But we did no other smilin’ as we travelled day or night;
And once in every hour
Some one went into the bower,
And reported the receptacle of Davis was all right.
But when four days were past,
Which we still were flyin’ fast,
Goshen Wheeler, very solemn, with expression to us cries,
“Where we are it should be freezin’
And our very breaths a-squeezin’,
Whereas the air is hot enough to bake persimmon pies.