Why, the snow is two foot deep a'ready, and twenty foot in places.

I wonder whether that rogue of a Goad got home to Sylvester's ranch last night?
No fault of mine if he never did, for go he would in spite of me." I had not been thinking of Mr.Goad, and indeed I did not know his name until it was told in this way.

My mind was dwelling on my father's grave, where I used to love to sit and think; and I could not bear the idea of the cold snow lying over it, with nobody coming to care for him.
Kind hands had borne him down the mountains (while I lay between life and death) and buried him in the soft peach orchard, in the soothing sound of the mill-wheel.

Here had been planted above his head a cross of white un-painted wood, bearing only his initials, and a small "Amen" below them.
With this I was quite content, believing that he would have wished no better, being a very independent man, and desirous of no kind of pomp.
There was no "consecrated ground" within miles and miles of traveling; but I hoped that he might rest as well with simple tears to hallow it.
For often and often, even now, I could not help giving way and sobbing, when I thought how sad it was that a strong, commanding, mighty man, of great will and large experience, should drop in a corner of the world and die, and finally be thought lucky--when he could think for himself no longer--to obtain a tranquil, unknown grave, and end with his initials, and have a water-wheel to sing to him.

Many a time it set me crying, and made me long to lie down with him, until I thought of earth-worms.
All that could be done was done by Sampson and Firm Gundry, to let me have my clear path, and a clear bourne at the end of it.