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"Is this the house of the widow Gloverson!" the Mormon asked. "It is," said Susan. "And how many is there of she?" inquired the Mormon. "There is about twenty of her, including me," courteously returned the fair Susan. "Can I see her?" "You can." "Madam," he softly said, addressing the twenty disconsolate widows. "I have seen part of you before!
Gloverson, when I took possession of these rooms, that no matter how warm it might be, a breeze had a way of blowing into them, and that they were, withal, quite countryfied; but I am bound to say, Mrs. Gloverson, that there was nothing about them that ever reminded me, in the remotest degree, of daisies or new-mown hay. Thus, with sarcasm, do I smash the deceptive Gloverson.
"So I see," she said; "where's the mules?" Alas! Reginald Gloverson could give no answer. In vain the heart-stricken mother threw herself upon his inanimate form, crying, "Oh, my son my son! Only tell me where the mules are, and then you may die if you want to." In vain in vain! Reginald had passed on. The mules were never found.
A manly Mormon, one evening, as the sun was preparing to set among a select apartment of gold and crimson clouds in the western horizon although for that matter the sun has a right to "set" where it wants to, and so, I may add has a hen a manly Mormon, I say, tapped gently at the door of the mansion of the late Reginald Gloverson. The door was opened by Mrs. Sarah Gloverson.
The morning on which Reginald Gloverson was to leave Great Salt Lake City with a mule-train, dawned beautifully. Reginald Gloverson was a young and thrifty Mormon, with an interesting family of twenty young and handsome wives. His unions had never been blessed with children.
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