Ernest Hemingway

“ We stopped in the road and watched the sexton shovelling in the new earth. A peasant with a black beard and high leather boots stood beside the grave. The sexton stopped shovelling and straightened his back. The peasant in the high boots took the spade from the sexton and went on filling in the grave—spreading the earth evenly as a man spreading manure in a garden. In the bright May morning the grave-filling looked unreal. I could not imagine any one being dead. ”

“ John said. “It goes too fast for me.”
“That peasant,” the innkeeper said, “to-day he brought his wife in to be buried. She died last November.”
“December,” said the sexton.
“That makes nothing. She died last December then, and he notified the commune.”
“December eighteenth,” said the sexton.
“Anyway, he couldn’t bring her over to be buried until the snow was gone.”
“He lives on the other side of the Paznaun,” said the sexton. “But he belongs to this parish.”
“He couldn’t bring her out at all?” I asked.
“No. He can only come, from where he lives, on skis until the snow melts. ”

“ Beside him sat the cook.
“Ski-heil!” said the innkeeper.
“Heil!” we said and leaned the skis against the wall and took off our packs.
“How was it up above?” asked the innkeeper.
“Schön. A little too much sun.”
“Yes. There’s too much sun this time of year.”
The cook sat on in his chair. The innkeeper went in with us and unlocked his office and brought out our mail. There was a bundle of letters and some papers.
“Let’s get some beer,” John said.
“Good. We’ll drink it inside.”
The proprietor brought two bottles and we drank them while we read the letters. ”