kempt. It is choked with dust and stones. The few scattered blades of grass look rather ashamed to be seen growing there. A great many of the headstones are of wood and are in a shameful state of decay. Those that are of stone are still more shameful in their hard brightness.
The dry, warped friends of the dry, warped people of Butte are buried in this dusty, dreary, wind-havocked waste. They are left here and forgotten.
The Devil must rejoice in this graveyard.
And I rejoice with the Devil.
It is something for me to contemplate that is more pitiable than I and my sand and barrenness and my unnatural stream.
I rejoice with the Devil.
The inhabitants of this cemetery are forgotten. I have watched once the burying of a young child. Every day for a fortnight afterward I came back, and I saw the mother of the child there.
