I hope this sad end will be a warning to all young wives who go out walking with handsome young men. Mr. Kimball's son is now no more. He sleeps beneath the cypress, the myrtle, and the willow. The music is a dirge by the eminent pianist for Mr. Kimball's son. He died by request. I regret to say that efforts were made to make a Mormon of me while I was in Utah. It was leap-year when I was there, and seventeen young widows, the wives of a deceased Mormon, offered me their hearts and hands. I called on them one day, and, taking their soft white hands in mine, which made eighteen hands altogether, I found them in tears, and I said, "Why is this thus? What is the reason of this thusness?" They hove a sigh--seventeen sighs of different size. They said: "O, soon thou wilt be gonested away!" I told them that when I got ready to leave a place I wentested. They said, "Doth not like us?" I said, "I doth--I doth." I also said, "I hope your intentions are honorable, as I am a lone child, my parents being far--far away." Then they said, "Wilt not marry us?" I said, "O, no, it cannot was!" Again they asked me to marry them, and again I declined, when they cried, "O, cruel man! this is too much! O, too much!" I told them that it was on account of the muchness that I declined. . . . (_Pointing to Panorama_) A more cheerful view of the desert. The wild snow-storms have left us and we have thrown our wolf-skin overcoats aside. Certain tribes of far-western Indians bury their distinguished dead by placing them high in air and covering them with valuable furs. That is a very fair representation of those mid-air tombs. Those animals are horses. I know they are, because my artist says so. I had the picture two years before I discovered the fact. The artist came to me about six months ago and said, "It is useless to disguise it from you any longer, they are horses." It was while crossing this desert that I was surrounded by a band of Ute Indians. They were splendidly mounted. They were dressed in beaver-skins, and they were armed with rifles, knives, and pistols. What could I do? What could a poor old orphan do? I'm a brave man. The day before the battle of Bull's Run I stood in the highway while the bullets--those dreadful messengers of death--were passing all around me thickly--in wagons--on their way to the battle-field. But there were too many of these Injuns. There were forty of them, and only one of me, and so I said: "Great chief, I surrender." His name was Wocky-bocky. He dismounted and approached me. I saw his tomahawk glisten in the morning sunlight. Fire was in his eye. Wocky-bocky came very close (_Pointing to Panorama_) to me and seized me by the hair of my head. He mingled his swarthy fingers with my golden tresses, and he rubbed his dreadful tomahawk across my lily-white face. He said: "Torsha arrah darrah mishky bookshean!" I told him he was right.