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.