Book I: Chapter I

by Sherwood Anderson

　　Uncle Charlie Wheeler stamped on the steps before Nance McGregor'sbake-shop on the Main Street of the town of Coal Creek Pennsylvaniaand then went quickly inside. Something pleased him and as he stoodbefore the counter in the shop he laughed and whistled softly. With awink at the Reverend Minot Weeks who stood by the door leading to thestreet, he tapped with his knuckles on the showcase.

　　"It has," he said, waving attention to the boy, who was making a messof the effort to arrange Uncle Charlie's loaf into a neat package, "apretty name. They call it Norman--Norman McGregor." Uncle Charlielaughed heartily and again stamped upon the floor. Putting his fingerto his forehead to suggest deep thought, he turned to the minister. "Iam going to change all that," he said.

　　"Norman indeed! I shall give him a name that will stick! Norman! Toosoft, too soft and delicate for Coal Creek, eh? It shall berechristened. You and I will be Adam and Eve in the garden namingthings. We will call it Beaut--Our Beautiful One--Beaut McGregor."

　　The Reverend Minot Weeks also laughed. He thrust four ringers of eachhand into the pockets of his trousers, letting the extended thumbs liealong the swelling waist line. From the front the thumbs looked liketwo tiny boats on the horizon of a troubled sea. They bobbed andjumped about on the rolling shaking paunch, appearing and disappearingas laughter shook him. The Reverend Minot Weeks went out at the doorahead of Uncle Charlie, still laughing. One fancied that he would goalong the street from store to store telling the tale of thechristening and laughing again. The tall boy could imagine the detailsof the story.

　　It was an ill day for births in Coal Creek, even for the birth of oneof Uncle Charlie's inspirations. Snow lay piled along the sidewalksand in the gutters of Main Street--black snow, sordid with thegathered grime of human endeavour that went on day and night in thebowels of the hills. Through the soiled snow walked miners, stumblingalong silently and with blackened faces. In their bare hands theycarried dinner pails.

　　The McGregor boy, tall and awkward, and with a towering nose, greathippopotamus-like mouth and fiery red hair, followed Uncle Charlie,Republican politician, postmaster and village wit to the door andlooked after him as with the loaf of bread under his arm he hurriedalong the street. Behind the politician went the minister stillenjoying the scene in the bakery. He was preening himself on hisnearness to life in the mining town. "Did not Christ himself laugh,eat and drink with publicans and sinners?" he thought, as he waddledthrough the snow. The eyes of the McGregor boy, as they followed thetwo departing figures, and later, as he stood in the door of the bake-shop watching the struggling miners, glistened, with hatred. It wasthe quality of intense hatred for his fellows in the black holebetween the Pennsylvania hills that marked the boy and made him standforth among his fellows.

　　In a country of so many varied climates and occupations as America itis absurd to talk of an American type. The country is like a vastdisorganised undisciplined army, leaderless, uninspired, going inroute-step along the road to they know not what end. In the prairietowns of the West and the river towns of the South from which havecome so many of our writing men, the citizens swagger through life.Drunken old reprobates lie in the shade by the river's edge or wanderthrough the streets of a corn shipping village of a Saturday eveningwith grins on their faces. Some touch of nature, a sweet undercurrentof life, stays alive in them and is handed down to those who write ofthem, and the most worthless man that walks the streets of an Ohio orIowa town may be the father of an epigram that colours all the life ofthe men about him. In a mining town or deep in the entrails of one ofour cities life is different. There the disorder and aimlessness ofour American lives becomes a crime for which men pay heavily. Losingstep with one another, men lose also a sense of their ownindividuality so that a thousand of them may be driven in a disorderlymass in at the door of a Chicago factory morning after morning andyear after year with never an epigram from the lips of one of them.

　　In Coal Creek when men got drunk they staggered in silence through thestreet. Did one of them, in a moment of stupid animal sportiveness,execute a clumsy dance upon the barroom floor, his fellow--labourerslooked at him dumbly, or turning away left him to finish withoutwitnesses his clumsy hilarity.

　　Standing in the doorway and looking up and down the bleak villagestreet, some dim realisation of the disorganised ineffectiveness oflife as he knew it came into the mind of the McGregor boy. It seemedto him right and natural that he should hate men. With a sneer on hislips, he thought of Barney Butterlips, the town socialist, who wasforever talking of a day coming when men would march shoulder toshoulder and life in Coal Creek, life everywhere, should cease beingaimless and become definite and full of meaning.

　　"They will never do that and who wants them to," mused the McGregorboy. A blast of wind bearing snow beat upon him and he turned into theshop and slammed the door behind him. Another thought stirred in hishead and brought a flush to his cheeks. He turned and stood in thesilence of the empty shop shaking with emotion. "If I could form themen of this place into an army I would lead them to the mouth of theold Shumway cut and push them in," he threatened, shaking his fisttoward the door. "I would stand aside and see the whole town struggleand drown in the black water as untouched as though I watched thedrowning of a litter of dirty little kittens."

　　* * * * *The next morning when Beaut McGregor pushed his baker's cart along thestreet and began climbing the hill toward the miners' cottages, hewent, not as Norman McGregor, the town baker boy, only product of theloins of Cracked McGregor of Coal Creek, but as a personage, a being,the object of an art. The name given him by Uncle Charlie Wheeler hadmade him a marked man. He was as the hero of a popular romance,galvanised into life and striding in the flesh before the people. Menlooked at him with new interest, inventorying anew the huge mouth andnose and the flaming hair. The bartender, sweeping the snow frombefore the door of the saloon, shouted at him. "Hey, Norman!" hecalled. "Sweet Norman! Norman is too pretty a name. Beaut is the namefor you! Oh you Beaut!"

　　The tall boy pushed the cart silently along the street. Again he hatedCoal Creek. He hated the bakery and the bakery cart. With a burningsatisfying hate he hated Uncle Charlie Wheeler and the Reverend MinotWeeks. "Fat old fools," he muttered as he shook the snow off his hatand paused to breathe in the struggle up the hill. He had somethingnew to hate. He hated his own name. It did sound ridiculous. He hadthought before that there was something fancy and pretentious aboutit. It did not fit a bakery cart boy. He wished it might have beenplain John or Jim or Fred. A quiver of irritation at his mother passedthrough him. "She might have used more sense," he muttered.

　　And then the thought came to him that his father might have chosen thename. That checked his flight toward universal hatred and he beganpushing the cart forward again, a more genial current of thoughtrunning through his mind. The tall boy loved the memory of his father,"Cracked McGregor." "They called him 'Cracked' until that became hisname," he thought. "Now they are at me." The thought renewed a feelingof fellowship between himself and his dead father--it softened him.When he reached the first of the bleak miners' houses a smile playedabout the corners of his huge mouth.

　　In his day Cracked McGregor had not borne a good reputation in CoalCreek. He was a tall silent man with something morose and dangerousabout him. He inspired fear born of hatred. In the mines he workedsilently and with fiery energy, hating his fellow miners among whom hewas thought to be "a bit off his head." They it was who named him"Cracked" McGregor and they avoided him while subscribing to thecommon opinion that he was the best miner in the district. Like hisfellow workers he occasionally got drunk. When he went into the saloonwhere other men stood in groups buying drinks for each other he boughtonly for himself. Once a stranger, a fat man who sold liquor for awholesale house, approached and slapped him on the back. "Come, cheerup and have a drink with me," he said. Cracked McGregor turned andknocked the stranger to the floor. When the fat man was down he kickedhim and glared at the crowd in the room. Then he walked slowly out atthe door staring around and hoping some one would interfere.

　　In his house also Cracked McGregor was silent. When he spoke at all hespoke kindly and looked into the eyes of his wife with an eagerexpectant air. To his red-haired son he seemed to be forever pouringforth a kind of dumb affection. Taking the boy in his arms he sat forhours rocking back and forth and saying nothing. When the boy was illor troubled by strange dreams at night the feel of his father's armsabout him quieted him. In his arms the boy went to sleep happily. Inthe mind of the father there was a single recurring thought, "We havebut the one bairn, we'll not put him into the hole in the ground," hesaid, looking eagerly to the mother for approval.

　　Twice had Cracked McGregor walked with his son on a Sunday afternoon.Taking the lad by the hand the miner went up the face of the hill,past the last of the miners' houses, through the grove of pine treesat the summit and on over the hill into sight of a wide valley on thefarther side. When he walked he twisted his head far to one side likeone listening. A falling timber in the mines had given him a deformedshoulder and left a great scar on his face, partly covered by a redbeard filled with coal dust. The blow that had deformed his shoulderhad clouded his mind. He muttered as he walked along the road andtalked to himself like an old man.

　　The red-haired boy ran beside his father happily. He did not see thesmiles on the faces of the miners, who came down the hill and stoppedto look at the odd pair. The miners went on down the road to sit infront of the stores on Main Street, their day brightened by the memoryof the hurrying McGregors. They had a remark they tossed about. "NanceMcGregor should not have looked at her man when she conceived," theysaid.

　　Up the face of the hill climbed the McGregors. In the mind of the boya thousand questions wanted answering. Looking at the silent gloomyface of his father, he choked back the questions rising in his throat,saving them for the quiet hour with his mother when Cracked McGregorwas gone to the mine. He wanted to know of the boyhood of his father,of the life in the mine, of the birds that flew overhead and why theywheeled and flew in great ovals in the sky. He looked at the fallentrees in the woods and wondered what made them fall and whether theothers would presently fall in their turn.

　　Over the hill went the silent pair and through the pinewood to aneminence half way down the farther side. When the boy saw the valleylying so green and broad and fruitful at their feet he thought it themost wonderful sight in the world. He was not surprised that hisfather had brought him there. Sitting on the ground he opened andclosed his eyes, his soul stirred by the beauty of the scene that laybefore them.

　　On the hillside Cracked McGregor went through a kind of ceremony.Sitting upon a log he made a telescope of his hands and looked overthe valley inch by inch like one seeking something lost. For tenminutes he would look intently at a clump of trees or a spot in theriver running through the valley where it broadened and where thewater roughened by the wind glistened in the sun. A smile lurked inthe corners of his mouth, he rubbed his hands together, he mutteredincoherent words and bits of sentences, once he broke forth into a lowdroning song.

　　On the first morning, when the boy sat on the hillside with hisfather, it was spring and the land was vividly green. Lambs played inthe fields; birds sang their mating songs; in the air, on the earthand in the water of the flowing river it was a time of new life.Below, the flat valley of green fields was patched and spotted withbrown new-turned earth. The cattle walking with bowed heads, eatingthe sweet grass, the farmhouses with red barns, the pungent smell ofthe new ground, fired his mind and awoke the sleeping sense of beautyin the boy. He sat upon the log drunk with happiness that the world inwhich he lived could be so beautiful. In his bed at night he dreamedof the valley, confounding it with the old Bible tale of the Garden ofEden, told him by his mother. He dreamed that he and his mother wentover the hill and down toward the valley but that his father, wearinga long white robe and with his red hair blowing in the wind, stoodupon the hillside swinging a long sword blazing with fire and drovethem back.

　　When the boy went again over the hill it was October and a cold windblew down the hill into his face. In the woods golden brown leaves ranabout like frightened little animals and golden-brown were the leaveson the trees about the farmhouses and golden-brown the corn standingshocked in the fields. The scene saddened the boy. A lump came intohis throat and he wanted back the green shining beauty of the spring.He wished to hear the birds singing in the air and in the grass on thehillside.

　　Cracked McGregor was in another mood. He seemed more satisfied than onthe first visit and ran up and down on the little eminence rubbing hishands together and on the legs of his trousers. Through the longafternoon he sat on the log muttering and smiling.

　　On the road home through the darkened woods the restless hurryingleaves frightened the boy so that, with his weariness from walkingagainst the wind, his hunger from being all day without food, and withthe cold nipping at his body, he began to cry. The father took the boyin his arms and holding him across his breast like a babe went downthe hill to their home.

　　It was on a Tuesday morning that Cracked McGregor died. His deathfixed itself as something fine in the mind of the boy and the sceneand the circumstance stayed with him through life, filling him withsecret pride like a knowledge of good blood. "It means something thatI am the son of such a man," he thought.

　　It was past ten in the morning when the cry of "Fire in the mine" ranup the hill to the houses of the miners. A panic seized the women. Intheir minds they saw the men hurrying down old cuts, crouching inhidden corridors, pursued by death. Cracked McGregor, one of the nightshift, slept in his house. The boy's mother, threw a shawl about herhead, took his hand and ran down the hill to the mouth of the mine.Cold winds spitting snow blew in their faces. They ran along thetracks of the railroad, stumbling over the ties, and stood on therailroad embankment that overlooked the runway to the mine.

　　About the runway and along the embankment stood the silent miners,their hands in their trousers pockets, staring stolidly at the closeddoor of the mine. Among them was no impulse toward concerted action.Like animals at the door of a slaughter-house they stood as thoughwaiting their turn to be driven in at the door. An old crone with bentback and a huge stick in her hand went from one to another of theminers gesticulating and talking. "Get my boy--my Steve! Get him outof there!" she shouted, waving the stick about.

　　The door of the mine opened and three men came out, staggering as theypushed before them a small car that ran upon rails. On the car laythree other men, silent and motionless. A woman thinly clad and withgreat cave-like hollows in her face climbed the embankment and satupon the ground below the boy and his mother. "The fire is in the oldMcCrary cut," she said, her voice quivering, a dumb hopeless look inher eyes. "They can't get through to close the doors. My man Ike is inthere." She put down her head and sat weeping. The boy knew the woman.She was a neighbour who lived in an unpainted house on the hillside.In the yard in front of her house a swarm of children played among thestones. Her husband, a great hulking fellow, got drunk and when hecame home kicked his wife. The boy had heard her screaming at night.

　　Suddenly in the growing crowd of miners below the embankment BeautMcGregor saw his father moving restlessly about. On his head he hadhis cap with the miner's lamp lighted. He went from group to groupamong the people, his head hanging to one side. The boy looked at himintently. He was reminded of the October day on the eminenceoverlooking the fruitful valley and again he thought of his father asa man inspired, going through a kind of ceremony. The tall minerrubbed his hands up and down his legs, he peered into the faces of thesilent men standing about, his lips moved and his red beard danced upand down.

　　As the boy looked a change came over the face of Cracked McGregor. Heran to the foot of the embankment and looked up. In his eyes was thelook of a perplexed animal. The wife bent down and began to talk tothe weeping woman on the ground, trying to comfort her. She did notsee her husband and the boy and man stood in silence looking into eachother's eyes.

　　Then the puzzled look went out of the father's face. He turned andrunning along with his head rolling about reached the closed door ofthe mine. A man, who wore a white collar and had a cigar stuck in thecorner of his mouth, put out his hand.

　　"Stop! Wait!" he shouted. Pushing the man aside with his powerful armthe runner pulled open the door of the mine and disappeared down therunway.

　　A hubbub arose. The man in the white collar took the cigar from hismouth and began to swear violently. The boy stood on the embankmentand saw his mother running toward the runway of the mine. A minergripped her by the arm and led her back up the face of the embankment.In the crowd a woman's voice shouted, "It's Cracked McGregor gone toclose the door to the McCrary cut."

　　The man with the white collar glared about as he chewed the end of hiscigar. "He's gone crazy," he shouted, again closing the door to themine.

　　Cracked McGregor died in the mine, almost within reach of the door tothe old cut where the fire burned. With him died all but five of theimprisoned miners. All day parties of men tried to get down into themine. Below in the hidden passages under their own homes the scurryingminers died like rats in a burning barn while their wives, with shawlsover their heads, sat silently weeping on the railroad embankment. Inthe evening the boy and his mother went up the hill alone. From thehouses scattered over the hill came the sound of women weeping.

　　* * * * *For several years after the mine disaster the McGregors, mother andson, lived in the house on the hillside. The woman went each morningto the offices of the mine where she washed windows and scrubbedfloors. The position was a sort of recognition on the part of the mineofficials of the heroism of Cracked McGregor.

　　Nance McGregor was a small blue-eyed woman with a sharp nose. She woreglasses and had the name in Coal Creek of being quick and sharp. Shedid not stand by the fence to talk with the wives of other miners butsat in her house and sewed or read aloud to her son. She subscribedfor a magazine and had bound copies of it standing upon shelves in theroom where she and the boy ate breakfast in the early morning. Beforethe death of her husband she had maintained a habit of silence in herhouse but after his death she expanded, and, with her red-haired son,discussed freely every phase of their narrow lives. As he grew olderthe boy began to believe that she like the miners had kept hiddenunder her silence a secret fear of his father. Certain things she saidof her life encouraged the thought.

　　Norman McGregor grew into a tall broad-shouldered boy with strongarms, flaming red hair and a habit of sudden and violent fits oftemper. There was something about him that held the attention. As hegrew older and was renamed by Uncle Charlie Wheeler he began goingabout looking for trouble. When the boys called him "Beaut" he knockedthem down. When men shouted the name after him on the street hefollowed them with black looks. It became a point of honour with himto resent the name. He connected it with the town's unfairness toCracked McGregor.

　　In the house on the hillside the boy and his mother lived togetherhappily. In the early morning they went down the hill and across thetracks to the offices of the mine. From the offices the boy went upthe hill on the farther side of the valley and sat upon theschoolhouse steps or wandered in the streets waiting for the day inschool to begin. In the evening mother and son sat upon the steps atthe front of their home and watched the glare of the coke ovens on thesky and the lights of the swiftly-running passenger trains, roaringwhistling and disappearing into the night.

　　Nance McGregor talked to her son of the big world outside the valleyand told him of the cities, the seas and the strange lands and peoplesbeyond the seas. "We have dug in the ground like rats," she said, "Iand my people and your father and his people. With you it will bedifferent. You will get out of here to other places and other work."She grew indignant thinking of the life in the town. "We are stuckdown here amid dirt, living in it, breathing it," she complained."Sixty men died in that hole in the ground and then the mine startedagain with new men. We stay here year after year digging coal to burnin engines that take other people across the seas and into the West."

　　When the son was a tall strong boy of fourteen Nance McGregor boughtthe bakery and to buy it took the money saved by Cracked McGregor.With it he had planned to buy a farm in the valley beyond the hill.Dollar by dollar it had been put away by the miner who dreamed of lifein his own fields.

　　In the bakery the boy worked and learned to make bread. Kneading thedough his arms and hands grew as strong as a bear's. He hated thework, he hated Coal Creek and dreamed of life in the city and of thepart he should play there. Among the young men he began to make hereand there a friend. Like his father he attracted attention. Womenlooked at him, laughed at his big frame and strong homely features andlooked again. When they spoke to him in the bakery or on the street hespoke back fearlessly and looked them in the eyes. Young girls in theschool walked home down the hill with other boys and at night dreamedof Beaut McGregor. When some one spoke ill of him they answereddefending and praising him. Like his father he was a marked man in thetown of Coal Creek.