It was past the middle of December, and the cold was so intense that, in spite of well packing, our food was frozen hard, bread and all, and although a blazing fire was burning on one side of the room, we could not get to it to thaw our suppers, and had to resort to the next expediency, which was this: The boys milked, and while one strained the milk, another held the pan (for there was no chance for putting anything down); then, while one held a bowl of the warm milk, another would, as expeditiously as possible, thinly slice the frozen bread into it, and thus we managed for supper. In the morning, we were less crowded, as some started very early, and we toasted our bread and thawed our meat before the fire. But, withal, that was a very merry night. None but saints can be happy under every circumstance. About twenty feet from the house was a shed, in the centre of which the brethren built a roaring fire, around which some of them stood and sang songs and hymns all night, while others parched corn and roasted frosted potatoes, etc. Not a complaint was heard--all were cheerful, and judging from appearances, strangers would have taken us to be pleasure excursionists rather than a band of gubernatorial exiles. After the mobbing commenced, although my father had purchased, and had on hand, plenty of wheat, he could get none ground, and we were under the necessity of grating corn for our bread on graters made of tin-pails and stove-pipe. I will here insert a few extracts from a long poem I wrote while in Davies county, as follows: 'Twas autumn--Summer's melting breath was gone, And Winter's gelid blast was stealing on; To meet its dread approach, with anxious care The houseless saints were struggling to prepare; When round about a desperate mob arose, Like tigers waking from a night's repose; They came like hordes from nether shades let loose-- Men without hearts, just fit for Satan's use! With wild, demoniac rage they sallied forth, Resolved to drive the saints of God from earth. Hemm'd in by foes--deprived the use of mill, Necessity inspires their patient skill; Tin-pails and stove-pipe, from their service torn, Are changed to graters to prepare the corn, That Nature's wants may barely be supplied-- They ask no treat, no luxury beside. But, where their shelter? Winter hastens fast; Can tents and wagons stem this northern blast? The scene presented in the city of Far West, as we stopped over night on our way to our temporary location, was too important to be omitted, and too sad to narrate. Joseph Smith, and many other prominent men, had been dragged to prison. Their families, having been plundered, were nearly or quite destitute--some living on parched corn, others on boiled wheat; and desolation seemed inscribed on everything but the hearts of the faithful saints. In the midst of affliction, they trusted in God.