correct thing to eat hot popcorn, and snooze
on the return trip. We get the popcorn at the pavilion, put up in
attractive little bags, and it is always crisp and delicious. Just
imagine a long open car full of people, each man, woman, and child
greedily munching the tender corn! By the time one bag full has been
eaten, heads begin to wobble, and soon there is a "Land of Nod"--real
nod, too. Some days, when the air is particularly soft and balmy,
everyone in the car will be oblivious of his whereabouts. Not one stop
is made from the lake to the city.

Faye and I were at the lake almost a week--Garfield Beach the bathing
place is called---so I could make a few water-color drawings early in
the morning, when the tints on the water are so pearly and exquisitely
delicate. During the day the lake is usually a wonderful blue--deep
and brilliant--and the colors at sunset are past description. The sun
disappears back of the Oquirah Mountains in a world of glorious yellow
and orange, and as twilight comes on, the mountains take on violet and
purple shades that become deeper and deeper, until night covers all from
sight.

There was not a vacant room at Garfield Beach, so they gave us two large
rooms at Black Rock--almost one mile away, but on the car line. The
rooms were in a low, long building, that might easily be mistaken for
soldiers' barracks, and which had broad verandas with low roofs all
along both sides. That queer building had been built by Brigham Young
for his seven wives! It consisted of seven apartments of two rooms each,
a sitting room and sleeping room; all the sitting rooms were on one
side, opening out upon the one veranda, and the bedrooms were on the
other side and opened out upon the other veranda. These apartments did
not connect in any way, except by the two porches. Not far from that
building was another that had once been the dining room and kitchen
of the seven wives. These mormon women must be simply idiotic, or have
their tempers under good control!

It was all most interesting and a remarkable experience to have lived
in one of Brigham Young's very own houses. But the place was
ghostly--lonesome beyond everything--and when the wind moaned and sighed
through the rooms one could fancy it was the wailing of the spirits
of those seven wretched wives. When we returned at night to the dark,
unoccupied building, it seemed more spooky than ever, after the
music and light at Garfield Beach. Our meals were s