Tom Thomson Woodland Waterfall

slander on skilled crude but builders throughout the ages; if the sea had simply been left to pile the wood up it might have done a better job.
And, inside, an, into the diamond-bright morning. He was interested to see that he was still wearing a ghostly image of his ceremonial robe - stained and frayed, but still recognizable as having originally been a dark red plush with gold frogging - even though he was dead. Either your clothes died when you did, he thought, or maybe you just mentally dressed yourself from force of habit.
Habit also led him to the pile of driftwood beside the hut. When. he tried to gather a few sticks, though, his hands passed through them.
He swore. old man had just died. ‘Oh,’ he said. He opened his eyes and looked around the interior of the hut. He hadn’t seen it very clearly for the past ten years. Then he swung, if not his legs, then at least the memory of his legs off the pallet of sea-heather and stood up. Then he went outside