by Willa Cather
Years afterward, when the open-grazing days were over, and the red grasshad been ploughed under and under until it had almost disappeared from theprairie; when all the fields were under fence, and the roads no longer ranabout like wild things, but followed the surveyed section-lines, Mr.Shimerda's grave was still there, with a sagging wire fence around it, andan unpainted wooden cross. As grandfather had predicted, Mrs. Shimerdanever saw the roads going over his head. The road from the north curved alittle to the east just there, and the road from the west swung out alittle to the south; so that the grave, with its tall red grass that wasnever mowed, was like a little island; and at twilight, under a new moonor the clear evening star, the dusty roads used to look like soft grayrivers flowing past it. I never came upon the place without emotion, andin all that country it was the spot most dear to me. I loved the dimsuperstition, the propitiatory intent, that had put the grave there; andstill more I loved the spirit that could not carry out the sentence--theerror from the surveyed lines, the clemency of the soft earth roads alongwhich the home-coming wagons rattled after sunset. Never a tired driverpassed the wooden cross, I am sure, without wishing well to the sleeper.