Plaque 17

The youngest son lived all his life here at The Rand. In moonlight, he'd climb up and yodel for his Mother from Mahogany, and gather wild rose for her hands. Alone they lived, 'til she died at almost 93. He prayed, Allwise and righteous Father as his hands broke bread, and knew great books lie. Goethe as the millers shadowed 'round the lanternlight and listened while he read: What are our dreams but ashes, what are our hopes but dust? He never locked the door. Whatever wayfarer arrived, was welcomed. Plumbing was the old pipe ditch. Instinctively, Joe found his missing lambs, or talked his horses to his side. His stock ranged from the head of Snake Creek to the damn. He drove his sheep down Provo Canyon to the desert west, then back in summertime, by saddle, and a pari of spurs he never wore. His closest brother, Nephi, Having been invited once to hunt, acquired a gun and fired 18 times, choosing to miss. The stag ran free. Joseph and Nephi would sing duets, and seldom made decisions if the disagreed. They fed the deer that wintered here on Huber's porch. Joseph would go to Europe, and spend evenings in Vienna at the Opera House when he was not imprisoned for his faith. (1907) After East Prussian banished him, he traveled to St. Petersburg and saw the Palace of the Czar. He was an actor and directed dramas for the youth. he never scolded, never swore. Dressed with a watchchain on his vested suit, and emptying a Sen-Sen box, he was Director of Federal Land Bank and of Wasatch Loan and Livestock too. Companioned by the living things that gathered to him, liek the sheepdog always at his knee, contentment dressed his soul; he never wanted more.