The Egg

by Sherwood Anderson

　　My father was, I am sure, intended by nature to be a cheerful, kindlyman. Until he was thirty-four years old he worked as a farm-hand for aman named Thomas Butterworth whose place lay near the town of Bidwell,Ohio. He had then a horse of his own and on Saturday evenings droveinto town to spend a few hours in social intercourse with other farm-hands. In town he drank several glasses of beer and stood about in BenHead's saloon--crowded on Saturday evenings with visiting farm-hands.Songs were sung and glasses thumped on the bar. At ten o'clock fatherdrove home along a lonely country road, made his horse comfortable forthe night and himself went to bed, quite happy in his position in life.He had at that time no notion of trying to rise in the world.It was in the spring of his thirty-fifth year that father married mymother, then a country school-teacher, and in the following spring Icame wriggling and crying into the world. Something happened to the twopeople. They became ambitious. The American passion for getting up inthe world took possession of them.It may have been that mother was responsible. Being a school-teachershe had no doubt read books and magazines. She had, I presume, read ofhow Garfield, Lincoln, and other Americans rose from poverty to fameand greatness and as I lay beside her--in the days of her lying-in--shemay have dreamed that I would some day rule men and cities. At any rateshe induced father to give up his place as a farm-hand, sell his horseand embark on an independent enterprise of his own. She was a tallsilent woman with a long nose and troubled grey eyes. For herself shewanted nothing. For father and myself she was incurably ambitious.The first venture into which the two people went turned out badly. Theyrented ten acres of poor stony land on Griggs's Road, eight miles fromBidwell, and launched into chicken raising. I grew into boyhood on theplace and got my first impressions of life there. From the beginningthey were impressions of disaster and if, in my turn, I am a gloomy maninclined to see the darker side of life, I attribute it to the factthat what should have been for me the happy joyous days of childhoodwere spent on a chicken farm.One unversed in such matters can have no notion of the many and tragicthings that can happen to a chicken. It is born out of an egg, livesfor a few weeks as a tiny fluffy thing such as you will see pictured onEaster cards, then becomes hideously naked, eats quantities of corn andmeal bought by the sweat of your father's brow, gets diseases calledpip, cholera, and other names, stands looking with stupid eyes at thesun, becomes sick and dies. A few hens, and now and then a rooster,intended to serve God's mysterious ends, struggle through to maturity.The hens lay eggs out of which come other chickens and the dreadfulcycle is thus made complete. It is all unbelievably complex. Mostphilosophers must have been raised on chicken farms. One hopes for somuch from a chicken and is so dreadfully disillusioned. Small chickens,just setting out on the journey of life, look so bright and alert andthey are in fact so dreadfully stupid. They are so much like peoplethey mix one up in one's judgments of life. If disease does not killthem they wait until your expectations are thoroughly aroused and thenwalk under the wheels of a wagon--to go squashed and dead back to theirmaker. Vermin infest their youth, and fortunes must be spent forcurative powders. In later life I have seen how a literature has beenbuilt up on the subject of fortunes to be made out of the raising ofchickens. It is intended to be read by the gods who have just eaten ofthe tree of the knowledge of good and evil. It is a hopeful literatureand declares that much may be done by simple ambitious people who own afew hens. Do not be led astray by it. It was not written for you. Gohunt for gold on the frozen hills of Alaska, put your faith in thehonesty of a politician, believe if you will that the world is dailygrowing better and that good will triumph over evil, but do not readand believe the literature that is written concerning the hen. It wasnot written for you.I, however, digress. My tale does not primarily concern itself with thehen. If correctly told it will centre on the egg. For ten years myfather and mother struggled to make our chicken farm pay and then theygave up that struggle and began another. They moved into the town ofBidwell, Ohio and embarked in the restaurant business. After ten yearsof worry with incubators that did not hatch, and with tiny--and intheir own way lovely--balls of fluff that passed on into semi-nakedpullethood and from that into dead hen-hood, we threw all aside andpacking our belongings on a wagon drove down Griggs's Road towardBidwell, a tiny caravan of hope looking for a new place from which tostart on our upward journey through life.We must have been a sad looking lot, not, I fancy, unlike refugeesfleeing from a battlefield. Mother and I walked in the road. The wagonthat contained our goods had been borrowed for the day from Mr. AlbertGriggs, a neighbor. Out of its sides stuck the legs of cheap chairs andat the back of the pile of beds, tables, and boxes filled with kitchenutensils was a crate of live chickens, and on top of that the babycarriage in which I had been wheeled about in my infancy. Why we stuckto the baby carriage I don't know. It was unlikely other children wouldbe born and the wheels were broken. People who have few possessionscling tightly to those they have. That is one of the facts that makelife so discouraging.Father rode on top of the wagon. He was then a bald-headed man offorty-five, a little fat and from long association with mother and thechickens he had become habitually silent and discouraged. All duringour ten years on the chicken farm he had worked as a laborer onneighboring farms and most of the money he had earned had been spentfor remedies to cure chicken diseases, on Wilmer's White Wonder CholeraCure or Professor Bidlow's Egg Producer or some other preparations thatmother found advertised in the poultry papers. There were two littlepatches of hair on father's head just above his ears. I remember thatas a child I used to sit looking at him when he had gone to sleep in achair before the stove on Sunday afternoons in the winter. I had atthat time already begun to read books and have notions of my own andthe bald path that led over the top of his head was, I fancied,something like a broad road, such a road as Caesar might have made onwhich to lead his legions out of Rome and into the wonders of anunknown world. The tufts of hair that grew above father's ears were, Ithought, like forests. I fell into a half-sleeping, half-waking stateand dreamed I was a tiny thing going along the road into a farbeautiful place where there were no chicken farms and where life was ahappy eggless affair.One might write a book concerning our flight from the chicken farm intotown. Mother and I walked the entire eight miles--she to be sure thatnothing fell from the wagon and I to see the wonders of the world. Onthe seat of the wagon beside father was his greatest treasure. I willtell you of that.On a chicken farm where hundreds and even thousands of chickens comeout of eggs surprising things sometimes happen. Grotesques are born outof eggs as out of people. The accident does not often occur--perhapsonce in a thousand births. A chicken is, you see, born that has fourlegs, two pairs of wings, two heads or what not. The things do notlive. They go quickly back to the hand of their maker that has for amoment trembled. The fact that the poor little things could not livewas one of the tragedies of life to father. He had some sort of notionthat if he could but bring into henhood or roosterhood a five-leggedhen or a two-headed rooster his fortune would be made. He dreamed oftaking the wonder about to county fairs and of growing rich byexhibiting it to other farm-hands.At any rate he saved all the little monstrous things that had been bornon our chicken farm. They were preserved in alcohol and put each in itsown glass bottle. These he had carefully put into a box and on ourjourney into town it was carried on the wagon seat beside him. He drovethe horses with one hand and with the other clung to the box. When wegot to our destination the box was taken down at once and the bottlesremoved. All during our days as keepers of a restaurant in the town ofBidwell, Ohio, the grotesques in their little glass bottles sat on ashelf back of the counter. Mother sometimes protested but father was arock on the subject of his treasure. The grotesques were, he declared,valuable. People, he said, liked to look at strange and wonderfulthings.Did I say that we embarked in the restaurant business in the town ofBidwell, Ohio? I exaggerated a little. The town itself lay at the footof a low hill and on the shore of a small river. The railroad did notrun through the town and the station was a mile away to the north at aplace called Pickleville. There had been a cider mill and picklefactory at the station, but before the time of our coming they had bothgone out of business. In the morning and in the evening busses camedown to the station along a road called Turner's Pike from the hotel onthe main street of Bidwell. Our going to the out of the way place toembark in the restaurant business was mother's idea. She talked of itfor a year and then one day went off and rented an empty store buildingopposite the railroad station. It was her idea that the restaurantwould be profitable. Travelling men, she said, would be always waitingaround to take trains out of town and town people would come to thestation to await incoming trains. They would come to the restaurant tobuy pieces of pie and drink coffee. Now that I am older I know that shehad another motive in going. She was ambitious for me. She wanted me torise in the world, to get into a town school and become a man of thetowns.At Pickleville father and mother worked hard as they always had done.At first there was the necessity of putting our place into shape to bea restaurant. That took a month. Father built a shelf on which he puttins of vegetables. He painted a sign on which he put his name in largered letters. Below his name was the sharp command--"EAT HERE"--that wasso seldom obeyed. A show case was bought and filled with cigars andtobacco. Mother scrubbed the floor and the walls of the room. I went toschool in the town and was glad to be away from the farm and from thepresence of the discouraged, sad-looking chickens. Still I was not veryjoyous. In the evening I walked home from school along Turner's Pikeand remembered the children I had seen playing in the town school yard.A troop of little girls had gone hopping about and singing. I triedthat. Down along the frozen road I went hopping solemnly on one leg."Hippity Hop To The Barber Shop," I sang shrilly. Then I stopped andlooked doubtfully about. I was afraid of being seen in my gay mood. Itmust have seemed to me that I was doing a thing that should not be doneby one who, like myself, had been raised on a chicken farm where deathwas a daily visitor.Mother decided that our restaurant should remain open at night. At tenin the evening a passenger train went north past our door followed by alocal freight. The freight crew had switching to do in Pickleville andwhen the work was done they came to our restaurant for hot coffee andfood. Sometimes one of them ordered a fried egg. In the morning at fourthey returned north-bound and again visited us. A little trade began togrow up. Mother slept at night and during the day tended the restaurantand fed our boarders while father slept. He slept in the same bedmother had occupied during the night and I went off to the town ofBidwell and to school. During the long nights, while mother and Islept, father cooked meats that were to go into sandwiches for thelunch baskets of our boarders. Then an idea in regard to getting up inthe world came into his head. The American spirit took hold of him. Healso became ambitious.In the long nights when there was little to do father had time tothink. That was his undoing. He decided that he had in the past been anunsuccessful man because he had not been cheerful enough and that inthe future he would adopt a cheerful outlook on life. In the earlymorning he came upstairs and got into bed with mother. She woke and thetwo talked. From my bed in the corner I listened.It was father's idea that both he and mother should try to entertainthe people who came to eat at our restaurant. I cannot now remember hiswords, but he gave the impression of one about to become in someobscure way a kind of public entertainer. When people, particularlyyoung people from the town of Bidwell, came into our place, as on veryrare occasions they did, bright entertaining conversation was to bemade. From father's words I gathered that something of the jolly inn-keeper effect was to be sought. Mother must have been doubtful from thefirst, but she said nothing discouraging. It was father's notion that apassion for the company of himself and mother would spring up in thebreasts of the younger people of the town of Bidwell. In the eveningbright happy groups would come singing down Turner's Pike. They wouldtroop shouting with joy and laughter into our place. There would besong and festivity. I do not mean to give the impression that fatherspoke so elaborately of the matter. He was as I have said anuncommunicative man. "They want some place to go. I tell you they wantsome place to go," he said over and over. That was as far as he got. Myown imagination has filled in the blanks.For two or three weeks this notion of father's invaded our house. Wedid not talk much, but in our daily lives tried earnestly to makesmiles take the place of glum looks. Mother smiled at the boarders andI, catching the infection, smiled at our cat. Father became a littlefeverish in his anxiety to please. There was no doubt, lurkingsomewhere in him, a touch of the spirit of the showman. He did notwaste much of his ammunition on the railroad men he served at night butseemed to be waiting for a young man or woman from Bidwell to come into show what he could do. On the counter in the restaurant there was awire basket kept always filled with eggs, and it must have been beforehis eyes when the idea of being entertaining was born in his brain.There was something pre-natal about the way eggs kept themselvesconnected with the development of his idea. At any rate an egg ruinedhis new impulse in life. Late one night I was awakened by a roar ofanger coming from father's throat. Both mother and I sat upright in ourbeds. With trembling hands she lighted a lamp that stood on a table byher head. Downstairs the front door of our restaurant went shut with abang and in a few minutes father tramped up the stairs. He held an eggin his hand and his hand trembled as though he were having a chill.There was a half insane light in his eyes. As he stood glaring at us Iwas sure he intended throwing the egg at either mother or me. Then helaid it gently on the table beside the lamp and dropped on his kneesbeside mother's bed. He began to cry like a boy and I, carried away byhis grief, cried with him. The two of us filled the little upstairsroom with our wailing voices. It is ridiculous, but of the picture wemade I can remember only the fact that mother's hand continuallystroked the bald path that ran across the top of his head. I haveforgotten what mother said to him and how she induced him to tell herof what had happened downstairs. His explanation also has gone out ofmy mind. I remember only my own grief and fright and the shiny pathover father's head glowing in the lamp light as he knelt by the bed.As to what happened downstairs. For some unexplainable reason I knowthe story as well as though I had been a witness to my father'sdiscomfiture. One in time gets to know many unexplainable things. Onthat evening young Joe Kane, son of a merchant of Bidwell, came toPickleville to meet his father, who was expected on the ten o'clockevening train from the South. The train was three hours late and Joecame into our place to loaf about and to wait for its arrival. Thelocal freight train came in and the freight crew were fed. Joe was leftalone in the restaurant with father.From the moment he came into our place the Bidwell young man must havebeen puzzled by my father's actions. It was his notion that father wasangry at him for hanging around. He noticed that the restaurant keeperwas apparently disturbed by his presence and he thought of going out.However, it began to rain and he did not fancy the long walk to townand back. He bought a five-cent cigar and ordered a cup of coffee. Hehad a newspaper in his pocket and took it out and began to read. "I'mwaiting for the evening train. It's late," he said apologetically.For a long time father, whom Joe Kane had never seen before, remainedsilently gazing at his visitor. He was no doubt suffering from anattack of stage fright. As so often happens in life he had thought somuch and so often of the situation that now confronted him that he wassomewhat nervous in its presence.For one thing, he did not know what to do with his hands. He thrust oneof them nervously over the counter and shook hands with Joe Kane. "How-de-do," he said. Joe Kane put his newspaper down and stared at him.Father's eye lighted on the basket of eggs that sat on the counter andhe began to talk. "Well," he began hesitatingly, "well, you have heardof Christopher Columbus, eh?" He seemed to be angry. "That ChristopherColumbus was a cheat," he declared emphatically. "He talked of makingan egg stand on its end. He talked, he did, and then he went and brokethe end of the egg."My father seemed to his visitor to be beside himself at the duplicityof Christopher Columbus. He muttered and swore. He declared it waswrong to teach children that Christopher Columbus was a great man when,after all, he cheated at the critical moment. He had declared he wouldmake an egg stand on end and then when his bluff had been called he haddone a trick. Still grumbling at Columbus, father took an egg from thebasket on the counter and began to walk up and down. He rolled the eggbetween the palms of his hands. He smiled genially. He began to mumblewords regarding the effect to be produced on an egg by the electricitythat comes out of the human body. He declared that without breaking itsshell and by virtue of rolling it back and forth in his hands he couldstand the egg on its end. He explained that the warmth of his hands andthe gentle rolling movement he gave the egg created a new centre ofgravity, and Joe Kane was mildly interested. "I have handled thousandsof eggs," father said. "No one knows more about eggs than I do."He stood the egg on the counter and it fell on its side. He tried thetrick again and again, each time rolling the egg between the palms ofhis hands and saying the words regarding the wonders of electricity andthe laws of gravity. When after a half hour's effort he did succeed inmaking the egg stand for a moment he looked up to find that his visitorwas no longer watching. By the time he had succeeded in calling JoeKane's attention to the success of his effort the egg had again rolledover and lay on its side.Afire with the showman's passion and at the same time a good dealdisconcerted by the failure of his first effort, father now took thebottles containing the poultry monstrosities down from their place onthe shelf and began to show them to his visitor. "How would you like tohave seven legs and two heads like this fellow?" he asked, exhibitingthe most remarkable of his treasures. A cheerful smile played over hisface. He reached over the counter and tried to slap Joe Kane on theshoulder as he had seen men do in Ben Head's saloon when he was a youngfarm-hand and drove to town on Saturday evenings. His visitor was madea little ill by the sight of the body of the terribly deformed birdfloating in the alcohol in the bottle and got up to go. Coming frombehind the counter father took hold of the young man's arm and led himback to his seat. He grew a little angry and for a moment had to turnhis face away and force himself to smile. Then he put the bottles backon the shelf. In an outburst of generosity he fairly compelled Joe Kaneto have a fresh cup of coffee and another cigar at his expense. Then hetook a pan and filling it with vinegar, taken from a jug that satbeneath the counter, he declared himself about to do a new trick. "Iwill heat this egg in this pan of vinegar," he said. "Then I will putit through the neck of a bottle without breaking the shell. When theegg is inside the bottle it will resume its normal shape and the shellwill become hard again. Then I will give the bottle with the egg in itto you. You can take it about with you wherever you go. People willwant to know how you got the egg in the bottle. Don't tell them. Keepthem guessing. That is the way to have fun with this trick."Father grinned and winked at his visitor. Joe Kane decided that the manwho confronted him was mildly insane but harmless. He drank the cup ofcoffee that had been given him and began to read his paper again. Whenthe egg had been heated in vinegar father carried it on a spoon to thecounter and going into a back room got an empty bottle. He was angrybecause his visitor did not watch him as he began to do his trick, butnevertheless went cheerfully to work. For a long time he struggled,trying to get the egg to go through the neck of the bottle. He put thepan of vinegar back on the stove, intending to reheat the egg, thenpicked it up and burned his fingers. After a second bath in the hotvinegar the shell of the egg had been softened a little but not enoughfor his purpose. He worked and worked and a spirit of desperatedetermination took possession of him. When he thought that at last thetrick was about to be consummated the delayed train came in at thestation and Joe Kane started to go nonchalantly out at the door. Fathermade a last desperate effort to conquer the egg and make it do thething that would establish his reputation as one who knew how toentertain guests who came into his restaurant. He worried the egg. Heattempted to be somewhat rough with it. He swore and the sweat stoodout on his forehead. The egg broke under his hand. When the contentsspurted over his clothes, Joe Kane, who had stopped at the door, turnedand laughed.A roar of anger rose from my father's throat. He danced and shouted astring of inarticulate words. Grabbing another egg from the basket onthe counter, he threw it, just missing the head of the young man as hedodged through the door and escaped.Father came upstairs to mother and me with an egg in his hand. I do notknow what he intended to do. I imagine he had some idea of destroyingit, of destroying all eggs, and that he intended to let mother and mesee him begin. When, however, he got into the presence of mothersomething happened to him. He laid the egg gently on the table anddropped on his knees by the bed as I have already explained. He laterdecided to close the restaurant for the night and to come upstairs andget into bed. When he did so he blew out the light and after muchmuttered conversation both he and mother went to sleep. I suppose Iwent to sleep also, but my sleep was troubled.I awoke at dawn and for a long time looked at the egg that lay on thetable. I wondered why eggs had to be and why from the egg came the henwho again laid the egg. The question got into my blood. It has stayedthere, I imagine, because I am the son of my father. At any rate, theproblem remains unsolved in my mind. And that, I conclude, is butanother evidence of the complete and final triumph of the egg--atleast as far as my family is concerned.