One day it was raining hard, and the creeks soon became swollen. On coming to a large stream, we were confronted with the awkward fact that Brother Naylor could not swim. Near by, however, stood a Catholic village and I went from house to house, beseeching the people to let us stay until the water went down. But they all refused, saying their priest had told them we were false prophets, and that God would be displeased if they took us into their homes. Coming back to our outfit, I took our hats, coats, and shoes, and tying them firmly to the saddle, fastened one end of my stake-rope around the mule's neck; then going up stream the length of the rope, I plunged in and swam across. Brother Naylor held to the mule's tail with both hands, while I pulled both mule and missionary through the rushing flood, much to the amusement of a hundred people who had come to see us make the dangerous passage. Brother Naylor had on a pair of white linen pants, which had too long done good service. As we walked on in our wet clothes, I noticed that his trousers were bursting in strips. They soon looked like a bifurcated dishrag, and taking them off, he threw them away. For the next week we had but one pair of pants between us. He was five inches taller than I; and when he would put on my nether garments to take the air, as he did every day he would look comical. Want of clothing was not our only privation those days; we often suffered for want of food. I have walked many a day along the sea shore, gathering moss off the rocks to satisfy my hunger. But these things were as trifles to us; for we were rich in the Spirit of the Lord. Chapter 12. Hear of Parley P. Pratt's Death.--Buchanan Sends Harney to Utah.--Letter from Brigham Young. On Tuesday, August 25, 1857, I learned from the Western Standard of the death of Apostle Parley P. Pratt. I was deeply moved by the news. He had been cruelly murdered by Mr. McLain, the man with whom I had lived a month while in San Francisco. I wrote the following humble lines, and only regret that my tribute is not more like the noble man whose untimely fate I mourned: He was fifty years old--how little he dreamt That his hours of life were so nearly spent, Bright visions inspired his bosom with hope, And nerved his arm to successfully cope With the powers of darkness; and he broke The bands of tradition with a master stroke. But few have battled as manful as he, Or braved the perils of land and sea, Or slept in dungeons loaded with chains, By a Prophet's side, sharing his pains.