Like the Pilgrim Fathers.
When the Pilgrims landed in Plymouth Bay they met such a welcome of dreary desolation as the Mormons received in the Salt Lake Valley. As the Pilgrims crossed the Atlantic to find a land where they could practice their religion, so had the Mormons crossed the plains of the continent. But they must live. In all this wide mountain land no furrow had been turned. It was mid-summer and the wanderers had little to carry them through the approaching winter. They must close with the opportunity and stake all on the hazard. They put in crops and the seed baked in the hot earth or the frost came before anything could mature. They made huts to shelter themselves against the winter, built a wall to guard against Indian attacks (or was it the Christians they had fled from at Nauvoo) and pulled through until spring came, and then they went out upon the foothills and dug the roots of the sago lily for food. They planted and watered and saw their seed spring and saw crickets come down upon the green spots, like Missouri and Illinois Christians, and devour their hope. They fought crickets, made irrigating ditches, cleared off sage, increased their fields, smothered grasshoppers, praised the Lord and grew until, in five years, the valley had become a hive of busy human bees, not a drone among them all, and hundreds of baby bees crawling about the open doors of humble homes in which patient, plodding, hopeful, prayerful women were the grandest heroes of all. But the people crowded in so rapidly that for a dozen years or more all were harassed by hard want. Luxuries there were none. It was one long, ceaseless struggle to live. Women who came then as little girls have pictured to me the cheerless years of their young lives here when all were poor.