I had quite forgotten the wedding yesterday! It was at Fort Bridger, and the bride, a daughter of the post trader, is related to several families of social position at Omaha. We put on the very prettiest gowns we had with us, but the effect was disappointing, for our red faces looked redder than ever above delicate laces and silks. The ceremony was at noon—was very pretty—and everything passed off beautifully. The breakfast was delicious, and we wondered at the dainty dishes served so far from a caterer. The house was not large, and every bit of air had been shut out by darkening the windows, but we were spared the heat and smell of lamps on the hot day by the rooms being lighted by hundreds of candles, each one with a pretty white shade. But some of us felt smothered, and as soon as the affair was over, started immediately for the camp, where we could have exhilarating mountain air once more.
It was really one whole day stolen from our outing! We can always have crowded rooms, receptions, and breakfasts, wherever we happen to be in the East, but when again will we be in a glorious camp like this—and our days here are to be so few! From here we are to go to Salt Lake City for a week or two.
THE WALKER HOUSE, SALT LAKE CITY, UTAH. September, 1888.
THE weather is still very warm, but not hot enough to keep us from going to the lake as usual this morning. The ride is about eighteen miles long, and is always more or less pleasant. The cars, often long trains, are narrow gauge, open, and airy. The bathing is delightful, but wholly unlike anything to be found elsewhere. The wonderfully clear water is cool and exhilarating, but to swim in it is impossible, it is so heavy from its large percentage of salt. So every one floats, but not at all as one floats in other waters. We lie upon our backs, of course—at least we think we do—but our feet are always out of the water, and our heads straight up, with large straw hats upon them.
They have a way of forming human chains on the water that often startles one at first. They are made by hooking one's arms close to the shoulder over the ankles of another person, still another body hooking on to you, and so on. Then each one will stretch his or her arms out and paddle backward, and in this way we can go about without much effort, and can see all the funny things going on around us. As I am rather tall, second position in a chain is almost always given to me, and my first acquaintance with masculine toes close to my face came very near being disastrous. The feet stood straight up, and the toes looked so very funny, with now and then a twitch back or front, that soon I wanted to laugh, and the more I tried not to the more hysterical I became. My shoulders were shaking, and the owner of the toes—a pompous man—began to suspect that I was laughing and probably at the toes. Still he continued to twist them around—one under the other—in an astonishing way, that made them fascinating. The head of the chain—the pompous man—became ominously silent. At last I said, almost sobbing, "Can't you see for yourself how funny all those things are in front of us? They look like wings in their pin-feather stage—only they are on the wrong side—and I am wondering if the black stockings would make real black wings—and what some of us would do with them, after all!" After that there was less pompous dignity and less hysteria, although the toes continued to wigwag.
It is a sight that repays one to watch, when dozens of these chains—some long, some short—are paddling about on the blue water that is often without a ripple. It is impossible to drown, for sink in it you cannot, but to get the brine in one's nose and throat is dangerous, as it easily causes strangulation, particularly if the person is at all nervous. We wear little bits of cotton in our ears to prevent the water from getting in, for the crust of salt it would leave might cause intense pain.
Bathing in water so salt makes one both hungry and sleepy, therefore it is considered quite the correct thing to eat hot popcorn, and snooze on the return trip. We get the popcorn at the pavilion, put up in attractive little bags, and it is always crisp and delicious. Just imagine a long open car full of people, each man, woman, and child greedily munching the tender corn! By the time one bag full has been eaten, heads begin to wobble, and soon there is a "Land of Nod"—real nod, too. Some days, when the air is particularly soft and balmy, everyone in the car will be oblivious of his whereabouts. Not one stop is made from the lake to the city.
Faye and I were at the lake almost a week—Garfield Beach the bathing place is called—-so I could make a few water-color drawings early in the morning, when the tints on the water are so pearly and exquisitely delicate. During the day the lake is usually a wonderful blue—deep and brilliant—and the colors at sunset are past description. The sun disappears back of the Oquirah Mountains in a world of glorious yellow and orange, and as twilight comes on, the mountains take on violet and purple shades that become deeper and deeper, until night covers all from sight.
There was not a vacant room at Garfield Beach, so they gave us two large rooms at Black Rock—almost one mile away, but on the car line. The rooms were in a low, long building, that might easily be mistaken for soldiers' barracks, and which had broad verandas with low roofs all along both sides. That queer building had been built by Brigham Young for his seven wives! It consisted of seven apartments of two rooms each, a sitting room and sleeping room; all the sitting rooms were on one side, opening out upon the one veranda, and the bedrooms were on the other side and opened out upon the other veranda. These apartments did not connect in any way, except by the two porches. Not far from that building was another that had once been the dining room and kitchen of the seven wives. These mormon women must be simply idiotic, or have their tempers under good control!
It was all most interesting and a remarkable experience to have lived in one of Brigham Young's very own houses. But the place was ghostly—lonesome beyond everything—and when the wind moaned and sighed through the rooms one could fancy it was the wailing of the spirits of those seven wretched wives. When we returned at night to the dark, unoccupied building, it seemed more spooky than ever, after the music and light at Garfield Beach. Our meals were served to us at the restaurant at the pavilion. I made some very good sketches of the lake, Antelope Island, and a number of the wonderful Black Rock that is out in the lake opposite the Brigham Young house.