Author: Sherwood Anderson
Release Date: December, 2004 [EBook #7045] [Yes,
we are more than one year ahead of schedule] [This
file was first posted on February 27, 2003]
Edition: 10
Language: English
Character set encoding: ASCII
*** Start of the project gutenberg
EBOOK marching men ***
This eBook was provided by Juliet Sutherland juliet.sutherland@verizon.net
BY
Sherwood Anderson
Author of “Windy Mcpherson’s Son”
TO
AMERICAN WORKINGMEN
Uncle Charlie Wheeler stamped on the steps before
Nance McGregor’s bake-shop on the Main Street
of the town of Coal Creek Pennsylvania and then went
quickly inside. Something pleased him and as he
stood before the counter in the shop he laughed and
whistled softly. With a wink at the Reverend
Minot Weeks who stood by the door leading to the street,
he tapped with his knuckles on the showcase.
“It has,” he said, waving attention to
the boy, who was making a mess of the effort to arrange
Uncle Charlie’s loaf into a neat package, “a
pretty name. They call it Norman—Norman
McGregor.” Uncle Charlie laughed heartily
and again stamped upon the floor. Putting his
finger to his forehead to suggest deep thought, he
turned to the minister. “I am going to
change all that,” he said.
“Norman indeed! I shall give him a name
that will stick! Norman! Too soft, too soft
and delicate for Coal Creek, eh? It shall be
rechristened. You and I will be Adam and Eve in
the garden naming things. We will call it Beaut—Our
Beautiful One—Beaut McGregor.”
The Reverend Minot Weeks also laughed. He thrust
four ringers of each hand into the pockets of his
trousers, letting the extended thumbs lie along the
swelling waist line. From the front the thumbs
looked like two tiny boats on the horizon of a troubled
sea. They bobbed and jumped about on the rolling
shaking paunch, appearing and disappearing as laughter
shook him. The Reverend Minot Weeks went out at
the door ahead of Uncle Charlie, still laughing.
One fancied that he would go along the street from
store to store telling the tale of the christening
and laughing again. The tall boy could imagine
the details of the story.
It was an ill day for births in Coal Creek, even for
the birth of one of Uncle Charlie’s inspirations.
Snow lay piled along the sidewalks and in the gutters
of Main Street—black snow, sordid with the
gathered grime of human endeavour that went on day
and night in the bowels of the hills. Through
the soiled snow walked miners, stumbling along silently
and with blackened faces. In their bare hands
they carried dinner pails.
