We entered the Mormon country not long after we left Mesa Verde and turned north again into Utah. Here once more we had desert, villainous prairie roads, utter loneliness, with vista of foothills of the Rockies guarding our route. We drove hard and camped where midnight found us, or, too weary to spread our tent, went still further to the next one of the miserably equipped towns in rural Utah, where we had the benefit of rickety bedsprings and stifling bedrooms. It was cherry time, and each warm day we blessed Brigham Young for his foresight in encouraging the growth of fruit trees. The Mormons were the earliest in the West to understand the use of irrigation. Their villages, slatternly as to buildings, nestle in lanes and avenues of poplar and cottonwood, and their gardens bear all manner of fruit. They are good providers, too, in this rural desert, and at noon sharp, when we stopped doubtfully at some unpainted shack, bearing the sign Café, we were astonished at the abundance of wholesome country food spread on the long table. We sat among a group of overalled men, who ate in silence, except for the sounds of mastication. “Help yourself, Brother Smith. Brother Thacher, you aint eatin’ today,” the ample goddess who presided over the stove in the corner of the room would encourage her patrons. At the close of the meal, whether we had consumed one or six helpings of the cheese, the meat pie, the ham, the raspberries and stoned cherries with rich country cream in quart pitchers, the apple pie and chocolate cake, we wiped our fingers on napkins well used to such treatment, paid our “six bits” and departed, our parting “Good-day” being answered with caution. Through such country, uninhabited for long stretches, we were driving one evening, hoping to reach Green River forty miles north. Though with filial respect we often remembered the last injunction of Toby’s parent, we were frequently obliged to postpone fulfilling it, till a more convenient occasion. Tonight we had to choose between making a barren camp in open prairie and pushing on to the nearest hotel. A dry camp made after dark represents the height of discomfort, so we chose the alternative. Our route lay over a waste of sand,--that portion of the desert which claims central Utah. For several miles we followed the wretched little prairie tracks, but finally, to our great joy, we struck into a broad state road in perfect condition, raised above the floor of the desert by several feet. We made marvelous speed. Who would have expected to find a boulevard in the heart of rural Utah?