brigham Young and the Utah Mormons, and he seemed to delight in slurring them to annoy Joseph. Pickett's home was on a sandy hillside. One day a man came with a load of wood. In passing through the gate the hind wheels slid down so the hub struck the gate post. Mr. Pickett asked Joseph and the teamster to lift the upper wheel, while he would lift the lower one and slough the wagon back. The upper wheel was lifted, but the lower one was too heavy. Joseph proposed that he try the lower one. Pickett replied, "Young man, if you think you are a better man than I, take hold, and maybe you'll learn something." The wagon passed in, and when the man had unloaded and was gone, Joseph faced his uncle and said, "Uncle, you seem to enjoy making slurring remarks about Brigham Young and the Utah Mormons. I wish you would not do so any more in my presence, and Mr. Pickett remembered the request.

After working two months in the harvest field to earn his passage money, Joseph with other elders, sailed steerage passage, on the bark Yankee, for the islands. As soon as the ship was clear from the wharf, the passengers were lined up on the deck and their names read off to see if there were any stowaways. When the purser called, "Joseph Smith" the captain asked, "Any relation to old Joe Smith?" "No, sir," was the prompt answer, "I never had a relative by that name; but if you had reference to the Prophet Joseph Smith, I am proud to say, he was my uncle." "Oh, I see," said the captain, and he did see a man who had the nerve and manhood to demand that proper respect be shown to the name of the Prophet, whom he loved and honored.

Within one hundred days after landing on the islands, he was preaching the Gospel of the Lord Jesus Christ in the Hawaiian language. After six months' labor on Maui, he was called to be the President of the Molokai Island Conference. Here he made the acquaintance and won the friendship of a wealthy gentleman by the name of Meyers. Stopping, by invitation, a few days with him, he met Jules Remy, a French savant and author, who was making a circuit of the world. With six companions he visited the wild wonderland of Molokai, the Reverend Mr. Dwight, Presbyterian pastor of the islands, acting as guide and interpreter. While all were seated around the supper table, Mr. Remy asked Joseph if the report was true "that the Mormon people were in rebellion against the United States?" Before Joseph could reply, the parson chipped in, "Yes, Brigham Young has always been a traitor, and now he has not only rebelled, but he has ordered his people to massacre all the Gentiles in the Territory. Already they have murdered over a hundred innocent men, women and children at a place called Mountain Meadows." Joseph sprang from his chair, and seizing Mr. Dwight by his collar, lifted him to his feet and said, "Brigham Young is not a traitor, the Mormon people are not in rebellion, but you are a liar, and you will take back what you have said, or I will drive your teeth down your throat." Mr. Remy acted the man and came to Joseph's assistance by affirming the question was to Mr. Smith, and that Mr. Dwight was out of place, and that he should apologize, which he did, and from that time on there was at least one Mormon elder that Mr. Dwight treated with respect.

In relating these incidents where Joseph resented insults and untruthful accusations, I do not want any one to infer that he was of a quarrelsome disposition, for he was not. In all of my acquaintance with him, I never knew him to be the aggressor nor to be tantalizing in the least degree, but he was plain and positive. To me, from a boy, he lived in harmony with the Spirit of God, and I have good reason for believing that his father and his Uncle Joseph watched over him continuously, and when Joseph was nigh to death with typhoid fever at President Hammond's on the island of Maui, I feel sure that those two exalted brothers, walking hand in hand, visited and ministered unto him, whereby his life was preserved and he was enabled to complete his earth life mission, leaving on record a testimony of one of the purest lives ever lived by man.

Bishop Nibley told of a railroad incident where Joseph, by listening to an invincible warning, was kept out of danger. I want to recall the scene at Lahaina. In 1864 Apostles Ezra T. Benson, Lorenzo Snow, and Elders Joseph F. Smith, William W. Cluff and Alma L. Smith were sent to the islands to put a stop to Walter M. Gibson's mischief making among the Hawaiian Saints. When the ship reached Lahaina, (an unsafe harbor) the incoming wave swells were so heavy that the ship had to anchor nearly a mile from the land. In going ashore the captain invited the elders to ride with him in his boat, but Joseph declined, he was so strongly impressed with a feeling of danger that he pleaded with his brethren to wait until the native boats should come; but the brethren were anxious to be ashore and went. The result, the boat was capsized and Apostle Snow was drowned, and it was a miracle that he was resuscitated and his life saved.

In the early days of the Hawaiian mission our elders met with much opposition and with several severe mobbings. At one time in Honolulu, a crowd of ruffians mobbed the aged President, Philip B. Lewis. The harmless old man was knocked down and dragged by the heels, his head bumping on the cobble rock pavement until the ruffians thought he was dead; then they flung him into the gutter, while they went to a saloon to celebrate the achievement. A carpenter, a new convert to the faith by the name of Burnham, from the roof of a house that he was shingling, saw the last brutal act of the mob and gave the leader a severe thrashing. He whipped the brute so thoroughly that it put an end to the mobbing in Honolulu. The manly fight put up by Burnham endeared him to us, and when we returned to the islands in 1864 we found that Brother Burnham had died leaving the family, (Sister Burnham and three children) in poverty, homeless. After the Apostles had cut Mr. Gibson off the Church, Joseph was appointed President of the mission. With the assistance of Elders William W. Cluff, Alma L. Smith, Benjamin Cluff and John R. Young, all the islands were visited and the branches reorganized; then Joseph F. Smith, William W. Cluff and John R. Young were released to return home. At that time it cost $108.00 for a ticket from San Francisco to Salt Lake. President Young sent the money necessary to pay our passage home, but Joseph said, "I will not go and leave Sister Burnham. It was finally decided to go the southern route as our money would take us to San Bernardino; from there we could in all probability, work our way home as teamsters, while Sister Burnham could find a home with the Saints of that place.

For a change we sailed for home cabin passage. Upon arrival at San Francisco we found a telegram awaiting Joseph, requesting him to come home as soon as possible. Bear in mind Joseph was an elder, and a financially poor one at that, as his whole life had been in the mission field and he was the last man on earth to ask for help. What could we do? In council it was thought best for Joseph and William to go by stage, while I with the Burnham family would go by San Bernardino. And now comes the tempter. There were living in San Francisco quite a number of relatives by marriage to the Smith family, and some of them were wealthy. They held a family reunion and invited Joseph to attend. He asked me to accompany him, which I did. We met them at Mr.—'s; some twenty all told; six or eight strong, healthy looking men. A few stories were told, then the conversation drifted into personal experiences and present home conditions. They pitied Joseph and offered to deed him a good home if he would cut loose from the "Utah Mormons" and stay with them,his true friends. He declined, and said if they would excuse him he would bid them good night. All rose up, and then the storm broke. Their spokesman said in substance, "Joseph, we are disappointed in you; we thought you were a Smith, but any man who will come and go at the command of Brigham Young, the man who connived at the murder of your father and Uncle Joseph, has not a drop of Smith's blood in his veins." Joseph: "Do I understand you to say that Brigham Young connived at the murder of the Prophet Joseph Smith?" "Yes, and I can prove the assertion." Then there leaped from Joseph's lips the strongest expression that ever I heard come from them. "You are a damned infernal liar! Joseph Smith never had a truer friend than Brigham Young." To me, how grand he looked. He seemed to expand until he towered head and shoulders above his opponents. While their faces scowled with anger, yet like the tempest tossed waves of the ocean, whose fury had been spent at the foot of the boulder, they recede, leaving the beach cleaner and whiter than before the storm.

How I loved that man's manliness; he not a Smith? The very tension of the rigid muscles proclaimed him the embodiment of the chivalrous Macks and Smiths.

Over forty years ago, while laboring as a missionary in the London Conference, I wrote in my journal:

I knew Joseph F. Smith in life's rosy morn,When herding cows and hoeing corn;And though he worked early and late,Yet he never murmured at his fate,But smiled to think that his strong armBrought wheat and corn to his mother's barn.His first mark made I remember well;'Twas when he flogged Philander Bell.A champion then, for innocence and youth,As he is now for liberty and truth.If plain his speech, and strong in boyish strife,I doubt if he could mend the history of his life.The years of trial on Hawaii's landWere more than wiser heads would stand.Poi, paakia, poverty and shameWere all endured for the blessed Savior's name.The crime and faith, and ulcerated soresOpened to view, bleeding at every pore,Tried the metal, proved one's pride.Then was the day of choosing sides.Then was the hour to begin, and hePulled off his coat and waded in.We need not urge him to improve,He seeks, as Joseph did, light from above,And God has given strength to Hyrum's son,Speeding him on the race so well begun;For unto him a charge is truly givenTo lead erring men from sin to heaven;To realms of glory, where truth divineEnlightens life with joy sublime.But I will leave to pens abler than mineTo paint the beauties of that heavenly clime.I choose to feast on more substantial food.One to be great, must first be truly good.The precious clouds that bless our vales with rainDescend from lofty peaks and kiss the plains,So God, Himself, in plainness said to man,"Blessed are the meek," 'T am the great I Am,"And while His voice echoed from Sinai's peak,He talked with Moses, the meekest of the meek.Then look to Christ, and note the keywords givenTo lead men back to God and Heaven.Brother nobly and well thou hast begun,Now hold the fort until the victory's won,And when the smoke and din of war is pastYour works and name on history's page shall last.

His first mark made I remember well;'Twas when he flogged Philander Bell.A champion then, for innocence and youth,As he is now for liberty and truth.If plain his speech, and strong in boyish strife,I doubt if he could mend the history of his life.

The years of trial on Hawaii's landWere more than wiser heads would stand.Poi, paakia, poverty and shameWere all endured for the blessed Savior's name.The crime and faith, and ulcerated soresOpened to view, bleeding at every pore,Tried the metal, proved one's pride.Then was the day of choosing sides.Then was the hour to begin, and hePulled off his coat and waded in.

We need not urge him to improve,He seeks, as Joseph did, light from above,And God has given strength to Hyrum's son,Speeding him on the race so well begun;For unto him a charge is truly givenTo lead erring men from sin to heaven;To realms of glory, where truth divineEnlightens life with joy sublime.But I will leave to pens abler than mineTo paint the beauties of that heavenly clime.

I choose to feast on more substantial food.One to be great, must first be truly good.The precious clouds that bless our vales with rainDescend from lofty peaks and kiss the plains,So God, Himself, in plainness said to man,"Blessed are the meek," 'T am the great I Am,"And while His voice echoed from Sinai's peak,He talked with Moses, the meekest of the meek.Then look to Christ, and note the keywords givenTo lead men back to God and Heaven.

Brother nobly and well thou hast begun,Now hold the fort until the victory's won,And when the smoke and din of war is pastYour works and name on history's page shall last.

And I feel in all my being that Joseph F. Smith held the fort and won the victory, giving him a seat with his Prophet Uncle and his martyred father in the mansions of our Heavenly Father.

O Utah, thou Switzerland of America,The home of many a Tell,For freedom's fires are burning bright,In all thy mountain dells.Thou art the cradle, and the homeOf freedom's struggling child;For here beneath thy mountain domes,Within thy canyons wild,A band of fleeing exilesFound first a "resting place"From persecution's bitter blast,That smote them in the face.And Utah's pioneers who fledFrom Missouri's wrath and flames—Whose unshod feet so often bled,While creeping o'er the plains—Are grateful for the noble menWho stand as "beacon lights,"Who "sink or swim, in life or death;"Stand up for equal rights.We love our country—north and south,Her plains, and mountain sod,We stand for "Freedom of the soul,""Our country and our God."

And Utah's pioneers who fledFrom Missouri's wrath and flames—Whose unshod feet so often bled,While creeping o'er the plains—Are grateful for the noble menWho stand as "beacon lights,"Who "sink or swim, in life or death;"Stand up for equal rights.We love our country—north and south,Her plains, and mountain sod,We stand for "Freedom of the soul,""Our country and our God."

In 1856 and '57, I was laboring as a missionary on the island of Hawaii, and during that time the volcano of Kilauea gave us an exhibition on a stupendous scale. In company with Elder Henry P. Richards, I went through the forest several miles and met the stream of lava that was running down the mountain, threatening to destroy the town of Hilo. Here is an extract from my journal:

We paused to contemplate the sublimity of this vivid scene. It was one calculated to interest the naturalist, and to please the eye of the poet. The wonderful imagination of a Milton, or the great genius of a Byron could here find a theme on which their minds could feast.

The lava had burst forth from its prison cell, in the bowels of the earth, on the south side of the mountain, some thirty miles above the town of Hilo, which is situated at the head of a beautiful bay bearing the name of Byron. The close approximation of the town to the mountain rendered destruction almost certain. The mountain was covered with a dense growth of timber, and as the mighty stream of running lava drew near, the forest seemed to catch an electric spark, and in the twinkling of an eye, one sheet of flame burst forth, reaching from Pueo to Puna, about three miles in width. The startled Kanaka fled for his life, leaving his grass thatched home to the devastating fire.

I stood, with my companion, upon a craggy peak overlooking the waters of Waikahalulu. Below us was a beautiful cascade, and over this the lava swept with astonishing rapidity. Oh, it was a grand sight—the burning of the forest, the crackling and falling of the trees, the rushing of the lava, the hissing and spouting of the water, the clouds of steam and vapor, mingled with the shrieks and shouts of the natives!

I saw a man in his frenzy try to leap a boiling stream; his foot slipped, and he fell. A cloud of vapor hid him from view, but an agonizing shriek told too well his fate.

Our native guide refused to stay longer with us, but the increasing danger added to our excited fascination, and we declined to retreat. At this moment, the wind shifted, and a strong breeze from the south lifted the banks of smoke and steam, giving us a fair view of the town that nestled so lovingly on the green lawn at our feet.

We could see groups of people laden with what they could carry, hurrying from their homes to places of greater safety. A few ships were anchored in the bay, and between them and the shore, small boats were rapidly plying, evidently carrying the wealthier citizens to these prepared places of safety.

While viewing this romantic picture, a low rumbling was heard. It grew louder and louder until it seemed the heavens were rent in twain, and the ground reeled and tottered beneath our feet. We fell prostrate to the earth, and held our breath, through fear. A thick cloud of vapor, or hot steam, swept over us, followed by the pattering sound of falling stones hurled from the crater by the power of her convulsive throes, but returning to the earth in obedience to the law of gravity.

This shock had hardly passed, when the rain began to fall in torrents, but the flow of the volcano had spent its force. The fiery waves rolled back as if sorry for the destruction they had done, retaining for a moment their red glaring frown, then changed to a black, barren, chasm-scarred waste. Hilo was saved.

Then there leaped forth, from man and maid,A song of joy and mirth;The most sedate could not be stayed.From thrilling notes of worth.It was a song of gratitude for home and lives preserved,No sweeter gush of sympathy, by man was ever heard.

Back to Index Next