Nick looked straight ahead brilliantly.

Nick’s father went ahead with the lamp.

Ahead lay the scalloped ocean and the abounding blessed isles.

Arrogant, swinging, they looked straight ahead as they marched.

Ahead were the lights of the shanties where the Indian bark-peelers lived.

He spoke very angrily and bitterly, and looked straight ahead while he talked.

Nick heard the oarlocks of the other boat quite a way ahead of them in the mist.

Ahead there was a railway crossing, and as we came toward it the gates went down.

The others went on ahead of him down to the lake shore where the logs were buried in the sand.

The Indian who was rowing them was working very hard, but the other boat moved further ahead in the mist all the time.

There was nothing but the pine plain ahead of him, until the far blue hills that marked the Lake Superior height of land.

He ate the sandwiches and dipped his hat full of water to drink, the water running out through his hat just ahead of his drinking.

He was a small man and he sat straight up in his chair with his right hand thrust into the machine and looked straight ahead at the wall while the straps thumped up and down with his fingers in them.

I’d go ahead of him when we hit the road and I could run pretty stout and I’d look around and he’d be jogging easy just behind me and after a little while I’d look around again and he’d begun to sweat.

Years before when he had fished crowded streams, with fly fishermen ahead of him and behind him, Nick had again and again come on dead trout, furry with white fungus, drifted against a rock, or floating belly up in some pool.

He sat on the logs, smoking, drying in the sun, the sun warm on his back, the river shallow ahead entering the woods, curving into the woods, shallows, light glittering, big water-smooth rocks, cedars along the bank and white birches, the logs warm in the sun, smooth to sit on, without bark, gray to the touch; slowly the feeling of disappointment left him.