It was only one splendid breath they had, in spite of their brave mockery at the winter outside the glass; and it was a losing game in the end, it se… - Willa Cather

Avarice, he assured them, was the one passion that grew stronger and sweeter in old age.

Old people, who have felt blows and toil and known the world's hard hand, need, even more than children do, a woman's tenderness.

There were no clouds, the sun was going down in a limpid, gold-washed sky. Just as the lower edge of the red disk rested on the high fields against the horizon, a great black figure suddenly appeared on the face of the sun. We sprang to our feet, straining our eyes toward it. In a moment we realized what it was. On some upland farm, a plough had been left standing in the field. The sun was sinking just behind it. Magnified across the distance by the horizontal light, it stood out against the sun, was exactly contained within the circle of the disk; the handles, the tongue, the share — black against the molten red. There it was, heroic in size, a picture writing on the sun.