In one of my books there is a mother who is setting off with her son for the town to which he had been called as minister, and she pauses on the threshold to ask him anxiously if he thinks her bonnet 'sets' her.

A reviewer said she acted thus, not because she cared how she looked, but for the sake of her son.

This, I remember, amused my mother very much.
I have seen many weary on-dings of snow, but the one I seem to recollect best occurred nearly twenty years before I was born.

It was at the time of my mother's marriage to one who proved a most loving as he was always a well-loved husband, a man I am very proud to be able to call my father.
I know not for how many days the snow had been falling, but a day came when the people lost heart and would make no more gullies through it, and by next morning to do so was impossible, they could not fling the snow high enough.

Its back was against every door when Sunday came, and none ventured out save a valiant few, who buffeted their way into my mother's home to discuss her predicament, for unless she was 'cried' in the church that day she might not be married for another week, and how could she be cried with the minister a field away and the church buried to the waist?
For hours they talked, and at last some men started for the church, which was several hundred yards distant.