|THEY say that Brigham Young's grave is looking as bare and desolate as
a boulevard now. At first, while her grief was fresh, his widow used to
march out there five abreast, and just naturally deluge the grave with
scalding tears, and at that time the green grass grew luxuriantly, and
the pig-weed waved in the soft summer air; but as she learned to control
her emotions, the humidity of the atmosphere disappeared, and grief's
grand irrigation failed to give down. We should learn from this that the
man who flatters himself that in marrying a whole precinct during life,
he is piling up for the future a large invoice of ungovernable woe,
is liable to get left. The prophet's tomb looks to-day like a deserted
buffalo wallow, while his widow has dried her tears, and is trying to
make a mash on the Utah commission. Such is life in the far west, and
such the fitting resting place of a red-headed old galvanized prophet,
who marries a squint-eyed fly-up-the-creek, and afterward gets a special
revelation requiring him to marry a female mass-meeting. Let us be
thankful for what we have, instead of yearning for a great wealth of
wife. Then the life insurance will not have to be scattered so, and
our friends will be spared the humiliating spectacle of a bereft and
sorrowing herd of widow, turned loose by the cold hand of death to
monkey o'er our tomb.