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 thrify Mormon,
with an interesting family of twenty young
and handsome wives. His unions had never been
blessed with children. As often as once a year he
used to go to Omaha, in Nebraska, with a mule-train
for goods: but although he had performed the
rather perilous journey many times with entire
safety, his heart was strangely sad on this particular
morning, and filled with gloomy forebodings.

The time for his departure had arrived. The
high-spirited mules were at the door, impatiently

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champing their bits. The Mormon stood sadly
among his weeping wives.

“Dearest ones,” he said, “I am singularly sad
at heart, this morning; but do not let this depress
you. The journey is a perilous one, but—pshaw!
I have always come back safely heretofore, and why
should I fear? Besides, I know that every night,
as I lay down on the broad starlit prairie, your
bright faces will come to me in my dreams, and
make my slumbers sweet and gentle. You, Emily,
with your mild blue eyes; and you, Henrietta, with
your splendid black hair; and you, Nelly, with
your hair so brightly, beautifully golden; and you,
Mollie, with your cheeks so downy; and you, Bet-sey,
with your wine-red lips—far more delicious,
though, than any wine I ever tasted—and you,
Maria, with your winsome voice; and you, Susan,
with your—with your—that is to say, Susan, with
your—and the other thirteen of you, each so good
and beautiful, will come to me in sweet dreams, will
you not, Dearestists?”

“Our own,” they lovingly chimed, “we will!”

“And so farewell!” cried Reginald. “Come to

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my arms, my own!” he said, “that is, as many of
you as can do it conveniently at once, for I must
away.”

He folded several of them to his throbbing breast,
and drove sadly away.

But he had not gone far when the trace of the
off-hind mule became unhitched. Dismounting, he
essayed to adjust the trace; but ere he had fairly
commenced the task, the mule, a singularly refractory
animal—snorted wildly, and kicked Reginald
frightfully in the stomach. He arose with difficulty,
and tottered feebly towards his mother's house,
which was near by, falling dead in her yard, with
the remark, “Dear Mother, I've come home to die!”

“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.

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