On November 17th, I wrote to my daughter Lydia: "I am glad that Brother A—— and H—— have gone back to Leeds. All who come to Orderville hankering for 'leeks and onions, and the flesh pots of Egypt' will assuredly be dissatisfied, and go away. It requires faith to enable a person to overcome selfishness; and all who gather there expecting to be made the lead horse in the team will be disappointed. And when the disappointment comes, it will cause them to feel that the water is not good, and they will sigh for the soft streams of Ramaliah, and prefer to labor in the brick kilns of Pharaoh on the shores of the Silver Reef.
"There is one thing that I desire to see changed at Orderville: that is the school system. How long shall we be penny-wise, and pound-foolish? The best man, the wisest, the one who wields the most influence in the community, should be placed at the head of the school department. It wants a man of good government, a man filled with the Spirit of God. Then will our children advance in mental culture and spiritual development; keeping pace with the spiritual growth so nobly manifested at Orderville.
"You are now fifteen years of age—in stature a woman. The mind ought to develop with the body. Cultivate a taste for good reading. Write as much as you can. Be sure never to walk out nights. Keep company with no man who presumes to take liberties with a lady. Guard your chastity and virtue as you would your life. Robbed of that, you are robbed indeed.
"I believe there is not a man or woman in Orderville who would, upon reflection, do a sinful act; but all are tempted, and in a thoughtless moment good people sometimes fall. Sin brings us under bondage. Purity is perpetuated only by eternal vigilance. In the beautiful morning of life guide your feet far from the paths of wantonness, and keep the lamp of prudence burning in your heart; so shall you end your days in peace."
On Thursday, November 22nd, we walked twelve miles to John Hatt's, Chalcutt Hill, Wilts. The walk was made disagreeable by heavy showers of rain, and terrific gales of wind. Sister Hatt is a tall, healthy-looking woman, fifty-four years of age, and the mother of fourteen living children. On November 23rd, I received from Sister M. A. Tippitts, a view of Swanage, Isle of Purbeck. On the back of the card I wrote the following lines, then sent it to my wife Albina:
"This beautiful isle, the isle of Purbeck,
To look on the map, is but a mere speck,
But once reach the shore, set foot on the land,
You'll find it as large as the palm of your hand.
And the surface as green—as green-sward can be,
From the crown of the hill to the shore of the sea—
While cottage and palace erected by man.
Add beauty and polish to nature's first plan.
How grand and sublime are the works of our God,
From mountain and dale, to flower and sod!
The streams of pure water, the bird in the air,
The life and the light we see everywhere!
The heart must be happy—how can it be sad?
When the beast and the bird, and all things are glad?
And I too, am happy—yet thinking of thee
I wish I could walk on the waves of the sea,
Or fly through the air with the speed of a dove,
To my home in the west, to the friends that I love.
Though our clay hills are naked, and valleys are bare,
Yet the spirit of freedom is hovering there;
While here the strong hand of oppression is seen
Clouding the glory of Nature's bright scenes—
Then blest be the day, and happy the hour
When I can return to Freedom's fair bower."
November 24th, we visited Sister Mary Hatt, who has been suffering for twenty-seven years with rheumatism. Her hands and feet are sadly deformed, her legs doubled up, and her arms crooked; for three years she has been bedfast, and not able to feed herself. She is eighty-seven years old, yet retains all the powers of her mind. She knows fifty Latter-day Saint hymns by heart, and can repeat many chapters of the Book of Mormon. She never murmurs, but rather is cheerful and happy, waiting for death to set her free. We had a pleasant talk with her, blessed her, and returned to our lodgings feeling well paid for our six mile walk.
On Saturday, December 1, 1877, I visited the so-called White Horse of Westbury. The picture is made by cutting away the green turf and exposing the underlying white chalk, on the brow of a hill that can be seen for many miles around. At a distance, the horse looks as natural as life. After I had taken measurements, I wrote to my little son Ferra:
"The White Horse of Westbury."
I saw a horse upon the plain,
A horse of great renown;
His equal I have never seen
Walking above the ground.
Most beautiful in form and limb,
His skin of spotless snow,
I longed to be upon his back,
But could not make him go.
This horse in size is hard to beat—
From nose to tail I measure—
It is one hundred and seventy feet;
Now isn't he a treasure?
To know the height we stretched a line
From hoof to top of shoulder—
One hundred and twenty feet we find,
And he's daily growing older!
A horse so big I'm sure would make
A team for any man—
E'en Jacobs thinks he'd cut a wake
If he but owned a span.
And so would I, you bet your hat,
I'd have a jolly bust—
I'd take him down to London town
And swap him off for dust.
I'd want a penny for each hour
That he has stood alone—
I'd want a crown for every pound
Of flesh, without a bone;
Or I would sell him by his age—
(Not sell him as he runs)
For he has stood a thousand years,
Exposed to rains and suns!
He stands erect upon the hill,
As proud as proud can be,
To mark the place where Alfred wise
Gained his great victory.
For whip or spur he will not budge,
And yet he will not balk.
This is a fact, and not a fudge,
For he is made of chalk.