Along the streets they're thronging, walking,

Clad gaily in their best and talking,

Women and children quite a crowd;

The bright sun overhead is blazing,

The people sweat, the dust they're raising

Arises like a golden cloud.

Still out of every door they scatter,

Laughing and light. Pray what's the matter.

That such a flock of folks I see?

A LOUNGER

They're off to hear the Prophet patter,

This yer's a day of jubilee.

VOICES.

Come along, we're late I reckon...

There's our Matt, I see him beckon...

How d'ye do, marm? glad to meet you.

Silence, Hiram, or I'll beat you...

Emm, there's brother Jones a-looking...

Here's warm weather, how I'm cooking!

STRANGER

Afar the hills arise with cone and column

Into a sky of brass serene and solemn;

And underneath their shadow in one haze

Of limpid heat the great salt waters blaze,

While faint and filmy through the sultry veil

The purple islands on their bosom sail

Like floating clouds of dark fantastic air.

How strangely sounds (while 'mid the Indian

glare

Moves the gay crowd of people old and young)

The bird-like chirp of the old Saxon tongue!

The women seem half weary and half gay,

Their eyes droop in a melancholy way,—

I have not seen a merry face to-day.

A BISHOP

Ther's a smart hoss you're riding, brother!

How are things looking, down with you?

SECOND BISHOP

Not over bright with one nor 'tother,

Taters are bad, tomatoes blue.

You've heer'd of Brother Simpson's losses?—

Buried his wife and spiled his hay.

And the three best of Hornby's hosses

Some Injin cuss has stol'n away.

VOICES.

ZoË, jest fix up my gown...

There's my hair a-coming down...

Drat the babby, he's so crusty—

It's the heat as makes him thusty...

Come along, I'm almost sinking...

There's a stranger, and he's winking.

Stranger.

That was a fine girl with the grey-hair'd lady,

How shining were her eyes, how true and

steady,

Not drooping down in guilty Mormon fashion,

But shooting at the soul their power and passion.

That's a big fellow, six foot two, not under,

But how he struts, and looks as black as thunder,

Half glancing round at his poor sheep to scare

'em—

Six, seven, eight, nine,—O Abraham, what a

harem!

All berry brown, but looking scared as may be,

And each one but the oldest with a baby.

A GIRL

Phoebe!

ANOTHER

Yes, Grace!

FIRST GIRL

Don't seem to notice, dear,

That Yankee from the camp again is here,

Making such eyes, and following on the sly,

And coughing now and then to show he's nigh.

SECOND GIRL

Who's that along with him—the little scamp

Shaking his hair and nodding with a smile?

FIRST GIRL

Guess he's some new one just come down to

SECOND GIRL

Isn't he handsome?

FIRST GIRL

No; the first's my style!

STRANGER

If my good friends, the Saints, could get then

will,

These Yankee officers would fare but ill;

Wherever they approach the folk retire,

As if from veritable coals of fire;

With distant bow, set lips, and half-hid frown,

The Bishops pass them in the blessed town;

The women come behind like trembling sheep,

Some freeze to ice, some blush and steal a peep.

And often, as a band of maidens gay

Comes up, each maid ceases to talk and play,

Droops down her eyes, and does not look their

way;

But after passing where the youngsters pine,

All giggle as at one concerted sign,

And tripping on with half-hush'd merry cries,

Look boldly back with laughter in their eyes!

VOICES

Here we are, how folk are pushing...

Mind the babby in the crushing...

Pheemy!.. Yes, John!.. Don't go staring

At that Yankee—it's past bearing.

Draw your veil down while he passes,

Reckon you're as bold as brass is.

ABE CLEWSON

[Passing with his hand to his head, attended by his

Wives.]

Head in a whirl, and heart in a flutter,

Guess I don't know the half that I utter.

Too much of this life is beginning to try me,

I'm like a dem'd miller the grind always nigh

me;

Praying don't sooth me nor comfort me any,

My house is too full and my blessings too

many—

The ways o' the wilderness puzzle me greatly.

SISTER TABITHA.

Do walk like a Christian, and keep kind o'

stately!

And jest keep an eye on those persons behind

you,

You call 'em your Wives, but they tease you and

blind you;

Sister Anne's a disgrace, tho' you think her a

martyr,

And she's tuck'd up her petticoat nigh to her

garter.

STRANGER

What group is this, begrim'd with dust and

heat,

Staring like strangers in the open street?

The women, ragged, wretched, and half dead,

Sit on the kerbstone hot and hang the head,

And clustering at their side stand children

brown,

Weary, with wondering eyes on the fair town.

Close by in knots beside the unhorsed team

The sunburn'd men stand talking in a dream,

For the vast tracts of country left behind

Seem now a haunting mirage in the mind.

Gaunt miners folding hands upon their breasts,

Big-jointed labourers looking ox-like down,

And sickly artizans with narrow chests

Still pallid from the smoke of English town.

Hard by to these a group of Teutons stand,

Light-hair'd, blue-eyed, still full of Fatherland,

With water-loving Northmen, who grow gay

To see the mimic sea gleam far away.

Now to this group, with a sharp questioning

face,

Cometh a holy magnate of the place

In decent black; shakes hands with some;

and then

Begins an eager converse with the men:

All brighten; even the children hush their cries,

And the pale women smile with sparkling eyes.

BISHOP.

The Prophet welcomes you, and sends

His message by my mouth, my friends;

He'll see you snug, for on this shore

There's heaps of room for millions more!..

Scotchman, I take it?.. Ah, I know

Glasgow—was there a year or so...

And if you don't from Yorkshire hail,

I'll—ah, I thought so; seldom fail.

Make yourselves snug and rest a spell,

There's liquor coming—meat as well.

All welcome! We keep open door—

Ah, we don't push away the poor;

Tho' he's a fool, you understand,

Who keeps poor long in this here land.

The land of honey you behold—

Honey and milk—silver and gold!

AN ARTIZAN

Ah, that's the style—Bess, just you hear it;

Come, come, old gal, keep up your spirit:

Silver and gold, and milk and honey,

This is the country for our money!

A GERMAN.

Es lebe die Stadt! es lebe dran!

Das heilige Leben steht mir an!

A NORTHMAN.

Taler du norske

BISHOP.

[Shaking his head. and turning with a wink to the

English.]

No, not me!

Saxon's the language of the free:

The language of the great Evangels!

The language of the Saints and Angels!

The only speech that Joseph knew!

The speech of him and Brigham too!

Only the speech by which we've thriven

Is comprehended up in Heaven!..

Poor heathens! but we'll make'em spry,

They'll talk like Christians by and by.

STRANGER

[Strolling out of the streets.]

From east, from west, from every worn-out land,

Yearly they stream to swell this busy band.

Out of the fever'd famine of the slums,

From sickness, shame, and sorrow, Lazarus comes,

Drags his sore limbs o'er half the world and sea,

Seeking for freedom and felicity.

The sewer of ignorance and shame and loss,

Draining old Europe of its dirt and dross,

Grows the great City by the will of God;

While wondrously out of the desert sod,

Nourished with lives unclean and weary hearts

The new faith like a splendid weed upstarts.

A splendid weed! rather a fair wild-flower,

Strange to the eye in its first birth of power,

But bearing surely in its breast the seeds

Of higher issues and diviner deeds.

Changed from Sahara to a fruitful vale

Fairer than ever grew in fairy tale,

Transmuted into plenteous field and glade

By the slow magic of the white man's spade,

Grows Deseret, filling its mighty nest

Between the eastern mountains and the west,

While—who goes there? What shape antique

looks down

From this green mound upon the festive town,

With tall majestic figure darkly set

Against the sky in dusky silhouette?

Strange his attire: a blanket edged with red

Wrapt royally around him; on his head

A battered hat of the strange modem sort

Which men have christened "chimney pots" in

sport;

Mocassins on his feet, fur-fringed and grand,

And a large green umbrella in his hand.

Pensive he stands with deep-lined dreamy face,

Last living remnant of the mighty race

Who on these hunting-fields for many a year

Chased the wild buffalo, and elk, and deer.

Heaven help him! In his mien grief and despair

Seem to contend, as he stands musing there;

Until he notices that I am nigh,

And lo! with outstretched hands and glistening

eye

Swift he descends—Does he mean mischief?

No;

He smiles and beckons as I turn to go.

INDIAN

Me Medicine Crow. White man gib drink to me.

Great chief; much squaw; papoose, sah, one,

two, three!

STRANGER

With what a leer, half wheedling and half winking,

The lost one imitates the act of drinking;

His nose already, to his woe and shame,

Carbuncled with the white man's liquid flame!

Well, I pull out my flask, and fill a cup

Of burning rum—how quick he gulps it up;

And in a moment in his trembling grip

Thrusts out the cup for more with thirsty lip.

But no!—already drunken past a doubt,

Degenerate nomad of the plains, get out!

[A railway whistle sounds in the far distance.]

Fire-hearted Demon tamed to human hand,

Rushing with smoky breath from land to land,

Screaming aloud to scare with rage and wrath

Primaeval ignorance before his path,

Dragging behind him as he runs along

His lilliputian masters, pale and strong,

With melancholy sound for plain and hill

Man's last Familiar Spirit whistles shrill.

Poor devil of the plains, now spent and frail,

Hovering wildly on the fatal trail,

Pass on!—there lies thy way and thine abode,

Get out of Jonathan thy master's road.

Where? anywhere!—he's not particular where,

So that you clear the road, he does not care;

Off, quick! clear out! ay, drink your fill and die;

And, since the Earth rejects you, try the Sky!

And see if He, who sent your white-faced

brother

To hound and drive you from this world you

bother,

Can find a comer for you in another!