Rood, from Wisconsin; th e Rev. James McCormick, missionary, who
distributes pasteboard tracts among the Bannock miners; and the
pleasing child of gore, Captain D. B. Stover, of the commissary
department.

We go away on wheels, but the deep snow compels us to substitute
runners twelve miles out.

There are four passengers of us. We pierce the Wahsatch mountains
by Parley's canyon.

A snowstorm overtakes us as the night thickens, and the wind
shrieks like a brigade of strong-lunged maniacs. Never mind. We
are well covered up- our cigars are good. I have on deerskin
pantaloons, a deerskin overcoat, a beaver cap and buffalo
overshoes; and so, as I tersely observed before, Never mind. Let
us laugh the winds to scorn, brave boys! But why is William
Glover, driver, lying flat on his back by the roadside; and why am
I turning a handspring in the road; and why are the horses tearing
wildly down the Wahsatch mountains? It is because William Glover
has been thrown from his seat, and the horses are running away. I
see him fall off and it occurs to me I had better get out. In
doing so, such is the velocity of the sleigh, I turn a handspring.

Far ahead I hear the runners clash with the rocks, and I see Dr.
Hingston's lantern (he always would have a lantern), bobbing about
like the binnacle light of an oyster sloop, very loose in a choppy
sea. Therefore I do not laugh the winds to scorn as much as I did,
brave boys.