I dance.
The Saints address each other here, as elsewhere, as Brother and Sister. "This way, Sister!" "Where are you going, Brother?" &c., &c. I am called Brother Ward. This pleases me, and I dance with renewed vigor.
The Prophet has some very charming daughters, several of whom are present to-night.
I was told they spoke French and Spanish.
The Prophet is more industrious than graceful as a dancer. He exhibits, however, a spryness of legs quite remarkable in a man at his time of life. I didn't see Heber C. Kimball on the floor. I am told he is a loose and reckless dancer, and that many a lily-white toe has felt the crushing weight of his cow-hide monitors.
The old gentleman is present, however, with a large number of wives. It is said he calls them his "heifers."
"Ain't you goin' to dance with some of my wives?" said a Mormon to me.
These things make a Mormon ball more spicy than a Gentile one.
The supper is sumptuous, and bear and beaver adorn the bill of fare.
I go away at the early hour of two in the morning. The moon is shining brightly on the snow-covered streets. The lamps are out, and the town is still as a graveyard.