From The Life Sketch of Mary Elizabeth Cox Whiting:

"We were prospered in Springville until 1876 when two of my boys, Albert and Charles were called to go and help colonize in Arizona. Accordingly, they fitted themselves with wagons and teams and started in February and settled on the Little Colorado near Sunset Crossing. Albert returned to Springville the same summer but Charles stayed until 1878 when he came back and spent the summer returning in the fall to Arizona. In the meantime, May's health was so poor and it was thought that a journey might do her good and with the encouragement of her father we fitted out and went with Charles. May was benefited by the move, but never entirely recovered her health and when in the spring of 1882, she wanted to return to Springville we again commenced the homeward journey. Alas the sands of life were too nearly exhausted and when we reached the Houserock Springs we stopped with brother Jedediah Adair who lived there at the time. They were so kind and though she lived only two or three days, it was a great comfort to be with friends. That was the one great trial of my life, but must acknowledge the hand of the Lord who doeth all things well but the loved earthly form is still resting there in the lonely grave."
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'THE SHRINE IN THE WASTELAND'
....Written by Bertha Anderson Kleinman

"There's a lonely mound in the Waste land
In the heart of the desert plain,
A grave that lies out in the twilight,
And under the falling rain.
Like a shrine to a loved one's Memory,
It stands in the solitude,
And the night winds whisper above it,
Like a prayer of beatitude.

There the monolith spire of House-Rock,
Like a sentinel guards the plain.
Like the tower of a vast Cathedral,
Like the shaft of a temple fan.
There the smoldering butwork watches,
And tempers the winds for her,
As the sifting sands of the desert
Drift over her sepulchre.

It was there in the early May time,
In the May of her sweet Young Age
That death's angel stood in the valley
And halted our pilgrimage.
And sweet May like a Maytime Blossom—
Like a lily smote from the stem—
Laid down in the heart of the prairie
And we left her to slumber with them.

There's a sweeter calm in the waste land,
There's a hush in the noonday glare,
There's a kindlier gleam in the star light,
Since we planted that dear one's shrine there;
There's a tender glow in the sunset
And the dawn like a crested wave
Floods over the desolation
To hallow that lonely grave.

The years have been long since we left her
To sleep on the hillside alone,
But Old House-Rock is staunch in his vigil
And dearer and dearer has grown
That desolate mound in the Wasteland,
And many the travelers who tread,
To strew their wild flowers above her,
And tell of the lonely one dead.

Today we have gathered around her
As sad recollections entwine,
Her kinsmen, her home folks, her loved ones,
As pilgrims come home to their shrine.
And our hearts shall be tender and fonder,
For the tear drops bedimming our eyes.
And our love shall be truer and stronger
As we mark the dear place where she lies.

God temper the wind and the tempest,
God's watch care be over the spot.
As the May times are mingled with the Ages,
And the races of men are forgot.
Sleep on in the heart of the Prairies,
Your slumber is safe in their care,
And the Gardens of God are more bright,
Since the star of your presence is there."
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