The snow had fallen thick over everything; in the pale starlight the line of bluffs across the wide, white meadows south of the town made soft, smoke-colored curves against the clear sky. The men on the siding stood first on one foot and then on the other, their hands thrust deep into their trousers pockets, their overcoats open, their shoulders screwed up with the cold; and they glanced from time to time toward the southeast, where the railroad track wound along the river shore. They conversed in low tones and moved about restlessly, seeming uncertain as to what was expected of them. There was but one of the company who looked as though he knew exactly why he was there, and he kept conspicuously apart, walking to the far end of the platform, returning to the station door, then pacing up the track again, his chin sunk in the high collar of his overcoat, his burly shoulders drooping forward, his gait heavy and dogged.
Probably he helped it along with whisky. His face has grown red and is convulsed with anger. The others start involuntarily. Why is it that reputable young men are as scarce as millionaires in Sand City? It might almost seem to a stranger that there was some way something the matter with your progressive town.
Why did Ruben Sayer, the brightest young lawyer you ever turned out, after he had come home from the university as straight as a die, take to drinking and forge a check and shoot himself?
Why did young Adams burn his mill to beat the insurance companies and go to the pen? But the boys, worse luck, were young and raw at the business you put them to; and how could they match coppers with such artists as Phelps and Elder?
Lord, Lord, how you did hate him! Old Nimrod, here, thinks Harve drank too much; and this from such as Nimrod and me! Well, we can all remember the very tone in which brother Elder swore his own father was a liar, in the county court; and we all know that the old man came out of that partnership with his son as bare as a sheared lamb.
Harvey Merrick and I went to school together, back East. We were dead in earnest, and we wanted you all to be proud of us some day.
We meant to be great men. Well, I came back here and became the damned shyster you wanted me to be. The … the day he died … after the congestion of both lungs had shut off any possibility of recovery … Mr. Unfortunately, I see that he was right. I like an order funeral myself.
They seem more appropriate for people of some reputation. It is fully protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America, and of all countries covered by the International Copyright Union including the Dominion of Canada and the rest of the British Commonwealthand of all countries covered by the Pan-American Copyright convention and the Universal Copyright Convention, and of all countries with which the United States has reciprocal copyright relations.
All rights, including professional and amateur stage performing, motion picture, recitation, lecturing, public reading, radio broadcasting, television, video or sound taping, all other forms of mechanical or electronic reproduction, such as information storage and retrieval systems and photocopying, and the rights of translation into foreign languages, are strictly reserved.
Inquiries concerning all rights should be addressed to the author at sandmaster aol.The sculptor's splendid head seemed even more noble in its rigid stillness than in life. The dark hair had crept down upon the wide forehead; the face seemed strangely long, but in it there was not that beautiful and chaste repose which we expect to find in the faces of the dead.
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"The Sculptor's Funeral" is a short story by Willa Cather. It was first published in McClure's in Plot summary In a small-town Kansas, the body of Harvey Merrick, a famed sculptor, is brought back to his parents' house.
Only Jim Laird, Harvey's old friend, and Henry Steavens, his student have any real emotion. Uprooted from a well-ordered life in Virginia when she was nine, Willa Cather came of age in the West during the last years of the American frontier. She de. Willa Cather () was born in Virginia and raised on the Nebraska prairie.
She worked as a newspaper writer, teacher, and managing editor of McClure's magazine. In addition to My Antonia, her books include O Pioneers!