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diff --git a/old/416.txt b/old/416.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 97ca606..0000000 --- a/old/416.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,8953 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Winesburg, Ohio, by Sherwood Anderson - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org - - -Title: Winesburg, Ohio - -Author: Sherwood Anderson - -Release Date: May 14, 2005 [EBook #416] -[Last updated: February 20, 2012] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ASCII - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WINESBURG, OHIO *** - - - - -This etext was created by Judith Boss, Omaha, Nebraska. - - - - - -SHERWOOD ANDERSON - -Winesburg, Ohio - - - - - -CONTENTS - - - - -INTRODUCTION by Irving Howe - -THE TALES AND THE PERSONS - - -THE BOOK OF THE GROTESQUE - -HANDS, concerning Wing Biddlebaum - -PAPER PILLS, concerning Doctor Reefy - -MOTHER, concerning Elizabeth Willard - -THE PHILOSOPHER, concerning Doctor Parcival - -NOBODY KNOWS, concerning Louise Trunnion - -GODLINESS, a Tale in Four Parts - I, concerning Jesse Bentley - II, also concerning Jesse Bentley - III Surrender, concerning Louise Bentley - IV Terror, concerning David Hardy - -A MAN OF IDEAS, concerning Joe Welling - -ADVENTURE, concerning Alice Hindman - -RESPECTABILITY, concerning Wash Williams - -THE THINKER, concerning Seth Richmond - -TANDY, concerning Tandy Hard - -THE STRENGTH OF GOD, concerning the - Reverend Curtis Hartman - -THE TEACHER, concerning Kate Swift - -LONELINESS, concerning Enoch Robinson - -AN AWAKENING, concerning Belle Carpenter - -"QUEER," concerning Elmer Cowley - -THE UNTOLD LIE, concerning Ray Pearson - -DRINK, concerning Tom Foster - -DEATH, concerning Doctor Reefy - and Elizabeth Willard - -SOPHISTICATION, concerning Helen White - -DEPARTURE, concerning George Willard - - -INTRODUCTION - -by Irving Howe - - -I must have been no more than fifteen or sixteen years old -when I first chanced upon Winesburg, Ohio. Gripped by these -stories and sketches of Sherwood Anderson's small-town -"grotesques," I felt that he was opening for me new depths -of experience, touching upon half-buried truths which -nothing in my young life had prepared me for. A New York -City boy who never saw the crops grow or spent time in the -small towns that lay sprinkled across America, I found -myself overwhelmed by the scenes of wasted life, wasted -love--was this the "real" America?--that Anderson sketched -in Winesburg. In those days only one other book seemed to -offer so powerful a revelation, and that was Thomas Hardy's -Jude the Obscure. - -Several years later, as I was about to go overseas as -a soldier, I spent my last week-end pass on a somewhat -quixotic journey to Clyde, Ohio, the town upon which -Winesburg was partly modeled. Clyde looked, I suppose, not -very different from most other American towns, and the few -of its residents I tried to engage in talk about Anderson -seemed quite uninterested. This indifference would not have -surprised him; it certainly should not surprise anyone who -reads his book. - -Once freed from the army, I started to write literary -criticism, and in 1951 I published a critical biography -of Anderson. It came shortly after Lionel Trilling's -influential essay attacking Anderson, an attack from -which Anderson's reputation would never quite recover. -Trilling charged Anderson with indulging a vaporous -sentimentalism, a kind of vague emotional meandering in -stories that lacked social or spiritual solidity. There -was a certain cogency in Trilling's attack, at least -with regard to Anderson's inferior work, most of which -he wrote after Winesburg, Ohio. In my book I tried, -somewhat awkwardly, to bring together the kinds of -judgment Trilling had made with my still keen affection -for the best of Anderson's writings. By then, I had -read writers more complex, perhaps more distinguished -than Anderson, but his muted stories kept a firm place -in my memories, and the book I wrote might be seen as a -gesture of thanks for the light--a glow of darkness, -you might say--that he had brought to me. - -Decades passed. I no longer read Anderson, perhaps -fearing I might have to surrender an admiration of -youth. (There are some writers one should never return -to.) But now, in the fullness of age, when asked to say -a few introductory words about Anderson and his work, I -have again fallen under the spell of Winesburg, Ohio, -again responded to the half-spoken desires, the -flickers of longing that spot its pages. Naturally, I -now have some changes of response: a few of the stories -no longer haunt me as once they did, but the long story -"Godliness," which years ago I considered a failure, I -now see as a quaintly effective account of the way -religious fanaticism and material acquisitiveness can -become intertwined in American experience. - - * * * - -Sherwood Anderson was born in Ohio in 1876. His -childhood and youth in Clyde, a town with perhaps three -thousand souls, were scarred by bouts of poverty, but -he also knew some of the pleasures of pre-industrial -American society. The country was then experiencing -what he would later call "a sudden and almost universal -turning of men from the old handicrafts towards our -modern life of machines." There were still people in -Clyde who remembered the frontier, and like America -itself, the town lived by a mixture of diluted -Calvinism and a strong belief in "progress," Young -Sherwood, known as "Jobby"--the boy always ready to -work--showed the kind of entrepreneurial spirit that -Clyde respected: folks expected him to become a -"go-getter," And for a time he did. Moving to Chicago -in his early twenties, he worked in an advertising -agency where he proved adept at turning out copy. "I -create nothing, I boost, I boost," he said about -himself, even as, on the side, he was trying to write -short stories. - -In 1904 Anderson married and three years later moved to -Elyria, a town forty miles west of Cleveland, where he -established a firm that sold paint. "I was going to be -a rich man.... Next year a bigger house; and after -that, presumably, a country estate." Later he would say -about his years in Elyria, "I was a good deal of a -Babbitt, but never completely one." Something drove him -to write, perhaps one of those shapeless hungers--a -need for self-expression? a wish to find a more -authentic kind of experience?--that would become a -recurrent motif in his fiction. - -And then, in 1912, occurred the great turning point in -Anderson's life. Plainly put, he suffered a nervous -breakdown, though in his memoirs he would elevate this -into a moment of liberation in which he abandoned the -sterility of commerce and turned to the rewards of -literature. Nor was this, I believe, merely a deception -on Anderson's part, since the breakdown painful as it -surely was, did help precipitate a basic change in his -life. At the age of 36, he left behind his business and -moved to Chicago, becoming one of the rebellious -writers and cultural bohemians in the group that has -since come to be called the "Chicago Renaissance." -Anderson soon adopted the posture of a free, liberated -spirit, and like many writers of the time, he presented -himself as a sardonic critic of American provincialism -and materialism. It was in the freedom of the city, in -its readiness to put up with deviant styles of life, -that Anderson found the strength to settle accounts -with--but also to release his affection for--the world -of small-town America. The dream of an unconditional -personal freedom, that hazy American version of utopia, -would remain central throughout Anderson's life and -work. It was an inspiration; it was a delusion. - -In 1916 and 1917 Anderson published two novels mostly -written in Elyria, Windy McPherson's Son and Marching -Men, both by now largely forgotten. They show patches -of talent but also a crudity of thought and -unsteadiness of language. No one reading these novels -was likely to suppose that its author could soon -produce anything as remarkable as Winesburg, Ohio. -Occasionally there occurs in a writer's career a -sudden, almost mysterious leap of talent, beyond -explanation, perhaps beyond any need for explanation. - -In 1915-16 Anderson had begun to write and in 1919 he -published the stories that comprise Winesburg, Ohio, -stories that form, in sum, a sort of loosely-strung -episodic novel. The book was an immediate critical -success, and soon Anderson was being ranked as a -significant literary figure. In 1921 the distinguished -literary magazine The Dial awarded him its first annual -literary prize of $2,000, the significance of which is -perhaps best understood if one also knows that the -second recipient was T. S. Eliot. But Anderson's moment -of glory was brief, no more than a decade, and sadly, -the remaining years until his death in 1940 were marked -by a sharp decline in his literary standing. Somehow, -except for an occasional story like the haunting "Death -in the Woods," he was unable to repeat or surpass his -early success. Still, about Winesburg, Ohio and a small -number of stories like "The Egg" and "The Man Who -Became a Woman" there has rarely been any critical -doubt. - - * * * - -No sooner did Winesburg, Ohio make its appearance than -a number of critical labels were fixed on it: the -revolt against the village, the espousal of sexual -freedom, the deepening of American realism. Such tags -may once have had their point, but by now they seem -dated and stale. The revolt against the village (about -which Anderson was always ambivalent) has faded into -history. The espousal of sexual freedom would soon be -exceeded in boldness by other writers. And as for the -effort to place Winesburg, Ohio in a tradition of -American realism, that now seems dubious. Only rarely -is the object of Anderson's stories social -verisimilitude, or the "photographing" of familiar -appearances, in the sense, say, that one might use to -describe a novel by Theodore Dreiser or Sinclair Lewis. -Only occasionally, and then with a very light touch, -does Anderson try to fill out the social arrangements -of his imaginary town--although the fact that his -stories are set in a mid-American place like Winesburg -does constitute an important formative condition. You -might even say, with only slight overstatement, that -what Anderson is doing in Winesburg, Ohio could be -described as "antirealistic," fictions notable less for -precise locale and social detail than for a highly -personal, even strange vision of American life. Narrow, -intense, almost claustrophobic, the result is a book -about extreme states of being, the collapse of men and -women who have lost their psychic bearings and now -hover, at best tolerated, at the edge of the little -community in which they live. It would be a gross -mistake, though not one likely to occur by now, if we -were to take Winesburg, Ohio as a social photograph of -"the typical small town" (whatever that might be.) -Anderson evokes a depressed landscape in which lost -souls wander about; they make their flitting -appearances mostly in the darkness of night, these -stumps and shades of humanity. This vision has its -truth, and at its best it is a terrible if narrow -truth--but it is itself also grotesque, with the tone -of the authorial voice and the mode of composition -forming muted signals of the book's content. Figures -like Dr. Parcival, Kate Swift, and Wash Williams are -not, nor are they meant to be, "fully-rounded" -characters such as we can expect in realistic fiction; -they are the shards of life, glimpsed for a moment, the -debris of suffering and defeat. In each story one of -them emerges, shyly or with a false assertiveness, -trying to reach out to companionship and love, driven -almost mad by the search for human connection. In the -economy of Winesburg these grotesques matter less in -their own right than as agents or symptoms of that -"indefinable hunger" for meaning which is Anderson's -preoccupation. - -Brushing against one another, passing one another in -the streets or the fields, they see bodies and hear -voices, but it does not really matter--they are -disconnected, psychically lost. Is this due to the -particular circumstances of small-town America as -Anderson saw it at the turn of the century? Or does he -feel that he is sketching an inescapable human -condition which makes all of us bear the burden of -loneliness? Alice Hindman in the story "Adventure" -turns her face to the wall and tries "to force herself -to face the fact that many people must live and die -alone, even in Winesburg." Or especially in Winesburg? -Such impressions have been put in more general terms in -Anderson's only successful novel, Poor White: - - All men lead their lives behind a wall of - misunderstanding they have themselves built, - and most men die in silence and unnoticed - behind the walls. Now and then a man, cut - off from his fellows by the peculiarities - of his nature, becomes absorbed in doing - something that is personal, useful and - beautiful. Word of his activities is - carried over the walls. - -These "walls" of misunderstanding are only seldom due -to physical deformities (Wing Biddlebaum in "Hands") or -oppressive social arrangements (Kate Swift in "The -Teacher.") Misunderstanding, loneliness, the inability -to articulate, are all seen by Anderson as virtually a -root condition, something deeply set in our natures. -Nor are these people, the grotesques, simply to be -pitied and dismissed; at some point in their lives they -have known desire, have dreamt of ambition, have hoped -for friendship. In all of them there was once something -sweet, "like the twisted little apples that grow in the -orchards in Winesburg." Now, broken and adrift, they -clutch at some rigid notion or idea, a "truth" which -turns out to bear the stamp of monomania, leaving them -helplessly sputtering, desperate to speak out but -unable to. Winesburg, Ohio registers the losses -inescapable to life, and it does so with a deep -fraternal sadness, a sympathy casting a mild glow over -the entire book. "Words," as the American writer Paula -Fox has said, "are nets through which all truth -escapes." Yet what do we have but words? - -They want, these Winesburg grotesques, to unpack their -hearts, to release emotions buried and festering. Wash -Williams tries to explain his eccentricity but hardly -can; Louise Bentley "tried to talk but could say -nothing"; Enoch Robinson retreats to a fantasy world, -inventing "his own people to whom he could really talk -and to whom he explained the things he had been unable -to explain to living people." - -In his own somber way, Anderson has here touched upon -one of the great themes of American literature, -especially Midwestern literature, in the late -nineteenth and early twentieth centuries: the struggle -for speech as it entails a search for the self. Perhaps -the central Winesburg story, tracing the basic -movements of the book, is "Paper Pills," in which the -old Doctor Reefy sits "in his empty office close by a -window that was covered with cobwebs," writes down some -thoughts on slips of paper ("pyramids of truth," he -calls them) and then stuffs them into his pockets where -they "become round hard balls" soon to be discarded. -What Dr. Reefy's "truths" may be we never know; -Anderson simply persuades us that to this lonely old -man they are utterly precious and thereby -incommunicable, forming a kind of blurred moral -signature. - -After a time the attentive reader will notice in these -stories a recurrent pattern of theme and incident: the -grotesques, gathering up a little courage, venture out -into the streets of Winesburg, often in the dark, there -to establish some initiatory relationship with George -Willard, the young reporter who hasn't yet lived long -enough to become a grotesque. Hesitantly, fearfully, or -with a sputtering incoherent rage, they approach him, -pleading that he listen to their stories in the hope -that perhaps they can find some sort of renewal in his -youthful voice. Upon this sensitive and fragile boy -they pour out their desires and frustrations. Dr. -Parcival hopes that George Willard "will write the book -I may never get written," and for Enoch Robinson, the -boy represents "the youthful sadness, young man's -sadness, the sadness of a growing boy in a village at -the year's end [which may open] the lips of the old -man." - -What the grotesques really need is each other, but -their estrangement is so extreme they cannot establish -direct ties--they can only hope for connection through -George Willard. The burden this places on the boy is -more than he can bear. He listens to them attentively, -he is sympathetic to their complaints, but finally he -is too absorbed in his own dreams. The grotesques turn -to him because he seems "different"--younger, more -open, not yet hardened--but it is precisely this -"difference" that keeps him from responding as warmly -as they want. It is hardly the boy's fault; it is -simply in the nature of things. For George Willard, the -grotesques form a moment in his education; for the -grotesques, their encounters with George Willard come -to seem like a stamp of hopelessness. - -The prose Anderson employs in telling these stories may -seem at first glance to be simple: short sentences, a -sparse vocabulary, uncomplicated syntax. In actuality, -Anderson developed an artful style in which, following -Mark Twain and preceding Ernest Hemingway, he tried to -use American speech as the base of a tensed rhythmic -prose that has an economy and a shapeliness seldom -found in ordinary speech or even oral narration. What -Anderson employs here is a stylized version of the -American language, sometimes rising to quite formal -rhetorical patterns and sometimes sinking to a -self-conscious mannerism. But at its best, Anderson's -prose style in Winesburg, Ohio is a supple instrument, -yielding that "low fine music" which he admired so much -in the stories of Turgenev. - -One of the worst fates that can befall a writer is that -of self-imitation: the effort later in life, often -desperate, to recapture the tones and themes of -youthful beginnings. Something of the sort happened -with Anderson's later writings. Most critics and -readers grew impatient with the work he did after, say, -1927 or 1928; they felt he was constantly repeating his -gestures of emotional "groping"--what he had called in -Winesburg, Ohio the "indefinable hunger" that prods and -torments people. It became the critical fashion to see -Anderson's "gropings" as a sign of delayed adolescence, -a failure to develop as a writer. Once he wrote a -chilling reply to those who dismissed him in this way: -"I don't think it matters much, all this calling a man -a muddler, a groper, etc.... The very man who throws -such words as these knows in his heart that he is also -facing a wall." This remark seems to me both dignified -and strong, yet it must be admitted that there was some -justice in the negative responses to his later work. -For what characterized it was not so much "groping" as -the imitation of "groping," the self-caricature of a -writer who feels driven back upon an earlier self that -is, alas, no longer available. - -But Winesburg, Ohio remains a vital work, fresh and -authentic. Most of its stories are composed in a minor -key, a tone of subdued pathos--pathos marking both the -nature and limit of Anderson's talent. (He spoke of -himself as a "minor writer.") In a few stories, -however, he was able to reach beyond pathos and to -strike a tragic note. The single best story in -Winesburg, Ohio is, I think, "The Untold Lie," in which -the urgency of choice becomes an outer sign of a tragic -element in the human condition. And in Anderson's -single greatest story, "The Egg," which appeared a few -years after Winesburg, Ohio, he succeeded in bringing -together a surface of farce with an undertone of -tragedy. "The Egg" is an American masterpiece. - -Anderson's influence upon later American writers, -especially those who wrote short stories, has been -enormous. Ernest Hemingway and William Faulkner both -praised him as a writer who brought a new tremor of -feeling, a new sense of introspectiveness to the -American short story. As Faulkner put it, Anderson's -"was the fumbling for exactitude, the exact word and -phrase within the limited scope of a vocabulary -controlled and even repressed by what was in him almost -a fetish of simplicity ... to seek always to penetrate -to thought's uttermost end." And in many younger -writers who may not even be aware of the Anderson -influence, you can see touches of his approach, echoes -of his voice. - -Writing about the Elizabethan playwright John Ford, the -poet Algernon Swinburne once said: "If he touches you -once he takes you, and what he takes he keeps hold of; -his work becomes part of your thought and parcel of -your spiritual furniture forever." So it is, for me and -many others, with Sherwood Anderson. - - - - -To the memory of my mother, - -EMMA SMITH ANDERSON, - -whose keen observations on the life about -her first awoke in me the hunger to see -beneath the surface of lives, -this book is dedicated. - - - - -THE TALES -AND THE PERSONS - - - - -THE BOOK OF -THE GROTESQUE - - - - -The writer, an old man with a white mustache, had some -difficulty in getting into bed. The windows of the -house in which he lived were high and he wanted to look -at the trees when he awoke in the morning. A carpenter -came to fix the bed so that it would be on a level with -the window. - -Quite a fuss was made about the matter. The carpenter, -who had been a soldier in the Civil War, came into the -writer's room and sat down to talk of building a -platform for the purpose of raising the bed. The writer -had cigars lying about and the carpenter smoked. - -For a time the two men talked of the raising of the bed -and then they talked of other things. The soldier got -on the subject of the war. The writer, in fact, led him -to that subject. The carpenter had once been a prisoner -in Andersonville prison and had lost a brother. The -brother had died of starvation, and whenever the -carpenter got upon that subject he cried. He, like the -old writer, had a white mustache, and when he cried he -puckered up his lips and the mustache bobbed up and -down. The weeping old man with the cigar in his mouth -was ludicrous. The plan the writer had for the raising -of his bed was forgotten and later the carpenter did it -in his own way and the writer, who was past sixty, had -to help himself with a chair when he went to bed at -night. - -In his bed the writer rolled over on his side and lay -quite still. For years he had been beset with notions -concerning his heart. He was a hard smoker and his -heart fluttered. The idea had got into his mind that he -would some time die unexpectedly and always when he got -into bed he thought of that. It did not alarm him. The -effect in fact was quite a special thing and not easily -explained. It made him more alive, there in bed, than -at any other time. Perfectly still he lay and his body -was old and not of much use any more, but something -inside him was altogether young. He was like a pregnant -woman, only that the thing inside him was not a baby -but a youth. No, it wasn't a youth, it was a woman, -young, and wearing a coat of mail like a knight. It is -absurd, you see, to try to tell what was inside the old -writer as he lay on his high bed and listened to the -fluttering of his heart. The thing to get at is what -the writer, or the young thing within the writer, was -thinking about. - -The old writer, like all of the people in the world, -had got, during his long life, a great many notions in -his head. He had once been quite handsome and a number -of women had been in love with him. And then, of -course, he had known people, many people, known them in -a peculiarly intimate way that was different from the -way in which you and I know people. At least that is -what the writer thought and the thought pleased him. -Why quarrel with an old man concerning his thoughts? - -In the bed the writer had a dream that was not a dream. -As he grew somewhat sleepy but was still conscious, -figures began to appear before his eyes. He imagined -the young indescribable thing within himself was -driving a long procession of figures before his eyes. - -You see the interest in all this lies in the figures -that went before the eyes of the writer. They were all -grotesques. All of the men and women the writer had -ever known had become grotesques. - -The grotesques were not all horrible. Some were -amusing, some almost beautiful, and one, a woman all -drawn out of shape, hurt the old man by her -grotesqueness. When she passed he made a noise like a -small dog whimpering. Had you come into the room you -might have supposed the old man had unpleasant dreams -or perhaps indigestion. - -For an hour the procession of grotesques passed before -the eyes of the old man, and then, although it was a -painful thing to do, he crept out of bed and began to -write. Some one of the grotesques had made a deep -impression on his mind and he wanted to describe it. - -At his desk the writer worked for an hour. In the end -he wrote a book which he called "The Book of the -Grotesque." It was never published, but I saw it once -and it made an indelible impression on my mind. The -book had one central thought that is very strange and -has always remained with me. By remembering it I have -been able to understand many people and things that I -was never able to understand before. The thought was -involved but a simple statement of it would be -something like this: - -That in the beginning when the world was young there -were a great many thoughts but no such thing as a -truth. Man made the truths himself and each truth was a -composite of a great many vague thoughts. All about in -the world were the truths and they were all beautiful. - -The old man had listed hundreds of the truths in his -book. I will not try to tell you of all of them. There -was the truth of virginity and the truth of passion, -the truth of wealth and of poverty, of thrift and of -profligacy, of carelessness and abandon. Hundreds and -hundreds were the truths and they were all beautiful. - -And then the people came along. Each as he appeared -snatched up one of the truths and some who were quite -strong snatched up a dozen of them. - -It was the truths that made the people grotesques. The -old man had quite an elaborate theory concerning the -matter. It was his notion that the moment one of the -people took one of the truths to himself, called it his -truth, and tried to live his life by it, he became a -grotesque and the truth he embraced became a falsehood. - -You can see for yourself how the old man, who had spent -all of his life writing and was filled with words, -would write hundreds of pages concerning this matter. -The subject would become so big in his mind that he -himself would be in danger of becoming a grotesque. He -didn't, I suppose, for the same reason that he never -published the book. It was the young thing inside him -that saved the old man. - -Concerning the old carpenter who fixed the bed for the -writer, I only mentioned him because he, like many of -what are called very common people, became the nearest -thing to what is understandable and lovable of all the -grotesques in the writer's book. - - - -HANDS - -Upon the half decayed veranda of a small frame house -that stood near the edge of a ravine near the town of -Winesburg, Ohio, a fat little old man walked nervously -up and down. Across a long field that had been seeded -for clover but that had produced only a dense crop of -yellow mustard weeds, he could see the public highway -along which went a wagon filled with berry pickers -returning from the fields. The berry pickers, youths -and maidens, laughed and shouted boisterously. A boy -clad in a blue shirt leaped from the wagon and -attempted to drag after him one of the maidens, who -screamed and protested shrilly. The feet of the boy in -the road kicked up a cloud of dust that floated across -the face of the departing sun. Over the long field came -a thin girlish voice. "Oh, you Wing Biddlebaum, comb -your hair, it's falling into your eyes," commanded the -voice to the man, who was bald and whose nervous little -hands fiddled about the bare white forehead as though -arranging a mass of tangled locks. - -Wing Biddlebaum, forever frightened and beset by a -ghostly band of doubts, did not think of himself as in -any way a part of the life of the town where he had -lived for twenty years. Among all the people of -Winesburg but one had come close to him. With George -Willard, son of Tom Willard, the proprietor of the New -Willard House, he had formed something like a -friendship. George Willard was the reporter on the -Winesburg Eagle and sometimes in the evenings he walked -out along the highway to Wing Biddlebaum's house. Now -as the old man walked up and down on the veranda, his -hands moving nervously about, he was hoping that George -Willard would come and spend the evening with him. -After the wagon containing the berry pickers had -passed, he went across the field through the tall -mustard weeds and climbing a rail fence peered -anxiously along the road to the town. For a moment he -stood thus, rubbing his hands together and looking up -and down the road, and then, fear overcoming him, ran -back to walk again upon the porch on his own house. - -In the presence of George Willard, Wing Biddlebaum, who -for twenty years had been the town mystery, lost -something of his timidity, and his shadowy personality, -submerged in a sea of doubts, came forth to look at the -world. With the young reporter at his side, he ventured -in the light of day into Main Street or strode up and -down on the rickety front porch of his own house, -talking excitedly. The voice that had been low and -trembling became shrill and loud. The bent figure -straightened. With a kind of wriggle, like a fish -returned to the brook by the fisherman, Biddlebaum the -silent began to talk, striving to put into words the -ideas that had been accumulated by his mind during long -years of silence. - -Wing Biddlebaum talked much with his hands. The slender -expressive fingers, forever active, forever striving to -conceal themselves in his pockets or behind his back, -came forth and became the piston rods of his machinery -of expression. - -The story of Wing Biddlebaum is a story of hands. Their -restless activity, like unto the beating of the wings -of an imprisoned bird, had given him his name. Some -obscure poet of the town had thought of it. The hands -alarmed their owner. He wanted to keep them hidden away -and looked with amazement at the quiet inexpressive -hands of other men who worked beside him in the fields, -or passed, driving sleepy teams on country roads. - -When he talked to George Willard, Wing Biddlebaum -closed his fists and beat with them upon a table or on -the walls of his house. The action made him more -comfortable. If the desire to talk came to him when the -two were walking in the fields, he sought out a stump -or the top board of a fence and with his hands pounding -busily talked with renewed ease. - -The story of Wing Biddlebaum's hands is worth a book in -itself. Sympathetically set forth it would tap many -strange, beautiful qualities in obscure men. It is a -job for a poet. In Winesburg the hands had attracted -attention merely because of their activity. With them -Wing Biddlebaum had picked as high as a hundred and -forty quarts of strawberries in a day. They became his -distinguishing feature, the source of his fame. Also -they made more grotesque an already grotesque and -elusive individuality. Winesburg was proud of the hands -of Wing Biddlebaum in the same spirit in which it was -proud of Banker White's new stone house and Wesley -Moyer's bay stallion, Tony Tip, that had won the -two-fifteen trot at the fall races in Cleveland. - -As for George Willard, he had many times wanted to ask -about the hands. At times an almost overwhelming -curiosity had taken hold of him. He felt that there -must be a reason for their strange activity and their -inclination to keep hidden away and only a growing -respect for Wing Biddlebaum kept him from blurting out -the questions that were often in his mind. - -Once he had been on the point of asking. The two were -walking in the fields on a summer afternoon and had -stopped to sit upon a grassy bank. All afternoon Wing -Biddlebaum had talked as one inspired. By a fence he -had stopped and beating like a giant woodpecker upon -the top board had shouted at George Willard, condemning -his tendency to be too much influenced by the people -about him, "You are destroying yourself," he cried. -"You have the inclination to be alone and to dream and -you are afraid of dreams. You want to be like others in -town here. You hear them talk and you try to imitate -them." - -On the grassy bank Wing Biddlebaum had tried again to -drive his point home. His voice became soft and -reminiscent, and with a sigh of contentment he launched -into a long rambling talk, speaking as one lost in a -dream. - -Out of the dream Wing Biddlebaum made a picture for -George Willard. In the picture men lived again in a -kind of pastoral golden age. Across a green open -country came clean-limbed young men, some afoot, some -mounted upon horses. In crowds the young men came to -gather about the feet of an old man who sat beneath a -tree in a tiny garden and who talked to them. - -Wing Biddlebaum became wholly inspired. For once he -forgot the hands. Slowly they stole forth and lay upon -George Willard's shoulders. Something new and bold came -into the voice that talked. "You must try to forget all -you have learned," said the old man. "You must begin to -dream. From this time on you must shut your ears to the -roaring of the voices." - -Pausing in his speech, Wing Biddlebaum looked long and -earnestly at George Willard. His eyes glowed. Again he -raised the hands to caress the boy and then a look of -horror swept over his face. - -With a convulsive movement of his body, Wing Biddlebaum -sprang to his feet and thrust his hands deep into his -trousers pockets. Tears came to his eyes. "I must be -getting along home. I can talk no more with you," he -said nervously. - -Without looking back, the old man had hurried down the -hillside and across a meadow, leaving George Willard -perplexed and frightened upon the grassy slope. With a -shiver of dread the boy arose and went along the road -toward town. "I'll not ask him about his hands," he -thought, touched by the memory of the terror he had -seen in the man's eyes. "There's something wrong, but I -don't want to know what it is. His hands have something -to do with his fear of me and of everyone." - -And George Willard was right. Let us look briefly into -the story of the hands. Perhaps our talking of them -will arouse the poet who will tell the hidden wonder -story of the influence for which the hands were but -fluttering pennants of promise. - -In his youth Wing Biddlebaum had been a school teacher -in a town in Pennsylvania. He was not then known as -Wing Biddlebaum, but went by the less euphonic name of -Adolph Myers. As Adolph Myers he was much loved by the -boys of his school. - -Adolph Myers was meant by nature to be a teacher of -youth. He was one of those rare, little-understood men -who rule by a power so gentle that it passes as a -lovable weakness. In their feeling for the boys under -their charge such men are not unlike the finer sort of -women in their love of men. - -And yet that is but crudely stated. It needs the poet -there. With the boys of his school, Adolph Myers had -walked in the evening or had sat talking until dusk -upon the schoolhouse steps lost in a kind of dream. -Here and there went his hands, caressing the shoulders -of the boys, playing about the tousled heads. As he -talked his voice became soft and musical. There was a -caress in that also. In a way the voice and the hands, -the stroking of the shoulders and the touching of the -hair were a part of the schoolmaster's effort to carry -a dream into the young minds. By the caress that was in -his fingers he expressed himself. He was one of those -men in whom the force that creates life is diffused, -not centralized. Under the caress of his hands doubt -and disbelief went out of the minds of the boys and -they began also to dream. - -And then the tragedy. A half-witted boy of the school -became enamored of the young master. In his bed at -night he imagined unspeakable things and in the morning -went forth to tell his dreams as facts. Strange, -hideous accusations fell from his loosehung lips. -Through the Pennsylvania town went a shiver. Hidden, -shadowy doubts that had been in men's minds concerning -Adolph Myers were galvanized into beliefs. - -The tragedy did not linger. Trembling lads were jerked -out of bed and questioned. "He put his arms about me," -said one. "His fingers were always playing in my hair," -said another. - -One afternoon a man of the town, Henry Bradford, who -kept a saloon, came to the schoolhouse door. Calling -Adolph Myers into the school yard he began to beat him -with his fists. As his hard knuckles beat down into the -frightened face of the school-master, his wrath became -more and more terrible. Screaming with dismay, the -children ran here and there like disturbed insects. -"I'll teach you to put your hands on my boy, you -beast," roared the saloon keeper, who, tired of beating -the master, had begun to kick him about the yard. - -Adolph Myers was driven from the Pennsylvania town in -the night. With lanterns in their hands a dozen men -came to the door of the house where he lived alone and -commanded that he dress and come forth. It was raining -and one of the men had a rope in his hands. They had -intended to hang the school-master, but something in his -figure, so small, white, and pitiful, touched their -hearts and they let him escape. As he ran away into the -darkness they repented of their weakness and ran after -him, swearing and throwing sticks and great balls of -soft mud at the figure that screamed and ran faster and -faster into the darkness. - -For twenty years Adolph Myers had lived alone in -Winesburg. He was but forty but looked sixty-five. The -name of Biddlebaum he got from a box of goods seen at a -freight station as he hurried through an eastern Ohio -town. He had an aunt in Winesburg, a black-toothed old -woman who raised chickens, and with her he lived until -she died. He had been ill for a year after the -experience in Pennsylvania, and after his recovery -worked as a day laborer in the fields, going timidly -about and striving to conceal his hands. Although he -did not understand what had happened he felt that the -hands must be to blame. Again and again the fathers of -the boys had talked of the hands. "Keep your hands to -yourself," the saloon keeper had roared, dancing, with -fury in the schoolhouse yard. - -Upon the veranda of his house by the ravine, Wing -Biddlebaum continued to walk up and down until the sun -had disappeared and the road beyond the field was lost -in the grey shadows. Going into his house he cut slices -of bread and spread honey upon them. When the rumble of -the evening train that took away the express cars -loaded with the day's harvest of berries had passed and -restored the silence of the summer night, he went again -to walk upon the veranda. In the darkness he could not -see the hands and they became quiet. Although he still -hungered for the presence of the boy, who was the -medium through which he expressed his love of man, the -hunger became again a part of his loneliness and his -waiting. Lighting a lamp, Wing Biddlebaum washed the -few dishes soiled by his simple meal and, setting up a -folding cot by the screen door that led to the porch, -prepared to undress for the night. A few stray white -bread crumbs lay on the cleanly washed floor by the -table; putting the lamp upon a low stool he began to -pick up the crumbs, carrying them to his mouth one by -one with unbelievable rapidity. In the dense blotch of -light beneath the table, the kneeling figure looked -like a priest engaged in some service of his church. -The nervous expressive fingers, flashing in and out of -the light, might well have been mistaken for the -fingers of the devotee going swiftly through decade -after decade of his rosary. - - - -PAPER PILLS - -He was an old man with a white beard and huge nose and -hands. Long before the time during which we will know -him, he was a doctor and drove a jaded white horse from -house to house through the streets of Winesburg. Later -he married a girl who had money. She had been left a -large fertile farm when her father died. The girl was -quiet, tall, and dark, and to many people she seemed -very beautiful. Everyone in Winesburg wondered why she -married the doctor. Within a year after the marriage -she died. - -The knuckles of the doctor's hands were extraordinarily -large. When the hands were closed they looked like -clusters of unpainted wooden balls as large as walnuts -fastened together by steel rods. He smoked a cob pipe -and after his wife's death sat all day in his empty -office close by a window that was covered with cobwebs. -He never opened the window. Once on a hot day in August -he tried but found it stuck fast and after that he -forgot all about it. - -Winesburg had forgotten the old man, but in Doctor -Reefy there were the seeds of something very fine. -Alone in his musty office in the Heffner Block above -the Paris Dry Goods Company's store, he worked -ceaselessly, building up something that he himself -destroyed. Little pyramids of truth he erected and -after erecting knocked them down again that he might -have the truths to erect other pyramids. - -Doctor Reefy was a tall man who had worn one suit of -clothes for ten years. It was frayed at the sleeves and -little holes had appeared at the knees and elbows. In -the office he wore also a linen duster with huge -pockets into which he continually stuffed scraps of -paper. After some weeks the scraps of paper became -little hard round balls, and when the pockets were -filled he dumped them out upon the floor. For ten years -he had but one friend, another old man named John -Spaniard who owned a tree nursery. Sometimes, in a -playful mood, old Doctor Reefy took from his pockets a -handful of the paper balls and threw them at the -nursery man. "That is to confound you, you blathering -old sentimentalist," he cried, shaking with laughter. - -The story of Doctor Reefy and his courtship of the tall -dark girl who became his wife and left her money to him -is a very curious story. It is delicious, like the -twisted little apples that grow in the orchards of -Winesburg. In the fall one walks in the orchards and -the ground is hard with frost underfoot. The apples -have been taken from the trees by the pickers. They -have been put in barrels and shipped to the cities -where they will be eaten in apartments that are filled -with books, magazines, furniture, and people. On the -trees are only a few gnarled apples that the pickers -have rejected. They look like the knuckles of Doctor -Reefy's hands. One nibbles at them and they are -delicious. Into a little round place at the side of the -apple has been gathered all of its sweetness. One runs -from tree to tree over the frosted ground picking the -gnarled, twisted apples and filling his pockets with -them. Only the few know the sweetness of the twisted -apples. - -The girl and Doctor Reefy began their courtship on a -summer afternoon. He was forty-five then and already he -had begun the practice of filling his pockets with the -scraps of paper that became hard balls and were thrown -away. The habit had been formed as he sat in his buggy -behind the jaded white horse and went slowly along -country roads. On the papers were written thoughts, -ends of thoughts, beginnings of thoughts. - -One by one the mind of Doctor Reefy had made the -thoughts. Out of many of them he formed a truth that -arose gigantic in his mind. The truth clouded the -world. It became terrible and then faded away and the -little thoughts began again. - -The tall dark girl came to see Doctor Reefy because she -was in the family way and had become frightened. She -was in that condition because of a series of -circumstances also curious. - -The death of her father and mother and the rich acres -of land that had come down to her had set a train of -suitors on her heels. For two years she saw suitors -almost every evening. Except two they were all alike. -They talked to her of passion and there was a strained -eager quality in their voices and in their eyes when -they looked at her. The two who were different were -much unlike each other. One of them, a slender young -man with white hands, the son of a jeweler in -Winesburg, talked continually of virginity. When he was -with her he was never off the subject. The other, a -black-haired boy with large ears, said nothing at all -but always managed to get her into the darkness, where -he began to kiss her. - -For a time the tall dark girl thought she would marry -the jeweler's son. For hours she sat in silence -listening as he talked to her and then she began to be -afraid of something. Beneath his talk of virginity she -began to think there was a lust greater than in all the -others. At times it seemed to her that as he talked he -was holding her body in his hands. She imagined him -turning it slowly about in the white hands and staring -at it. At night she dreamed that he had bitten into her -body and that his jaws were dripping. She had the dream -three times, then she became in the family way to the -one who said nothing at all but who in the moment of -his passion actually did bite her shoulder so that for -days the marks of his teeth showed. - -After the tall dark girl came to know Doctor Reefy it -seemed to her that she never wanted to leave him again. -She went into his office one morning and without her -saying anything he seemed to know what had happened to -her. - -In the office of the doctor there was a woman, the wife -of the man who kept the bookstore in Winesburg. Like -all old-fashioned country practitioners, Doctor Reefy -pulled teeth, and the woman who waited held a -handkerchief to her teeth and groaned. Her husband was -with her and when the tooth was taken out they both -screamed and blood ran down on the woman's white dress. -The tall dark girl did not pay any attention. When the -woman and the man had gone the doctor smiled. "I will -take you driving into the country with me," he said. - -For several weeks the tall dark girl and the doctor -were together almost every day. The condition that had -brought her to him passed in an illness, but she was -like one who has discovered the sweetness of the -twisted apples, she could not get her mind fixed again -upon the round perfect fruit that is eaten in the city -apartments. In the fall after the beginning of her -acquaintanceship with him she married Doctor Reefy and -in the following spring she died. During the winter he -read to her all of the odds and ends of thoughts he had -scribbled on the bits of paper. After he had read them -he laughed and stuffed them away in his pockets to -become round hard balls. - - - - -MOTHER - -Elizabeth Willard, the mother of George Willard, was -tall and gaunt and her face was marked with smallpox -scars. Although she was but forty-five, some obscure -disease had taken the fire out of her figure. -Listlessly she went about the disorderly old hotel -looking at the faded wall-paper and the ragged carpets -and, when she was able to be about, doing the work of a -chambermaid among beds soiled by the slumbers of fat -traveling men. Her husband, Tom Willard, a slender, -graceful man with square shoulders, a quick military -step, and a black mustache trained to turn sharply up -at the ends, tried to put the wife out of his mind. The -presence of the tall ghostly figure, moving slowly -through the halls, he took as a reproach to himself. -When he thought of her he grew angry and swore. The -hotel was unprofitable and forever on the edge of -failure and he wished himself out of it. He thought of -the old house and the woman who lived there with him as -things defeated and done for. The hotel in which he had -begun life so hopefully was now a mere ghost of what a -hotel should be. As he went spruce and business-like -through the streets of Winesburg, he sometimes stopped -and turned quickly about as though fearing that the -spirit of the hotel and of the woman would follow him -even into the streets. "Damn such a life, damn it!" he -sputtered aimlessly. - -Tom Willard had a passion for village politics and for -years had been the leading Democrat in a strongly -Republican community. Some day, he told himself, the -tide of things political will turn in my favor and the -years of ineffectual service count big in the bestowal -of rewards. He dreamed of going to Congress and even of -becoming governor. Once when a younger member of the -party arose at a political conference and began to -boast of his faithful service, Tom Willard grew white -with fury. "Shut up, you," he roared, glaring about. -"What do you know of service? What are you but a boy? -Look at what I've done here! I was a Democrat here in -Winesburg when it was a crime to be a Democrat. In the -old days they fairly hunted us with guns." - -Between Elizabeth and her one son George there was a -deep unexpressed bond of sympathy, based on a girlhood -dream that had long ago died. In the son's presence she -was timid and reserved, but sometimes while he hurried -about town intent upon his duties as a reporter, she -went into his room and closing the door knelt by a -little desk, made of a kitchen table, that sat near a -window. In the room by the desk she went through a -ceremony that was half a prayer, half a demand, -addressed to the skies. In the boyish figure she -yearned to see something half forgotten that had once -been a part of herself recreated. The prayer concerned -that. "Even though I die, I will in some way keep -defeat from you," she cried, and so deep was her -determination that her whole body shook. Her eyes -glowed and she clenched her fists. "If I am dead and -see him becoming a meaningless drab figure like myself, -I will come back," she declared. "I ask God now to give -me that privilege. I demand it. I will pay for it. God -may beat me with his fists. I will take any blow that -may befall if but this my boy be allowed to express -something for us both." Pausing uncertainly, the woman -stared about the boy's room. "And do not let him become -smart and successful either," she added vaguely. - -The communion between George Willard and his mother was -outwardly a formal thing without meaning. When she was -ill and sat by the window in her room he sometimes went -in the evening to make her a visit. They sat by a -window that looked over the roof of a small frame -building into Main Street. By turning their heads they -could see through another window, along an alleyway -that ran behind the Main Street stores and into the -back door of Abner Groff's bakery. Sometimes as they -sat thus a picture of village life presented itself to -them. At the back door of his shop appeared Abner Groff -with a stick or an empty milk bottle in his hand. For a -long time there was a feud between the baker and a grey -cat that belonged to Sylvester West, the druggist. The -boy and his mother saw the cat creep into the door of -the bakery and presently emerge followed by the baker, -who swore and waved his arms about. The baker's eyes -were small and red and his black hair and beard were -filled with flour dust. Sometimes he was so angry that, -although the cat had disappeared, he hurled sticks, -bits of broken glass, and even some of the tools of his -trade about. Once he broke a window at the back of -Sinning's Hardware Store. In the alley the grey cat -crouched behind barrels filled with torn paper and -broken bottles above which flew a black swarm of flies. -Once when she was alone, and after watching a prolonged -and ineffectual outburst on the part of the baker, -Elizabeth Willard put her head down on her long white -hands and wept. After that she did not look along the -alleyway any more, but tried to forget the contest -between the bearded man and the cat. It seemed like a -rehearsal of her own life, terrible in its vividness. - -In the evening when the son sat in the room with his -mother, the silence made them both feel awkward. -Darkness came on and the evening train came in at the -station. In the street below feet tramped up and down -upon a board sidewalk. In the station yard, after the -evening train had gone, there was a heavy silence. -Perhaps Skinner Leason, the express agent, moved a -truck the length of the station platform. Over on Main -Street sounded a man's voice, laughing. The door of the -express office banged. George Willard arose and -crossing the room fumbled for the doorknob. Sometimes -he knocked against a chair, making it scrape along the -floor. By the window sat the sick woman, perfectly -still, listless. Her long hands, white and bloodless, -could be seen drooping over the ends of the arms of the -chair. "I think you had better be out among the boys. -You are too much indoors," she said, striving to -relieve the embarrassment of the departure. "I thought -I would take a walk," replied George Willard, who felt -awkward and confused. - -One evening in July, when the transient guests who made -the New Willard House their temporary home had become -scarce, and the hallways, lighted only by kerosene -lamps turned low, were plunged in gloom, Elizabeth -Willard had an adventure. She had been ill in bed for -several days and her son had not come to visit her. She -was alarmed. The feeble blaze of life that remained in -her body was blown into a flame by her anxiety and she -crept out of bed, dressed and hurried along the hallway -toward her son's room, shaking with exaggerated fears. -As she went along she steadied herself with her hand, -slipped along the papered walls of the hall and -breathed with difficulty. The air whistled through her -teeth. As she hurried forward she thought how foolish -she was. "He is concerned with boyish affairs," she -told herself. "Perhaps he has now begun to walk about -in the evening with girls." - -Elizabeth Willard had a dread of being seen by guests -in the hotel that had once belonged to her father and -the ownership of which still stood recorded in her name -in the county courthouse. The hotel was continually -losing patronage because of its shabbiness and she -thought of herself as also shabby. Her own room was in -an obscure corner and when she felt able to work she -voluntarily worked among the beds, preferring the labor -that could be done when the guests were abroad seeking -trade among the merchants of Winesburg. - -By the door of her son's room the mother knelt upon the -floor and listened for some sound from within. When she -heard the boy moving about and talking in low tones a -smile came to her lips. George Willard had a habit of -talking aloud to himself and to hear him doing so had -always given his mother a peculiar pleasure. The habit -in him, she felt, strengthened the secret bond that -existed between them. A thousand times she had -whispered to herself of the matter. "He is groping -about, trying to find himself," she thought. "He is not -a dull clod, all words and smartness. Within him there -is a secret something that is striving to grow. It is -the thing I let be killed in myself." - -In the darkness in the hallway by the door the sick -woman arose and started again toward her own room. She -was afraid that the door would open and the boy come -upon her. When she had reached a safe distance and was -about to turn a corner into a second hallway she -stopped and bracing herself with her hands waited, -thinking to shake off a trembling fit of weakness that -had come upon her. The presence of the boy in the room -had made her happy. In her bed, during the long hours -alone, the little fears that had visited her had become -giants. Now they were all gone. "When I get back to my -room I shall sleep," she murmured gratefully. - -But Elizabeth Willard was not to return to her bed and -to sleep. As she stood trembling in the darkness the -door of her son's room opened and the boy's father, Tom -Willard, stepped out. In the light that steamed out at -the door he stood with the knob in his hand and talked. -What he said infuriated the woman. - -Tom Willard was ambitious for his son. He had always -thought of himself as a successful man, although -nothing he had ever done had turned out successfully. -However, when he was out of sight of the New Willard -House and had no fear of coming upon his wife, he -swaggered and began to dramatize himself as one of the -chief men of the town. He wanted his son to succeed. He -it was who had secured for the boy the position on the -Winesburg Eagle. Now, with a ring of earnestness in his -voice, he was advising concerning some course of -conduct. "I tell you what, George, you've got to wake -up," he said sharply. "Will Henderson has spoken to me -three times concerning the matter. He says you go along -for hours not hearing when you are spoken to and acting -like a gawky girl. What ails you?" Tom Willard laughed -good-naturedly. "Well, I guess you'll get over it," he -said. "I told Will that. You're not a fool and you're -not a woman. You're Tom Willard's son and you'll wake -up. I'm not afraid. What you say clears things up. If -being a newspaper man had put the notion of becoming a -writer into your mind that's all right. Only I guess -you'll have to wake up to do that too, eh?" - -Tom Willard went briskly along the hallway and down a -flight of stairs to the office. The woman in the -darkness could hear him laughing and talking with a -guest who was striving to wear away a dull evening by -dozing in a chair by the office door. She returned to -the door of her son's room. The weakness had passed -from her body as by a miracle and she stepped boldly -along. A thousand ideas raced through her head. When -she heard the scraping of a chair and the sound of a -pen scratching upon paper, she again turned and went -back along the hallway to her own room. - -A definite determination had come into the mind of the -defeated wife of the Winesburg hotel keeper. The -determination was the result of long years of quiet and -rather ineffectual thinking. "Now," she told herself, -"I will act. There is something threatening my boy and -I will ward it off." The fact that the conversation -between Tom Willard and his son had been rather quiet -and natural, as though an understanding existed between -them, maddened her. Although for years she had hated -her husband, her hatred had always before been a quite -impersonal thing. He had been merely a part of -something else that she hated. Now, and by the few -words at the door, he had become the thing personified. -In the darkness of her own room she clenched her fists -and glared about. Going to a cloth bag that hung on a -nail by the wall she took out a long pair of sewing -scissors and held them in her hand like a dagger. "I -will stab him," she said aloud. "He has chosen to be -the voice of evil and I will kill him. When I have -killed him something will snap within myself and I will -die also. It will be a release for all of us." - -In her girlhood and before her marriage with Tom -Willard, Elizabeth had borne a somewhat shaky -reputation in Winesburg. For years she had been what is -called "stage-struck" and had paraded through the -streets with traveling men guests at her father's -hotel, wearing loud clothes and urging them to tell her -of life in the cities out of which they had come. Once -she startled the town by putting on men's clothes and -riding a bicycle down Main Street. - -In her own mind the tall dark girl had been in those -days much confused. A great restlessness was in her and -it expressed itself in two ways. First there was an -uneasy desire for change, for some big definite -movement to her life. It was this feeling that had -turned her mind to the stage. She dreamed of joining -some company and wandering over the world, seeing -always new faces and giving something out of herself to -all people. Sometimes at night she was quite beside -herself with the thought, but when she tried to talk of -the matter to the members of the theatrical companies -that came to Winesburg and stopped at her father's -hotel, she got nowhere. They did not seem to know what -she meant, or if she did get something of her passion -expressed, they only laughed. "It's not like that," -they said. "It's as dull and uninteresting as this -here. Nothing comes of it." - -With the traveling men when she walked about with them, -and later with Tom Willard, it was quite different. -Always they seemed to understand and sympathize with -her. On the side streets of the village, in the -darkness under the trees, they took hold of her hand -and she thought that something unexpressed in herself -came forth and became a part of an unexpressed -something in them. - -And then there was the second expression of her -restlessness. When that came she felt for a time -released and happy. She did not blame the men who -walked with her and later she did not blame Tom -Willard. It was always the same, beginning with kisses -and ending, after strange wild emotions, with peace and -then sobbing repentance. When she sobbed she put her -hand upon the face of the man and had always the same -thought. Even though he were large and bearded she -thought he had become suddenly a little boy. She -wondered why he did not sob also. - -In her room, tucked away in a corner of the old Willard -House, Elizabeth Willard lighted a lamp and put it on a -dressing table that stood by the door. A thought had -come into her mind and she went to a closet and brought -out a small square box and set it on the table. The box -contained material for make-up and had been left with -other things by a theatrical company that had once been -stranded in Winesburg. Elizabeth Willard had decided -that she would be beautiful. Her hair was still black -and there was a great mass of it braided and coiled -about her head. The scene that was to take place in the -office below began to grow in her mind. No ghostly -worn-out figure should confront Tom Willard, but -something quite unexpected and startling. Tall and with -dusky cheeks and hair that fell in a mass from her -shoulders, a figure should come striding down the -stairway before the startled loungers in the hotel -office. The figure would be silent--it would be swift -and terrible. As a tigress whose cub had been -threatened would she appear, coming out of the shadows, -stealing noiselessly along and holding the long wicked -scissors in her hand. - -With a little broken sob in her throat, Elizabeth -Willard blew out the light that stood upon the table -and stood weak and trembling in the darkness. The -strength that had been as a miracle in her body left -and she half reeled across the floor, clutching at the -back of the chair in which she had spent so many long -days staring out over the tin roofs into the main -street of Winesburg. In the hallway there was the sound -of footsteps and George Willard came in at the door. -Sitting in a chair beside his mother he began to talk. -"I'm going to get out of here," he said. "I don't know -where I shall go or what I shall do but I am going -away." - -The woman in the chair waited and trembled. An impulse -came to her. "I suppose you had better wake up," she -said. "You think that? You will go to the city and make -money, eh? It will be better for you, you think, to be -a business man, to be brisk and smart and alive?" She -waited and trembled. - -The son shook his head. "I suppose I can't make you -understand, but oh, I wish I could," he said earnestly. -"I can't even talk to father about it. I don't try. -There isn't any use. I don't know what I shall do. I -just want to go away and look at people and think." - -Silence fell upon the room where the boy and woman sat -together. Again, as on the other evenings, they were -embarrassed. After a time the boy tried again to talk. -"I suppose it won't be for a year or two but I've been -thinking about it," he said, rising and going toward -the door. "Something father said makes it sure that I -shall have to go away." He fumbled with the doorknob. -In the room the silence became unbearable to the woman. -She wanted to cry out with joy because of the words -that had come from the lips of her son, but the -expression of joy had become impossible to her. "I -think you had better go out among the boys. You are too -much indoors," she said. "I thought I would go for a -little walk," replied the son stepping awkwardly out of -the room and closing the door. - - - - -THE PHILOSOPHER - -Doctor Parcival was a large man with a drooping mouth -covered by a yellow mustache. He always wore a dirty -white waistcoat out of the pockets of which protruded a -number of the kind of black cigars known as stogies. -His teeth were black and irregular and there was -something strange about his eyes. The lid of the left -eye twitched; it fell down and snapped up; it was -exactly as though the lid of the eye were a window -shade and someone stood inside the doctor's head -playing with the cord. - -Doctor Parcival had a liking for the boy, George -Willard. It began when George had been working for a -year on the Winesburg Eagle and the acquaintanceship -was entirely a matter of the doctor's own making. - -In the late afternoon Will Henderson, owner and editor -of the Eagle, went over to Tom Willy's saloon. Along an -alleyway he went and slipping in at the back door of -the saloon began drinking a drink made of a combination -of sloe gin and soda water. Will Henderson was a -sensualist and had reached the age of forty-five. He -imagined the gin renewed the youth in him. Like most -sensualists he enjoyed talking of women, and for an -hour he lingered about gossiping with Tom Willy. The -saloon keeper was a short, broad-shouldered man with -peculiarly marked hands. That flaming kind of birthmark -that sometimes paints with red the faces of men and -women had touched with red Tom Willy's fingers and the -backs of his hands. As he stood by the bar talking to -Will Henderson he rubbed the hands together. As he grew -more and more excited the red of his fingers deepened. -It was as though the hands had been dipped in blood -that had dried and faded. - -As Will Henderson stood at the bar looking at the red -hands and talking of women, his assistant, George -Willard, sat in the office of the Winesburg Eagle and -listened to the talk of Doctor Parcival. - -Doctor Parcival appeared immediately after Will -Henderson had disappeared. One might have supposed that -the doctor had been watching from his office window and -had seen the editor going along the alleyway. Coming in -at the front door and finding himself a chair, he -lighted one of the stogies and crossing his legs began -to talk. He seemed intent upon convincing the boy of -the advisability of adopting a line of conduct that he -was himself unable to define. - -"If you have your eyes open you will see that although -I call myself a doctor I have mighty few patients," he -began. "There is a reason for that. It is not an -accident and it is not because I do not know as much of -medicine as anyone here. I do not want patients. The -reason, you see, does not appear on the surface. It -lies in fact in my character, which has, if you think -about it, many strange turns. Why I want to talk to you -of the matter I don't know. I might keep still and get -more credit in your eyes. I have a desire to make you -admire me, that's a fact. I don't know why. That's why -I talk. It's very amusing, eh?" - -Sometimes the doctor launched into long tales -concerning himself. To the boy the tales were very real -and full of meaning. He began to admire the fat -unclean-looking man and, in the afternoon when Will -Henderson had gone, looked forward with keen interest -to the doctor's coming. - -Doctor Parcival had been in Winesburg about five years. -He came from Chicago and when he arrived was drunk and -got into a fight with Albert Longworth, the baggageman. -The fight concerned a trunk and ended by the doctor's -being escorted to the village lockup. When he was -released he rented a room above a shoe-repairing shop -at the lower end of Main Street and put out the sign -that announced himself as a doctor. Although he had but -few patients and these of the poorer sort who were -unable to pay, he seemed to have plenty of money for -his needs. He slept in the office that was unspeakably -dirty and dined at Biff Carter's lunch room in a small -frame building opposite the railroad station. In the -summer the lunch room was filled with flies and Biff -Carter's white apron was more dirty than his floor. -Doctor Parcival did not mind. Into the lunch room he -stalked and deposited twenty cents upon the counter. -"Feed me what you wish for that," he said laughing. -"Use up food that you wouldn't otherwise sell. It makes -no difference to me. I am a man of distinction, you -see. Why should I concern myself with what I eat." - -The tales that Doctor Parcival told George Willard -began nowhere and ended nowhere. Sometimes the boy -thought they must all be inventions, a pack of lies. -And then again he was convinced that they contained the -very essence of truth. - -"I was a reporter like you here," Doctor Parcival -began. "It was in a town in Iowa--or was it in -Illinois? I don't remember and anyway it makes no -difference. Perhaps I am trying to conceal my identity -and don't want to be very definite. Have you ever -thought it strange that I have money for my needs -although I do nothing? I may have stolen a great sum of -money or been involved in a murder before I came here. -There is food for thought in that, eh? If you were a -really smart newspaper reporter you would look me up. -In Chicago there was a Doctor Cronin who was murdered. -Have you heard of that? Some men murdered him and put -him in a trunk. In the early morning they hauled the -trunk across the city. It sat on the back of an express -wagon and they were on the seat as unconcerned as -anything. Along they went through quiet streets where -everyone was asleep. The sun was just coming up over -the lake. Funny, eh--just to think of them smoking -pipes and chattering as they drove along as unconcerned -as I am now. Perhaps I was one of those men. That would -be a strange turn of things, now wouldn't it, eh?" -Again Doctor Parcival began his tale: "Well, anyway -there I was, a reporter on a paper just as you are -here, running about and getting little items to print. -My mother was poor. She took in washing. Her dream was -to make me a Presbyterian minister and I was studying -with that end in view. - -"My father had been insane for a number of years. He -was in an asylum over at Dayton, Ohio. There you see I -have let it slip out! All of this took place in Ohio, -right here in Ohio. There is a clew if you ever get the -notion of looking me up. - -"I was going to tell you of my brother. That's the -object of all this. That's what I'm getting at. My -brother was a railroad painter and had a job on the Big -Four. You know that road runs through Ohio here. With -other men he lived in a box car and away they went from -town to town painting the railroad property-switches, -crossing gates, bridges, and stations. - -"The Big Four paints its stations a nasty orange color. -How I hated that color! My brother was always covered -with it. On pay days he used to get drunk and come home -wearing his paint-covered clothes and bringing his -money with him. He did not give it to mother but laid -it in a pile on our kitchen table. - -"About the house he went in the clothes covered with -the nasty orange colored paint. I can see the picture. -My mother, who was small and had red, sad-looking eyes, -would come into the house from a little shed at the -back. That's where she spent her time over the washtub -scrubbing people's dirty clothes. In she would come and -stand by the table, rubbing her eyes with her apron -that was covered with soap-suds. - -"'Don't touch it! Don't you dare touch that money,' my -brother roared, and then he himself took five or ten -dollars and went tramping off to the saloons. When he -had spent what he had taken he came back for more. He -never gave my mother any money at all but stayed about -until he had spent it all, a little at a time. Then he -went back to his job with the painting crew on the -railroad. After he had gone things began to arrive at -our house, groceries and such things. Sometimes there -would be a dress for mother or a pair of shoes for me. - -"Strange, eh? My mother loved my brother much more than -she did me, although he never said a kind word to -either of us and always raved up and down threatening -us if we dared so much as touch the money that -sometimes lay on the table three days. - -"We got along pretty well. I studied to be a minister -and prayed. I was a regular ass about saying prayers. -You should have heard me. When my father died I prayed -all night, just as I did sometimes when my brother was -in town drinking and going about buying the things for -us. In the evening after supper I knelt by the table -where the money lay and prayed for hours. When no one -was looking I stole a dollar or two and put it in my -pocket. That makes me laugh now but then it was -terrible. It was on my mind all the time. I got six -dollars a week from my job on the paper and always took -it straight home to mother. The few dollars I stole -from my brother's pile I spent on myself, you know, for -trifles, candy and cigarettes and such things. - -"When my father died at the asylum over at Dayton, I -went over there. I borrowed some money from the man for -whom I worked and went on the train at night. It was -raining. In the asylum they treated me as though I were -a king. - -"The men who had jobs in the asylum had found out I was -a newspaper reporter. That made them afraid. There had -been some negligence, some carelessness, you see, when -father was ill. They thought perhaps I would write it -up in the paper and make a fuss. I never intended to do -anything of the kind. - -"Anyway, in I went to the room where my father lay dead -and blessed the dead body. I wonder what put that -notion into my head. Wouldn't my brother, the painter, -have laughed, though. There I stood over the dead body -and spread out my hands. The superintendent of the -asylum and some of his helpers came in and stood about -looking sheepish. It was very amusing. I spread out my -hands and said, 'Let peace brood over this carcass.' -That's what I said." - -Jumping to his feet and breaking off the tale, Doctor -Parcival began to walk up and down in the office of the -Winesburg Eagle where George Willard sat listening. He -was awkward and, as the office was small, continually -knocked against things. "What a fool I am to be -talking," he said. "That is not my object in coming -here and forcing my acquaintanceship upon you. I have -something else in mind. You are a reporter just as I -was once and you have attracted my attention. You may -end by becoming just such another fool. I want to warn -you and keep on warning you. That's why I seek you -out." - -Doctor Parcival began talking of George Willard's -attitude toward men. It seemed to the boy that the man -had but one object in view, to make everyone seem -despicable. "I want to fill you with hatred and -contempt so that you will be a superior being," he -declared. "Look at my brother. There was a fellow, eh? -He despised everyone, you see. You have no idea with -what contempt he looked upon mother and me. And was he -not our superior? You know he was. You have not seen -him and yet I have made you feel that. I have given you -a sense of it. He is dead. Once when he was drunk he -lay down on the tracks and the car in which he lived -with the other painters ran over him." - - * * * - -One day in August Doctor Parcival had an adventure in -Winesburg. For a month George Willard had been going -each morning to spend an hour in the doctor's office. -The visits came about through a desire on the part of -the doctor to read to the boy from the pages of a book -he was in the process of writing. To write the book -Doctor Parcival declared was the object of his coming -to Winesburg to live. - -On the morning in August before the coming of the boy, -an incident had happened in the doctor's office. There -had been an accident on Main Street. A team of horses -had been frightened by a train and had run away. A -little girl, the daughter of a farmer, had been thrown -from a buggy and killed. - -On Main Street everyone had become excited and a cry -for doctors had gone up. All three of the active -practitioners of the town had come quickly but had -found the child dead. From the crowd someone had run to -the office of Doctor Parcival who had bluntly refused -to go down out of his office to the dead child. The -useless cruelty of his refusal had passed unnoticed. -Indeed, the man who had come up the stairway to summon -him had hurried away without hearing the refusal. - -All of this, Doctor Parcival did not know and when -George Willard came to his office he found the man -shaking with terror. "What I have done will arouse the -people of this town," he declared excitedly. "Do I not -know human nature? Do I not know what will happen? Word -of my refusal will be whispered about. Presently men -will get together in groups and talk of it. They will -come here. We will quarrel and there will be talk of -hanging. Then they will come again bearing a rope in -their hands." - -Doctor Parcival shook with fright. "I have a -presentiment," he declared emphatically. "It may be -that what I am talking about will not occur this -morning. It may be put off until tonight but I will be -hanged. Everyone will get excited. I will be hanged to -a lamp-post on Main Street." - -Going to the door of his dirty office, Doctor Parcival -looked timidly down the stairway leading to the street. -When he returned the fright that had been in his eyes -was beginning to be replaced by doubt. Coming on tiptoe -across the room he tapped George Willard on the -shoulder. "If not now, sometime," he whispered, shaking -his head. "In the end I will be crucified, uselessly -crucified." - -Doctor Parcival began to plead with George Willard. -"You must pay attention to me," he urged. "If something -happens perhaps you will be able to write the book that -I may never get written. The idea is very simple, so -simple that if you are not careful you will forget it. -It is this--that everyone in the world is Christ and -they are all crucified. That's what I want to say. -Don't you forget that. Whatever happens, don't you dare -let yourself forget." - - - - -NOBODY KNOWS - -Looking cautiously about, George Willard arose from his -desk in the office of the Winesburg Eagle and went -hurriedly out at the back door. The night was warm and -cloudy and although it was not yet eight o'clock, the -alleyway back of the Eagle office was pitch dark. A -team of horses tied to a post somewhere in the darkness -stamped on the hard-baked ground. A cat sprang from -under George Willard's feet and ran away into the -night. The young man was nervous. All day he had gone -about his work like one dazed by a blow. In the -alleyway he trembled as though with fright. - -In the darkness George Willard walked along the -alleyway, going carefully and cautiously. The back -doors of the Winesburg stores were open and he could -see men sitting about under the store lamps. In -Myerbaum's Notion Store Mrs. Willy the saloon keeper's -wife stood by the counter with a basket on her arm. Sid -Green the clerk was waiting on her. He leaned over the -counter and talked earnestly. - -George Willard crouched and then jumped through the -path of light that came out at the door. He began to -run forward in the darkness. Behind Ed Griffith's -saloon old Jerry Bird the town drunkard lay asleep on -the ground. The runner stumbled over the sprawling -legs. He laughed brokenly. - -George Willard had set forth upon an adventure. All day -he had been trying to make up his mind to go through -with the adventure and now he was acting. In the office -of the Winesburg Eagle he had been sitting since six -o'clock trying to think. - -There had been no decision. He had just jumped to his -feet, hurried past Will Henderson who was reading proof -in the printshop and started to run along the alleyway. - -Through street after street went George Willard, -avoiding the people who passed. He crossed and -recrossed the road. When he passed a street lamp he -pulled his hat down over his face. He did not dare -think. In his mind there was a fear but it was a new -kind of fear. He was afraid the adventure on which he -had set out would be spoiled, that he would lose -courage and turn back. - -George Willard found Louise Trunnion in the kitchen of -her father's house. She was washing dishes by the light -of a kerosene lamp. There she stood behind the screen -door in the little shedlike kitchen at the back of the -house. George Willard stopped by a picket fence and -tried to control the shaking of his body. Only a narrow -potato patch separated him from the adventure. Five -minutes passed before he felt sure enough of himself to -call to her. "Louise! Oh, Louise!" he called. The cry -stuck in his throat. His voice became a hoarse whisper. - -Louise Trunnion came out across the potato patch -holding the dish cloth in her hand. "How do you know I -want to go out with you," she said sulkily. "What makes -you so sure?" - -George Willard did not answer. In silence the two -stood in the darkness with the fence between them. "You -go on along," she said. "Pa's in there. I'll come -along. You wait by Williams' barn." - -The young newspaper reporter had received a letter from -Louise Trunnion. It had come that morning to the office -of the Winesburg Eagle. The letter was brief. "I'm -yours if you want me," it said. He thought it annoying -that in the darkness by the fence she had pretended -there was nothing between them. "She has a nerve! Well, -gracious sakes, she has a nerve," he muttered as he -went along the street and passed a row of vacant lots -where corn grew. The corn was shoulder high and had -been planted right down to the sidewalk. - -When Louise Trunnion came out of the front door of her -house she still wore the gingham dress in which she had -been washing dishes. There was no hat on her head. The -boy could see her standing with the doorknob in her -hand talking to someone within, no doubt to old Jake -Trunnion, her father. Old Jake was half deaf and she -shouted. The door closed and everything was dark and -silent in the little side street. George Willard -trembled more violently than ever. - -In the shadows by Williams' barn George and Louise -stood, not daring to talk. She was not particularly -comely and there was a black smudge on the side of her -nose. George thought she must have rubbed her nose with -her finger after she had been handling some of the -kitchen pots. - -The young man began to laugh nervously. "It's warm," -he said. He wanted to touch her with his hand. "I'm not -very bold," he thought. Just to touch the folds of the -soiled gingham dress would, he decided, be an exquisite -pleasure. She began to quibble. "You think you're -better than I am. Don't tell me, I guess I know," she -said drawing closer to him. - -A flood of words burst from George Willard. He -remembered the look that had lurked in the girl's eyes -when they had met on the streets and thought of the -note she had written. Doubt left him. The whispered -tales concerning her that had gone about town gave him -confidence. He became wholly the male, bold and -aggressive. In his heart there was no sympathy for her. -"Ah, come on, it'll be all right. There won't be anyone -know anything. How can they know?" he urged. - -They began to walk along a narrow brick sidewalk -between the cracks of which tall weeds grew. Some of -the bricks were missing and the sidewalk was rough and -irregular. He took hold of her hand that was also rough -and thought it delightfully small. "I can't go far," -she said and her voice was quiet, unperturbed. - -They crossed a bridge that ran over a tiny stream and -passed another vacant lot in which corn grew. The -street ended. In the path at the side of the road they -were compelled to walk one behind the other. Will -Overton's berry field lay beside the road and there was -a pile of boards. "Will is going to build a shed to -store berry crates here," said George and they sat down -upon the boards. - - * * * - -When George Willard got back into Main Street it was -past ten o'clock and had begun to rain. Three times he -walked up and down the length of Main Street. Sylvester -West's Drug Store was still open and he went in and -bought a cigar. When Shorty Crandall the clerk came out -at the door with him he was pleased. For five minutes -the two stood in the shelter of the store awning and -talked. George Willard felt satisfied. He had wanted -more than anything else to talk to some man. Around a -corner toward the New Willard House he went whistling -softly. - -On the sidewalk at the side of Winney's Dry Goods Store -where there was a high board fence covered with circus -pictures, he stopped whistling and stood perfectly -still in the darkness, attentive, listening as though -for a voice calling his name. Then again he laughed -nervously. "She hasn't got anything on me. Nobody -knows," he muttered doggedly and went on his way. - - - - -GODLINESS - -A Tale in Four Parts - -There were always three or four old people sitting on -the front porch of the house or puttering about the -garden of the Bentley farm. Three of the old people -were women and sisters to Jesse. They were a colorless, -soft voiced lot. Then there was a silent old man with -thin white hair who was Jesse's uncle. - -The farmhouse was built of wood, a board outer-covering -over a framework of logs. It was in reality not one -house but a cluster of houses joined together in a -rather haphazard manner. Inside, the place was full of -surprises. One went up steps from the living room into -the dining room and there were always steps to be -ascended or descended in passing from one room to -another. At meal times the place was like a beehive. At -one moment all was quiet, then doors began to open, -feet clattered on stairs, a murmur of soft voices arose -and people appeared from a dozen obscure corners. - -Besides the old people, already mentioned, many others -lived in the Bentley house. There were four hired men, -a woman named Aunt Callie Beebe, who was in charge of -the housekeeping, a dull-witted girl named Eliza -Stoughton, who made beds and helped with the milking, a -boy who worked in the stables, and Jesse Bentley -himself, the owner and overlord of it all. - -By the time the American Civil War had been over for -twenty years, that part of Northern Ohio where the -Bentley farms lay had begun to emerge from pioneer -life. Jesse then owned machinery for harvesting grain. -He had built modern barns and most of his land was -drained with carefully laid tile drain, but in order to -understand the man we will have to go back to an -earlier day. - -The Bentley family had been in Northern Ohio for -several generations before Jesse's time. They came from -New York State and took up land when the country was -new and land could be had at a low price. For a long -time they, in common with all the other Middle Western -people, were very poor. The land they had settled upon -was heavily wooded and covered with fallen logs and -underbrush. After the long hard labor of clearing these -away and cutting the timber, there were still the -stumps to be reckoned with. Plows run through the -fields caught on hidden roots, stones lay all about, on -the low places water gathered, and the young corn -turned yellow, sickened and died. - -When Jesse Bentley's father and brothers had come into -their ownership of the place, much of the harder part -of the work of clearing had been done, but they clung -to old traditions and worked like driven animals. They -lived as practically all of the farming people of the -time lived. In the spring and through most of the -winter the highways leading into the town of Winesburg -were a sea of mud. The four young men of the family -worked hard all day in the fields, they ate heavily of -coarse, greasy food, and at night slept like tired -beasts on beds of straw. Into their lives came little -that was not coarse and brutal and outwardly they were -themselves coarse and brutal. On Saturday afternoons -they hitched a team of horses to a three-seated wagon -and went off to town. In town they stood about the -stoves in the stores talking to other farmers or to the -store keepers. They were dressed in overalls and in the -winter wore heavy coats that were flecked with mud. -Their hands as they stretched them out to the heat of -the stoves were cracked and red. It was difficult for -them to talk and so they for the most part kept silent. -When they had bought meat, flour, sugar, and salt, they -went into one of the Winesburg saloons and drank beer. -Under the influence of drink the naturally strong lusts -of their natures, kept suppressed by the heroic labor -of breaking up new ground, were released. A kind of -crude and animal-like poetic fervor took possession of -them. On the road home they stood up on the wagon seats -and shouted at the stars. Sometimes they fought long -and bitterly and at other times they broke forth into -songs. Once Enoch Bentley, the older one of the boys, -struck his father, old Tom Bentley, with the butt of a -teamster's whip, and the old man seemed likely to die. -For days Enoch lay hid in the straw in the loft of the -stable ready to flee if the result of his momentary -passion turned out to be murder. He was kept alive with -food brought by his mother, who also kept him informed -of the injured man's condition. When all turned out -well he emerged from his hiding place and went back to -the work of clearing land as though nothing had -happened. - - * * * - -The Civil War brought a sharp turn to the fortunes of -the Bentleys and was responsible for the rise of the -youngest son, Jesse. Enoch, Edward, Harry, and Will -Bentley all enlisted and before the long war ended they -were all killed. For a time after they went away to the -South, old Tom tried to run the place, but he was not -successful. When the last of the four had been killed -he sent word to Jesse that he would have to come home. - -Then the mother, who had not been well for a year, died -suddenly, and the father became altogether discouraged. -He talked of selling the farm and moving into town. All -day he went about shaking his head and muttering. The -work in the fields was neglected and weeds grew high in -the corn. Old Tom hired men but he did not use them -intelligently. When they had gone away to the fields in -the morning he wandered into the woods and sat down on -a log. Sometimes he forgot to come home at night and -one of the daughters had to go in search of him. - -When Jesse Bentley came home to the farm and began to -take charge of things he was a slight, -sensitive-looking man of twenty-two. At eighteen he -had left home to go to school to become a scholar and -eventually to become a minister of the Presbyterian -Church. All through his boyhood he had been what in our -country was called an "odd sheep" and had not got on -with his brothers. Of all the family only his mother -had understood him and she was now dead. When he came -home to take charge of the farm, that had at that time -grown to more than six hundred acres, everyone on the -farms about and in the nearby town of Winesburg smiled -at the idea of his trying to handle the work that had -been done by his four strong brothers. - -There was indeed good cause to smile. By the standards -of his day Jesse did not look like a man at all. He was -small and very slender and womanish of body and, true -to the traditions of young ministers, wore a long black -coat and a narrow black string tie. The neighbors were -amused when they saw him, after the years away, and -they were even more amused when they saw the woman he -had married in the city. - -As a matter of fact, Jesse's wife did soon go under. -That was perhaps Jesse's fault. A farm in Northern Ohio -in the hard years after the Civil War was no place for -a delicate woman, and Katherine Bentley was delicate. -Jesse was hard with her as he was with everybody about -him in those days. She tried to do such work as all the -neighbor women about her did and he let her go on -without interference. She helped to do the milking and -did part of the housework; she made the beds for the -men and prepared their food. For a year she worked -every day from sunrise until late at night and then -after giving birth to a child she died. - -As for Jesse Bentley--although he was a delicately -built man there was something within him that could not -easily be killed. He had brown curly hair and grey eyes -that were at times hard and direct, at times wavering -and uncertain. Not only was he slender but he was also -short of stature. His mouth was like the mouth of a -sensitive and very determined child. Jesse Bentley was -a fanatic. He was a man born out of his time and place -and for this he suffered and made others suffer. Never -did he succeed in getting what he wanted out of life -and he did not know what he wanted. Within a very short -time after he came home to the Bentley farm he made -everyone there a little afraid of him, and his wife, -who should have been close to him as his mother had -been, was afraid also. At the end of two weeks after -his coming, old Tom Bentley made over to him the entire -ownership of the place and retired into the background. -Everyone retired into the background. In spite of his -youth and inexperience, Jesse had the trick of -mastering the souls of his people. He was so in earnest -in everything he did and said that no one understood -him. He made everyone on the farm work as they had -never worked before and yet there was no joy in the -work. If things went well they went well for Jesse and -never for the people who were his dependents. Like a -thousand other strong men who have come into the world -here in America in these later times, Jesse was but -half strong. He could master others but he could not -master himself. The running of the farm as it had never -been run before was easy for him. When he came home -from Cleveland where he had been in school, he shut -himself off from all of his people and began to make -plans. He thought about the farm night and day and that -made him successful. Other men on the farms about him -worked too hard and were too fired to think, but to -think of the farm and to be everlastingly making plans -for its success was a relief to Jesse. It partially -satisfied something in his passionate nature. -Immediately after he came home he had a wing built on -to the old house and in a large room facing the west he -had windows that looked into the barnyard and other -windows that looked off across the fields. By the -window he sat down to think. Hour after hour and day -after day he sat and looked over the land and thought -out his new place in life. The passionate burning thing -in his nature flamed up and his eyes became hard. He -wanted to make the farm produce as no farm in his state -had ever produced before and then he wanted something -else. It was the indefinable hunger within that made -his eyes waver and that kept him always more and more -silent before people. He would have given much to -achieve peace and in him was a fear that peace was the -thing he could not achieve. - -All over his body Jesse Bentley was alive. In his -small frame was gathered the force of a long line of -strong men. He had always been extraordinarily alive -when he was a small boy on the farm and later when he -was a young man in school. In the school he had studied -and thought of God and the Bible with his whole mind -and heart. As time passed and he grew to know people -better, he began to think of himself as an -extraordinary man, one set apart from his fellows. He -wanted terribly to make his life a thing of great -importance, and as he looked about at his fellow men -and saw how like clods they lived it seemed to him that -he could not bear to become also such a clod. Although -in his absorption in himself and in his own destiny he -was blind to the fact that his young wife was doing a -strong woman's work even after she had become large -with child and that she was killing herself in his -service, he did not intend to be unkind to her. When -his father, who was old and twisted with toil, made -over to him the ownership of the farm and seemed -content to creep away to a corner and wait for death, -he shrugged his shoulders and dismissed the old man -from his mind. - -In the room by the window overlooking the land that had -come down to him sat Jesse thinking of his own affairs. -In the stables he could hear the tramping of his horses -and the restless movement of his cattle. Away in the -fields he could see other cattle wandering over green -hills. The voices of men, his men who worked for him, -came in to him through the window. From the milkhouse -there was the steady thump, thump of a churn being -manipulated by the half-witted girl, Eliza Stoughton. -Jesse's mind went back to the men of Old Testament days -who had also owned lands and herds. He remembered how -God had come down out of the skies and talked to these -men and he wanted God to notice and to talk to him -also. A kind of feverish boyish eagerness to in some -way achieve in his own life the flavor of significance -that had hung over these men took possession of him. -Being a prayerful man he spoke of the matter aloud to -God and the sound of his own words strengthened and fed -his eagerness. - -"I am a new kind of man come into possession of these -fields," he declared. "Look upon me, O God, and look -Thou also upon my neighbors and all the men who have -gone before me here! O God, create in me another Jesse, -like that one of old, to rule over men and to be the -father of sons who shall be rulers!" Jesse grew excited -as he talked aloud and jumping to his feet walked up -and down in the room. In fancy he saw himself living in -old times and among old peoples. The land that lay -stretched out before him became of vast significance, a -place peopled by his fancy with a new race of men -sprung from himself. It seemed to him that in his day -as in those other and older days, kingdoms might be -created and new impulses given to the lives of men by -the power of God speaking through a chosen servant. He -longed to be such a servant. "It is God's work I have -come to the land to do," he declared in a loud voice -and his short figure straightened and he thought that -something like a halo of Godly approval hung over him. - - * * * - -It will perhaps be somewhat difficult for the men and -women of a later day to understand Jesse Bentley. In -the last fifty years a vast change has taken place in -the lives of our people. A revolution has in fact taken -place. The coming of industrialism, attended by all the -roar and rattle of affairs, the shrill cries of -millions of new voices that have come among us from -overseas, the going and coming of trains, the growth of -cities, the building of the inter-urban car lines that -weave in and out of towns and past farmhouses, and now -in these later days the coming of the automobiles has -worked a tremendous change in the lives and in the -habits of thought of our people of Mid-America. Books, -badly imagined and written though they may be in the -hurry of our times, are in every household, magazines -circulate by the millions of copies, newspapers are -everywhere. In our day a farmer standing by the stove -in the store in his village has his mind filled to -overflowing with the words of other men. The newspapers -and the magazines have pumped him full. Much of the old -brutal ignorance that had in it also a kind of -beautiful childlike innocence is gone forever. The -farmer by the stove is brother to the men of the -cities, and if you listen you will find him talking as -glibly and as senselessly as the best city man of us -all. - -In Jesse Bentley's time and in the country districts of -the whole Middle West in the years after the Civil War -it was not so. Men labored too hard and were too tired -to read. In them was no desire for words printed upon -paper. As they worked in the fields, vague, half-formed -thoughts took possession of them. They believed in God -and in God's power to control their lives. In the -little Protestant churches they gathered on Sunday to -hear of God and his works. The churches were the center -of the social and intellectual life of the times. The -figure of God was big in the hearts of men. - -And so, having been born an imaginative child and -having within him a great intellectual eagerness, Jesse -Bentley had turned wholeheartedly toward God. When the -war took his brothers away, he saw the hand of God in -that. When his father became ill and could no longer -attend to the running of the farm, he took that also as -a sign from God. In the city, when the word came to -him, he walked about at night through the streets -thinking of the matter and when he had come home and -had got the work on the farm well under way, he went -again at night to walk through the forests and over the -low hills and to think of God. - -As he walked the importance of his own figure in some -divine plan grew in his mind. He grew avaricious and -was impatient that the farm contained only six hundred -acres. Kneeling in a fence corner at the edge of some -meadow, he sent his voice abroad into the silence and -looking up he saw the stars shining down at him. - -One evening, some months after his father's death, and -when his wife Katherine was expecting at any moment to -be laid abed of childbirth, Jesse left his house and -went for a long walk. The Bentley farm was situated in -a tiny valley watered by Wine Creek, and Jesse walked -along the banks of the stream to the end of his own -land and on through the fields of his neighbors. As he -walked the valley broadened and then narrowed again. -Great open stretches of field and wood lay before him. -The moon came out from behind clouds, and, climbing a -low hill, he sat down to think. - -Jesse thought that as the true servant of God the -entire stretch of country through which he had walked -should have come into his possession. He thought of his -dead brothers and blamed them that they had not worked -harder and achieved more. Before him in the moonlight -the tiny stream ran down over stones, and he began to -think of the men of old times who like himself had -owned flocks and lands. - -A fantastic impulse, half fear, half greediness, took -possession of Jesse Bentley. He remembered how in the -old Bible story the Lord had appeared to that other -Jesse and told him to send his son David to where Saul -and the men of Israel were fighting the Philistines in -the Valley of Elah. Into Jesse's mind came the -conviction that all of the Ohio farmers who owned land -in the valley of Wine Creek were Philistines and -enemies of God. "Suppose," he whispered to himself, -"there should come from among them one who, like -Goliath the Philistine of Gath, could defeat me and -take from me my possessions." In fancy he felt the -sickening dread that he thought must have lain heavy on -the heart of Saul before the coming of David. Jumping -to his feet, he began to run through the night. As he -ran he called to God. His voice carried far over the -low hills. "Jehovah of Hosts," he cried, "send to me -this night out of the womb of Katherine, a son. Let Thy -grace alight upon me. Send me a son to be called David -who shall help me to pluck at last all of these lands -out of the hands of the Philistines and turn them to -Thy service and to the building of Thy kingdom on -earth." - - - -II - -David Hardy of Winesburg, Ohio, was the grandson of -Jesse Bentley, the owner of Bentley farms. When he was -twelve years old he went to the old Bentley place to -live. His mother, Louise Bentley, the girl who came -into the world on that night when Jesse ran through the -fields crying to God that he be given a son, had grown -to womanhood on the farm and had married young John -Hardy of Winesburg, who became a banker. Louise and her -husband did not live happily together and everyone -agreed that she was to blame. She was a small woman -with sharp grey eyes and black hair. From childhood she -had been inclined to fits of temper and when not angry -she was often morose and silent. In Winesburg it was -said that she drank. Her husband, the banker, who was a -careful, shrewd man, tried hard to make her happy. When -he began to make money he bought for her a large brick -house on Elm Street in Winesburg and he was the first -man in that town to keep a manservant to drive his -wife's carriage. - -But Louise could not be made happy. She flew into half -insane fits of temper during which she was sometimes -silent, sometimes noisy and quarrelsome. She swore and -cried out in her anger. She got a knife from the -kitchen and threatened her husband's life. Once she -deliberately set fire to the house, and often she hid -herself away for days in her own room and would see no -one. Her life, lived as a half recluse, gave rise to -all sorts of stories concerning her. It was said that -she took drugs and that she hid herself away from -people because she was often so under the influence of -drink that her condition could not be concealed. -Sometimes on summer afternoons she came out of the -house and got into her carriage. Dismissing the driver -she took the reins in her own hands and drove off at -top speed through the streets. If a pedestrian got in -her way she drove straight ahead and the frightened -citizen had to escape as best he could. To the people -of the town it seemed as though she wanted to run them -down. When she had driven through several streets, -tearing around corners and beating the horses with the -whip, she drove off into the country. On the country -roads after she had gotten out of sight of the houses -she let the horses slow down to a walk and her wild, -reckless mood passed. She became thoughtful and -muttered words. Sometimes tears came into her eyes. And -then when she came back into town she again drove -furiously through the quiet streets. But for the -influence of her husband and the respect he inspired in -people's minds she would have been arrested more than -once by the town marshal. - -Young David Hardy grew up in the house with this woman -and as can well be imagined there was not much joy in -his childhood. He was too young then to have opinions -of his own about people, but at times it was difficult -for him not to have very definite opinions about the -woman who was his mother. David was always a quiet, -orderly boy and for a long time was thought by the -people of Winesburg to be something of a dullard. His -eyes were brown and as a child he had a habit of -looking at things and people a long time without -appearing to see what he was looking at. When he heard -his mother spoken of harshly or when he overheard her -berating his father, he was frightened and ran away to -hide. Sometimes he could not find a hiding place and -that confused him. Turning his face toward a tree or if -he was indoors toward the wall, he closed his eyes and -tried not to think of anything. He had a habit of -talking aloud to himself, and early in life a spirit of -quiet sadness often took possession of him. - -On the occasions when David went to visit his -grandfather on the Bentley farm, he was altogether -contented and happy. Often he wished that he would -never have to go back to town and once when he had come -home from the farm after a long visit, something -happened that had a lasting effect on his mind. - -David had come back into town with one of the hired -men. The man was in a hurry to go about his own affairs -and left the boy at the head of the street in which the -Hardy house stood. It was early dusk of a fall evening -and the sky was overcast with clouds. Something -happened to David. He could not bear to go into the -house where his mother and father lived, and on an -impulse he decided to run away from home. He intended -to go back to the farm and to his grandfather, but lost -his way and for hours he wandered weeping and -frightened on country roads. It started to rain and -lightning flashed in the sky. The boy's imagination was -excited and he fancied that he could see and hear -strange things in the darkness. Into his mind came the -conviction that he was walking and running in some -terrible void where no one had ever been before. The -darkness about him seemed limitless. The sound of the -wind blowing in trees was terrifying. When a team of -horses approached along the road in which he walked he -was frightened and climbed a fence. Through a field he -ran until he came into another road and getting upon -his knees felt of the soft ground with his fingers. But -for the figure of his grandfather, whom he was afraid -he would never find in the darkness, he thought the -world must be altogether empty. When his cries were -heard by a farmer who was walking home from town and he -was brought back to his father's house, he was so tired -and excited that he did not know what was happening to -him. - -By chance David's father knew that he had disappeared. -On the street he had met the farm hand from the Bentley -place and knew of his son's return to town. When the -boy did not come home an alarm was set up and John -Hardy with several men of the town went to search the -country. The report that David had been kidnapped ran -about through the streets of Winesburg. When he came -home there were no lights in the house, but his mother -appeared and clutched him eagerly in her arms. David -thought she had suddenly become another woman. He could -not believe that so delightful a thing had happened. -With her own hands Louise Hardy bathed his tired young -body and cooked him food. She would not let him go to -bed but, when he had put on his nightgown, blew out the -lights and sat down in a chair to hold him in her arms. -For an hour the woman sat in the darkness and held her -boy. All the time she kept talking in a low voice. -David could not understand what had so changed her. Her -habitually dissatisfied face had become, he thought, -the most peaceful and lovely thing he had ever seen. -When he began to weep she held him more and more -tightly. On and on went her voice. It was not harsh or -shrill as when she talked to her husband, but was like -rain falling on trees. Presently men began coming to -the door to report that he had not been found, but she -made him hide and be silent until she had sent them -away. He thought it must be a game his mother and the -men of the town were playing with him and laughed -joyously. Into his mind came the thought that his -having been lost and frightened in the darkness was an -altogether unimportant matter. He thought that he would -have been willing to go through the frightful -experience a thousand times to be sure of finding at -the end of the long black road a thing so lovely as his -mother had suddenly become. - - * * * - -During the last years of young David's boyhood he saw -his mother but seldom and she became for him just a -woman with whom he had once lived. Still he could not -get her figure out of his mind and as he grew older it -became more definite. When he was twelve years old he -went to the Bentley farm to live. Old Jesse came into -town and fairly demanded that he be given charge of the -boy. The old man was excited and determined on having -his own way. He talked to John Hardy in the office of -the Winesburg Savings Bank and then the two men went to -the house on Elm Street to talk with Louise. They both -expected her to make trouble but were mistaken. She was -very quiet and when Jesse had explained his mission and -had gone on at some length about the advantages to come -through having the boy out of doors and in the quiet -atmosphere of the old farmhouse, she nodded her head in -approval. "It is an atmosphere not corrupted by my -presence," she said sharply. Her shoulders shook and -she seemed about to fly into a fit of temper. "It is a -place for a man child, although it was never a place -for me," she went on. "You never wanted me there and of -course the air of your house did me no good. It was -like poison in my blood but it will be different with -him." - -Louise turned and went out of the room, leaving the two -men to sit in embarrassed silence. As very often -happened she later stayed in her room for days. Even -when the boy's clothes were packed and he was taken -away she did not appear. The loss of her son made a -sharp break in her life and she seemed less inclined to -quarrel with her husband. John Hardy thought it had all -turned out very well indeed. - -And so young David went to live in the Bentley -farmhouse with Jesse. Two of the old farmer's sisters -were alive and still lived in the house. They were -afraid of Jesse and rarely spoke when he was about. One -of the women who had been noted for her flaming red -hair when she was younger was a born mother and became -the boy's caretaker. Every night when he had gone to -bed she went into his room and sat on the floor until -he fell asleep. When he became drowsy she became bold -and whispered things that he later thought he must have -dreamed. - -Her soft low voice called him endearing names and he -dreamed that his mother had come to him and that she -had changed so that she was always as she had been that -time after he ran away. He also grew bold and reaching -out his hand stroked the face of the woman on the floor -so that she was ecstatically happy. Everyone in the old -house became happy after the boy went there. The hard -insistent thing in Jesse Bentley that had kept the -people in the house silent and timid and that had never -been dispelled by the presence of the girl Louise was -apparently swept away by the coming of the boy. It was -as though God had relented and sent a son to the man. - -The man who had proclaimed himself the only true -servant of God in all the valley of Wine Creek, and who -had wanted God to send him a sign of approval by way of -a son out of the womb of Katherine, began to think that -at last his prayers had been answered. Although he was -at that time only fifty-five years old he looked -seventy and was worn out with much thinking and -scheming. The effort he had made to extend his land -holdings had been successful and there were few farms -in the valley that did not belong to him, but until -David came he was a bitterly disappointed man. - -There were two influences at work in Jesse Bentley and -all his life his mind had been a battleground for these -influences. First there was the old thing in him. He -wanted to be a man of God and a leader among men of -God. His walking in the fields and through the forests -at night had brought him close to nature and there were -forces in the passionately religious man that ran out -to the forces in nature. The disappointment that had -come to him when a daughter and not a son had been born -to Katherine had fallen upon him like a blow struck by -some unseen hand and the blow had somewhat softened his -egotism. He still believed that God might at any moment -make himself manifest out of the winds or the clouds, -but he no longer demanded such recognition. Instead he -prayed for it. Sometimes he was altogether doubtful and -thought God had deserted the world. He regretted the -fate that had not let him live in a simpler and sweeter -time when at the beckoning of some strange cloud in the -sky men left their lands and houses and went forth into -the wilderness to create new races. While he worked -night and day to make his farms more productive and to -extend his holdings of land, he regretted that he could -not use his own restless energy in the building of -temples, the slaying of unbelievers and in general in -the work of glorifying God's name on earth. - -That is what Jesse hungered for and then also he -hungered for something else. He had grown into maturity -in America in the years after the Civil War and he, -like all men of his time, had been touched by the deep -influences that were at work in the country during -those years when modern industrialism was being born. -He began to buy machines that would permit him to do -the work of the farms while employing fewer men and he -sometimes thought that if he were a younger man he -would give up farming altogether and start a factory in -Winesburg for the making of machinery. Jesse formed the -habit of reading newspapers and magazines. He invented -a machine for the making of fence out of wire. Faintly -he realized that the atmosphere of old times and places -that he had always cultivated in his own mind was -strange and foreign to the thing that was growing up in -the minds of others. The beginning of the most -materialistic age in the history of the world, when -wars would be fought without patriotism, when men would -forget God and only pay attention to moral standards, -when the will to power would replace the will to serve -and beauty would be well-nigh forgotten in the terrible -headlong rush of mankind toward the acquiring of -possessions, was telling its story to Jesse the man of -God as it was to the men about him. The greedy thing in -him wanted to make money faster than it could be made -by tilling the land. More than once he went into -Winesburg to talk with his son-in-law John Hardy about -it. "You are a banker and you will have chances I never -had," he said and his eyes shone. "I am thinking about -it all the time. Big things are going to be done in the -country and there will be more money to be made than I -ever dreamed of. You get into it. I wish I were younger -and had your chance." Jesse Bentley walked up and down -in the bank office and grew more and more excited as he -talked. At one time in his life he had been threatened -with paralysis and his left side remained somewhat -weakened. As he talked his left eyelid twitched. Later -when he drove back home and when night came on and the -stars came out it was harder to get back the old -feeling of a close and personal God who lived in the -sky overhead and who might at any moment reach out his -hand, touch him on the shoulder, and appoint for him -some heroic task to be done. Jesse's mind was fixed -upon the things read in newspapers and magazines, on -fortunes to be made almost without effort by shrewd men -who bought and sold. For him the coming of the boy -David did much to bring back with renewed force the old -faith and it seemed to him that God had at last looked -with favor upon him. - -As for the boy on the farm, life began to reveal itself -to him in a thousand new and delightful ways. The -kindly attitude of all about him expanded his quiet -nature and he lost the half timid, hesitating manner he -had always had with his people. At night when he went -to bed after a long day of adventures in the stables, -in the fields, or driving about from farm to farm with -his grandfather, he wanted to embrace everyone in the -house. If Sherley Bentley, the woman who came each -night to sit on the floor by his bedside, did not -appear at once, he went to the head of the stairs and -shouted, his young voice ringing through the narrow -halls where for so long there had been a tradition of -silence. In the morning when he awoke and lay still in -bed, the sounds that came in to him through the windows -filled him with delight. He thought with a shudder of -the life in the house in Winesburg and of his mother's -angry voice that had always made him tremble. There in -the country all sounds were pleasant sounds. When he -awoke at dawn the barnyard back of the house also -awoke. In the house people stirred about. Eliza -Stoughton the half-witted girl was poked in the ribs by -a farm hand and giggled noisily, in some distant field -a cow bawled and was answered by the cattle in the -stables, and one of the farm hands spoke sharply to the -horse he was grooming by the stable door. David leaped -out of bed and ran to a window. All of the people -stirring about excited his mind, and he wondered what -his mother was doing in the house in town. - -From the windows of his own room he could not see -directly into the barnyard where the farm hands had now -all assembled to do the morning shores, but he could -hear the voices of the men and the neighing of the -horses. When one of the men laughed, he laughed also. -Leaning out at the open window, he looked into an -orchard where a fat sow wandered about with a litter of -tiny pigs at her heels. Every morning he counted the -pigs. "Four, five, six, seven," he said slowly, wetting -his finger and making straight up and down marks on the -window ledge. David ran to put on his trousers and -shirt. A feverish desire to get out of doors took -possession of him. Every morning he made such a noise -coming down stairs that Aunt Callie, the housekeeper, -declared he was trying to tear the house down. When he -had run through the long old house, shutting the doors -behind him with a bang, he came into the barnyard and -looked about with an amazed air of expectancy. It -seemed to him that in such a place tremendous things -might have happened during the night. The farm hands -looked at him and laughed. Henry Strader, an old man -who had been on the farm since Jesse came into -possession and who before David's time had never been -known to make a joke, made the same joke every morning. -It amused David so that he laughed and clapped his -hands. "See, come here and look," cried the old man. -"Grandfather Jesse's white mare has torn the black -stocking she wears on her foot." - -Day after day through the long summer, Jesse Bentley -drove from farm to farm up and down the valley of Wine -Creek, and his grandson went with him. They rode in a -comfortable old phaeton drawn by the white horse. The -old man scratched his thin white beard and talked to -himself of his plans for increasing the productiveness -of the fields they visited and of God's part in the -plans all men made. Sometimes he looked at David and -smiled happily and then for a long time he appeared to -forget the boy's existence. More and more every day now -his mind turned back again to the dreams that had -filled his mind when he had first come out of the city -to live on the land. One afternoon he startled David by -letting his dreams take entire possession of him. With -the boy as a witness, he went through a ceremony and -brought about an accident that nearly destroyed the -companionship that was growing up between them. - -Jesse and his grandson were driving in a distant part -of the valley some miles from home. A forest came down -to the road and through the forest Wine Creek wriggled -its way over stones toward a distant river. All the -afternoon Jesse had been in a meditative mood and now -he began to talk. His mind went back to the night when -he had been frightened by thoughts of a giant that -might come to rob and plunder him of his possessions, -and again as on that night when he had run through the -fields crying for a son, he became excited to the edge -of insanity. Stopping the horse he got out of the buggy -and asked David to get out also. The two climbed over a -fence and walked along the bank of the stream. The boy -paid no attention to the muttering of his grandfather, -but ran along beside him and wondered what was going to -happen. When a rabbit jumped up and ran away through -the woods, he clapped his hands and danced with -delight. He looked at the tall trees and was sorry that -he was not a little animal to climb high in the air -without being frightened. Stooping, he picked up a -small stone and threw it over the head of his -grandfather into a clump of bushes. "Wake up, little -animal. Go and climb to the top of the trees," he -shouted in a shrill voice. - -Jesse Bentley went along under the trees with his head -bowed and with his mind in a ferment. His earnestness -affected the boy, who presently became silent and a -little alarmed. Into the old man's mind had come the -notion that now he could bring from God a word or a -sign out of the sky, that the presence of the boy and -man on their knees in some lonely spot in the forest -would make the miracle he had been waiting for almost -inevitable. "It was in just such a place as this that -other David tended the sheep when his father came and -told him to go down unto Saul," he muttered. - -Taking the boy rather roughly by the shoulder, he -climbed over a fallen log and when he had come to an -open place among the trees he dropped upon his knees -and began to pray in a loud voice. - -A kind of terror he had never known before took -possession of David. Crouching beneath a tree he -watched the man on the ground before him and his own -knees began to tremble. It seemed to him that he was in -the presence not only of his grandfather but of someone -else, someone who might hurt him, someone who was not -kindly but dangerous and brutal. He began to cry and -reaching down picked up a small stick, which he held -tightly gripped in his fingers. When Jesse Bentley, -absorbed in his own idea, suddenly arose and advanced -toward him, his terror grew until his whole body shook. -In the woods an intense silence seemed to lie over -everything and suddenly out of the silence came the old -man's harsh and insistent voice. Gripping the boy's -shoulders, Jesse turned his face to the sky and -shouted. The whole left side of his face twitched and -his hand on the boy's shoulder twitched also. "Make a -sign to me, God," he cried. "Here I stand with the boy -David. Come down to me out of the sky and make Thy -presence known to me." - -With a cry of fear, David turned and, shaking himself -loose from the hands that held him, ran away through -the forest. He did not believe that the man who turned -up his face and in a harsh voice shouted at the sky was -his grandfather at all. The man did not look like his -grandfather. The conviction that something strange and -terrible had happened, that by some miracle a new and -dangerous person had come into the body of the kindly -old man, took possession of him. On and on he ran down -the hillside, sobbing as he ran. When he fell over the -roots of a tree and in falling struck his head, he -arose and tried to run on again. His head hurt so that -presently he fell down and lay still, but it was only -after Jesse had carried him to the buggy and he awoke -to find the old man's hand stroking his head tenderly -that the terror left him. "Take me away. There is a -terrible man back there in the woods," he declared -firmly, while Jesse looked away over the tops of the -trees and again his lips cried out to God. "What have I -done that Thou dost not approve of me," he whispered -softly, saying the words over and over as he drove -rapidly along the road with the boy's cut and bleeding -head held tenderly against his shoulder. - - -III - -Surrender - -The story of Louise Bentley, who became Mrs. John Hardy -and lived with her husband in a brick house on Elm -Street in Winesburg, is a story of misunderstanding. - -Before such women as Louise can be understood and their -lives made livable, much will have to be done. -Thoughtful books will have to be written and thoughtful -lives lived by people about them. - -Born of a delicate and overworked mother, and an -impulsive, hard, imaginative father, who did not look -with favor upon her coming into the world, Louise was -from childhood a neurotic, one of the race of -over-sensitive women that in later days industrialism -was to bring in such great numbers into the world. - -During her early years she lived on the Bentley farm, a -silent, moody child, wanting love more than anything -else in the world and not getting it. When she was -fifteen she went to live in Winesburg with the family -of Albert Hardy, who had a store for the sale of -buggies and wagons, and who was a member of the town -board of education. - -Louise went into town to be a student in the Winesburg -High School and she went to live at the Hardys' because -Albert Hardy and her father were friends. - -Hardy, the vehicle merchant of Winesburg, like -thousands of other men of his times, was an enthusiast -on the subject of education. He had made his own way in -the world without learning got from books, but he was -convinced that had he but known books things would have -gone better with him. To everyone who came into his -shop he talked of the matter, and in his own household -he drove his family distracted by his constant harping -on the subject. - -He had two daughters and one son, John Hardy, and more -than once the daughters threatened to leave school -altogether. As a matter of principle they did just -enough work in their classes to avoid punishment. "I -hate books and I hate anyone who likes books," Harriet, -the younger of the two girls, declared passionately. - -In Winesburg as on the farm Louise was not happy. For -years she had dreamed of the time when she could go -forth into the world, and she looked upon the move into -the Hardy household as a great step in the direction of -freedom. Always when she had thought of the matter, it -had seemed to her that in town all must be gaiety and -life, that there men and women must live happily and -freely, giving and taking friendship and affection as -one takes the feel of a wind on the cheek. After the -silence and the cheerlessness of life in the Bentley -house, she dreamed of stepping forth into an atmosphere -that was warm and pulsating with life and reality. And -in the Hardy household Louise might have got something -of the thing for which she so hungered but for a -mistake she made when she had just come to town. - -Louise won the disfavor of the two Hardy girls, Mary -and Harriet, by her application to her studies in -school. She did not come to the house until the day -when school was to begin and knew nothing of the -feeling they had in the matter. She was timid and -during the first month made no acquaintances. Every -Friday afternoon one of the hired men from the farm -drove into Winesburg and took her home for the -week-end, so that she did not spend the Saturday -holiday with the town people. Because she was -embarrassed and lonely she worked constantly at her -studies. To Mary and Harriet, it seemed as though she -tried to make trouble for them by her proficiency. In -her eagerness to appear well Louise wanted to answer -every question put to the class by the teacher. She -jumped up and down and her eyes flashed. Then when she -had answered some question the others in the class had -been unable to answer, she smiled happily. "See, I have -done it for you," her eyes seemed to say. "You need not -bother about the matter. I will answer all questions. -For the whole class it will be easy while I am here." - -In the evening after supper in the Hardy house, Albert -Hardy began to praise Louise. One of the teachers had -spoken highly of her and he was delighted. "Well, again -I have heard of it," he began, looking hard at his -daughters and then turning to smile at Louise. "Another -of the teachers has told me of the good work Louise is -doing. Everyone in Winesburg is telling me how smart -she is. I am ashamed that they do not speak so of my -own girls." Arising, the merchant marched about the -room and lighted his evening cigar. - -The two girls looked at each other and shook their -heads wearily. Seeing their indifference the father -became angry. "I tell you it is something for you two -to be thinking about," he cried, glaring at them. -"There is a big change coming here in America and in -learning is the only hope of the coming generations. -Louise is the daughter of a rich man but she is not -ashamed to study. It should make you ashamed to see -what she does." - -The merchant took his hat from a rack by the door and -prepared to depart for the evening. At the door he -stopped and glared back. So fierce was his manner that -Louise was frightened and ran upstairs to her own room. -The daughters began to speak of their own affairs. "Pay -attention to me," roared the merchant. "Your minds are -lazy. Your indifference to education is affecting your -characters. You will amount to nothing. Now mark what I -say--Louise will be so far ahead of you that you will -never catch up." - -The distracted man went out of the house and into the -street shaking with wrath. He went along muttering -words and swearing, but when he got into Main Street -his anger passed. He stopped to talk of the weather or -the crops with some other merchant or with a farmer who -had come into town and forgot his daughters altogether -or, if he thought of them, only shrugged his shoulders. -"Oh, well, girls will be girls," he muttered -philosophically. - -In the house when Louise came down into the room where -the two girls sat, they would have nothing to do with -her. One evening after she had been there for more than -six weeks and was heartbroken because of the continued -air of coldness with which she was always greeted, she -burst into tears. "Shut up your crying and go back to -your own room and to your books," Mary Hardy said -sharply. - - * * * - -The room occupied by Louise was on the second floor of -the Hardy house, and her window looked out upon an -orchard. There was a stove in the room and every -evening young John Hardy carried up an armful of wood -and put it in a box that stood by the wall. During the -second month after she came to the house, Louise gave -up all hope of getting on a friendly footing with the -Hardy girls and went to her own room as soon as the -evening meal was at an end. - -Her mind began to play with thoughts of making friends -with John Hardy. When he came into the room with the -wood in his arms, she pretended to be busy with her -studies but watched him eagerly. When he had put the -wood in the box and turned to go out, she put down her -head and blushed. She tried to make talk but could say -nothing, and after he had gone she was angry at herself -for her stupidity. - -The mind of the country girl became filled with the -idea of drawing close to the young man. She thought -that in him might be found the quality she had all her -life been seeking in people. It seemed to her that -between herself and all the other people in the world, -a wall had been built up and that she was living just -on the edge of some warm inner circle of life that must -be quite open and understandable to others. She became -obsessed with the thought that it wanted but a -courageous act on her part to make all of her -association with people something quite different, and -that it was possible by such an act to pass into a new -life as one opens a door and goes into a room. Day and -night she thought of the matter, but although the thing -she wanted so earnestly was something very warm and -close it had as yet no conscious connection with sex. -It had not become that definite, and her mind had only -alighted upon the person of John Hardy because he was -at hand and unlike his sisters had not been unfriendly -to her. - -The Hardy sisters, Mary and Harriet, were both older -than Louise. In a certain kind of knowledge of the -world they were years older. They lived as all of the -young women of Middle Western towns lived. In those -days young women did not go out of our towns to Eastern -colleges and ideas in regard to social classes had -hardly begun to exist. A daughter of a laborer was in -much the same social position as a daughter of a farmer -or a merchant, and there were no leisure classes. A -girl was "nice" or she was "not nice." If a nice girl, -she had a young man who came to her house to see her on -Sunday and on Wednesday evenings. Sometimes she went -with her young man to a dance or a church social. At -other times she received him at the house and was given -the use of the parlor for that purpose. No one intruded -upon her. For hours the two sat behind closed doors. -Sometimes the lights were turned low and the young man -and woman embraced. Cheeks became hot and hair -disarranged. After a year or two, if the impulse within -them became strong and insistent enough, they married. - -One evening during her first winter in Winesburg, -Louise had an adventure that gave a new impulse to her -desire to break down the wall that she thought stood -between her and John Hardy. It was Wednesday and -immediately after the evening meal Albert Hardy put on -his hat and went away. Young John brought the wood and -put it in the box in Louise's room. "You do work hard, -don't you?" he said awkwardly, and then before she -could answer he also went away. - -Louise heard him go out of the house and had a mad -desire to run after him. Opening her window she leaned -out and called softly, "John, dear John, come back, -don't go away." The night was cloudy and she could not -see far into the darkness, but as she waited she -fancied she could hear a soft little noise as of -someone going on tiptoes through the trees in the -orchard. She was frightened and closed the window -quickly. For an hour she moved about the room trembling -with excitement and when she could not longer bear the -waiting, she crept into the hall and down the stairs -into a closet-like room that opened off the parlor. - -Louise had decided that she would perform the -courageous act that had for weeks been in her mind. She -was convinced that John Hardy had concealed himself in -the orchard beneath her window and she was determined -to find him and tell him that she wanted him to come -close to her, to hold her in his arms, to tell her of -his thoughts and dreams and to listen while she told -him her thoughts and dreams. "In the darkness it will -be easier to say things," she whispered to herself, as -she stood in the little room groping for the door. - -And then suddenly Louise realized that she was not -alone in the house. In the parlor on the other side of -the door a man's voice spoke softly and the door -opened. Louise just had time to conceal herself in a -little opening beneath the stairway when Mary Hardy, -accompanied by her young man, came into the little dark -room. - -For an hour Louise sat on the floor in the darkness and -listened. Without words Mary Hardy, with the aid of the -man who had come to spend the evening with her, brought -to the country girl a knowledge of men and women. -Putting her head down until she was curled into a -little ball she lay perfectly still. It seemed to her -that by some strange impulse of the gods, a great gift -had been brought to Mary Hardy and she could not -understand the older woman's determined protest. - -The young man took Mary Hardy into his arms and kissed -her. When she struggled and laughed, he but held her -the more tightly. For an hour the contest between them -went on and then they went back into the parlor and -Louise escaped up the stairs. "I hope you were quiet -out there. You must not disturb the little mouse at her -studies," she heard Harriet saying to her sister as she -stood by her own door in the hallway above. - -Louise wrote a note to John Hardy and late that night, -when all in the house were asleep, she crept downstairs -and slipped it under his door. She was afraid that if -she did not do the thing at once her courage would -fail. In the note she tried to be quite definite about -what she wanted. "I want someone to love me and I want -to love someone," she wrote. "If you are the one for me -I want you to come into the orchard at night and make a -noise under my window. It will be easy for me to crawl -down over the shed and come to you. I am thinking about -it all the time, so if you are to come at all you must -come soon." - -For a long time Louise did not know what would be the -outcome of her bold attempt to secure for herself a -lover. In a way she still did not know whether or not -she wanted him to come. Sometimes it seemed to her that -to be held tightly and kissed was the whole secret of -life, and then a new impulse came and she was terribly -afraid. The age-old woman's desire to be possessed had -taken possession of her, but so vague was her notion of -life that it seemed to her just the touch of John -Hardy's hand upon her own hand would satisfy. She -wondered if he would understand that. At the table next -day while Albert Hardy talked and the two girls -whispered and laughed, she did not look at John but at -the table and as soon as possible escaped. In the -evening she went out of the house until she was sure he -had taken the wood to her room and gone away. When -after several evenings of intense listening she heard -no call from the darkness in the orchard, she was half -beside herself with grief and decided that for her -there was no way to break through the wall that had -shut her off from the joy of life. - -And then on a Monday evening two or three weeks after -the writing of the note, John Hardy came for her. -Louise had so entirely given up the thought of his -coming that for a long time she did not hear the call -that came up from the orchard. On the Friday evening -before, as she was being driven back to the farm for -the week-end by one of the hired men, she had on an -impulse done a thing that had startled her, and as John -Hardy stood in the darkness below and called her name -softly and insistently, she walked about in her room -and wondered what new impulse had led her to commit so -ridiculous an act. - -The farm hand, a young fellow with black curly hair, -had come for her somewhat late on that Friday evening -and they drove home in the darkness. Louise, whose mind -was filled with thoughts of John Hardy, tried to make -talk but the country boy was embarrassed and would say -nothing. Her mind began to review the loneliness of her -childhood and she remembered with a pang the sharp new -loneliness that had just come to her. "I hate -everyone," she cried suddenly, and then broke forth -into a tirade that frightened her escort. "I hate -father and the old man Hardy, too," she declared -vehemently. "I get my lessons there in the school in -town but I hate that also." - -Louise frightened the farm hand still more by turning -and putting her cheek down upon his shoulder. Vaguely -she hoped that he like that young man who had stood in -the darkness with Mary would put his arms about her and -kiss her, but the country boy was only alarmed. He -struck the horse with the whip and began to whistle. -"The road is rough, eh?" he said loudly. Louise was so -angry that reaching up she snatched his hat from his -head and threw it into the road. When he jumped out of -the buggy and went to get it, she drove off and left -him to walk the rest of the way back to the farm. - -Louise Bentley took John Hardy to be her lover. That -was not what she wanted but it was so the young man had -interpreted her approach to him, and so anxious was she -to achieve something else that she made no resistance. -When after a few months they were both afraid that she -was about to become a mother, they went one evening to -the county seat and were married. For a few months they -lived in the Hardy house and then took a house of their -own. All during the first year Louise tried to make her -husband understand the vague and intangible hunger that -had led to the writing of the note and that was still -unsatisfied. Again and again she crept into his arms -and tried to talk of it, but always without success. -Filled with his own notions of love between men and -women, he did not listen but began to kiss her upon the -lips. That confused her so that in the end she did not -want to be kissed. She did not know what she wanted. - -When the alarm that had tricked them into marriage -proved to be groundless, she was angry and said bitter, -hurtful things. Later when her son David was born, she -could not nurse him and did not know whether she wanted -him or not. Sometimes she stayed in the room with him -all day, walking about and occasionally creeping close -to touch him tenderly with her hands, and then other -days came when she did not want to see or be near the -tiny bit of humanity that had come into the house. When -John Hardy reproached her for her cruelty, she laughed. -"It is a man child and will get what it wants anyway," -she said sharply. "Had it been a woman child there is -nothing in the world I would not have done for it." - - - -IV - -Terror - -When David Hardy was a tall boy of fifteen, he, like -his mother, had an adventure that changed the whole -current of his life and sent him out of his quiet -corner into the world. The shell of the circumstances -of his life was broken and he was compelled to start -forth. He left Winesburg and no one there ever saw him -again. After his disappearance, his mother and -grandfather both died and his father became very rich. -He spent much money in trying to locate his son, but -that is no part of this story. - -It was in the late fall of an unusual year on the -Bentley farms. Everywhere the crops had been heavy. -That spring, Jesse had bought part of a long strip of -black swamp land that lay in the valley of Wine Creek. -He got the land at a low price but had spent a large -sum of money to improve it. Great ditches had to be dug -and thousands of tile laid. Neighboring farmers shook -their heads over the expense. Some of them laughed and -hoped that Jesse would lose heavily by the venture, but -the old man went silently on with the work and said -nothing. - -When the land was drained he planted it to cabbages and -onions, and again the neighbors laughed. The crop was, -however, enormous and brought high prices. In the one -year Jesse made enough money to pay for all the cost of -preparing the land and had a surplus that enabled him -to buy two more farms. He was exultant and could not -conceal his delight. For the first time in all the -history of his ownership of the farms, he went among -his men with a smiling face. - -Jesse bought a great many new machines for cutting down -the cost of labor and all of the remaining acres in the -strip of black fertile swamp land. One day he went into -Winesburg and bought a bicycle and a new suit of -clothes for David and he gave his two sisters money -with which to go to a religious convention at -Cleveland, Ohio. - -In the fall of that year when the frost came and the -trees in the forests along Wine Creek were golden -brown, David spent every moment when he did not have to -attend school, out in the open. Alone or with other -boys he went every afternoon into the woods to gather -nuts. The other boys of the countryside, most of them -sons of laborers on the Bentley farms, had guns with -which they went hunting rabbits and squirrels, but -David did not go with them. He made himself a sling -with rubber bands and a forked stick and went off by -himself to gather nuts. As he went about thoughts came -to him. He realized that he was almost a man and -wondered what he would do in life, but before they came -to anything, the thoughts passed and he was a boy -again. One day he killed a squirrel that sat on one of -the lower branches of a tree and chattered at him. Home -he ran with the squirrel in his hand. One of the -Bentley sisters cooked the little animal and he ate it -with great gusto. The skin he tacked on a board and -suspended the board by a string from his bedroom -window. - -That gave his mind a new turn. After that he never -went into the woods without carrying the sling in his -pocket and he spent hours shooting at imaginary animals -concealed among the brown leaves in the trees. Thoughts -of his coming manhood passed and he was content to be a -boy with a boy's impulses. - -One Saturday morning when he was about to set off for -the woods with the sling in his pocket and a bag for -nuts on his shoulder, his grandfather stopped him. In -the eyes of the old man was the strained serious look -that always a little frightened David. At such times -Jesse Bentley's eyes did not look straight ahead but -wavered and seemed to be looking at nothing. Something -like an invisible curtain appeared to have come between -the man and all the rest of the world. "I want you to -come with me," he said briefly, and his eyes looked -over the boy's head into the sky. "We have something -important to do today. You may bring the bag for nuts -if you wish. It does not matter and anyway we will be -going into the woods." - -Jesse and David set out from the Bentley farmhouse in -the old phaeton that was drawn by the white horse. When -they had gone along in silence for a long way they -stopped at the edge of a field where a flock of sheep -were grazing. Among the sheep was a lamb that had been -born out of season, and this David and his grandfather -caught and tied so tightly that it looked like a little -white ball. When they drove on again Jesse let David -hold the lamb in his arms. "I saw it yesterday and it -put me in mind of what I have long wanted to do," he -said, and again he looked away over the head of the boy -with the wavering, uncertain stare in his eyes. - -After the feeling of exaltation that had come to the -farmer as a result of his successful year, another mood -had taken possession of him. For a long time he had -been going about feeling very humble and prayerful. -Again he walked alone at night thinking of God and as -he walked he again connected his own figure with the -figures of old days. Under the stars he knelt on the -wet grass and raised up his voice in prayer. Now he had -decided that like the men whose stories filled the -pages of the Bible, he would make a sacrifice to God. -"I have been given these abundant crops and God has -also sent me a boy who is called David," he whispered -to himself. "Perhaps I should have done this thing long -ago." He was sorry the idea had not come into his mind -in the days before his daughter Louise had been born -and thought that surely now when he had erected a pile -of burning sticks in some lonely place in the woods and -had offered the body of a lamb as a burnt offering, God -would appear to him and give him a message. - -More and more as he thought of the matter, he thought -also of David and his passionate self-love was -partially forgotten. "It is time for the boy to begin -thinking of going out into the world and the message -will be one concerning him," he decided. "God will make -a pathway for him. He will tell me what place David is -to take in life and when he shall set out on his -journey. It is right that the boy should be there. If I -am fortunate and an angel of God should appear, David -will see the beauty and glory of God made manifest to -man. It will make a true man of God of him also." - -In silence Jesse and David drove along the road until -they came to that place where Jesse had once before -appealed to God and had frightened his grandson. The -morning had been bright and cheerful, but a cold wind -now began to blow and clouds hid the sun. When David -saw the place to which they had come he began to -tremble with fright, and when they stopped by the -bridge where the creek came down from among the trees, -he wanted to spring out of the phaeton and run away. - -A dozen plans for escape ran through David's head, but -when Jesse stopped the horse and climbed over the fence -into the wood, he followed. "It is foolish to be -afraid. Nothing will happen," he told himself as he -went along with the lamb in his arms. There was -something in the helplessness of the little animal held -so tightly in his arms that gave him courage. He could -feel the rapid beating of the beast's heart and that -made his own heart beat less rapidly. As he walked -swiftly along behind his grandfather, he untied the -string with which the four legs of the lamb were -fastened together. "If anything happens we will run -away together," he thought. - -In the woods, after they had gone a long way from the -road, Jesse stopped in an opening among the trees where -a clearing, overgrown with small bushes, ran up from -the creek. He was still silent but began at once to -erect a heap of dry sticks which he presently set -afire. The boy sat on the ground with the lamb in his -arms. His imagination began to invest every movement of -the old man with significance and he became every -moment more afraid. "I must put the blood of the lamb -on the head of the boy," Jesse muttered when the sticks -had begun to blaze greedily, and taking a long knife -from his pocket he turned and walked rapidly across the -clearing toward David. - -Terror seized upon the soul of the boy. He was sick -with it. For a moment he sat perfectly still and then -his body stiffened and he sprang to his feet. His face -became as white as the fleece of the lamb that, now -finding itself suddenly released, ran down the hill. -David ran also. Fear made his feet fly. Over the low -bushes and logs he leaped frantically. As he ran he put -his hand into his pocket and took out the branched -stick from which the sling for shooting squirrels was -suspended. When he came to the creek that was shallow -and splashed down over the stones, he dashed into the -water and turned to look back, and when he saw his -grandfather still running toward him with the long -knife held tightly in his hand he did not hesitate, but -reaching down, selected a stone and put it in the -sling. With all his strength he drew back the heavy -rubber bands and the stone whistled through the air. It -hit Jesse, who had entirely forgotten the boy and was -pursuing the lamb, squarely in the head. With a groan -he pitched forward and fell almost at the boy's feet. -When David saw that he lay still and that he was -apparently dead, his fright increased immeasurably. It -became an insane panic. - -With a cry he turned and ran off through the woods -weeping convulsively. "I don't care--I killed him, but -I don't care," he sobbed. As he ran on and on he -decided suddenly that he would never go back again to -the Bentley farms or to the town of Winesburg. "I have -killed the man of God and now I will myself be a man -and go into the world," he said stoutly as he stopped -running and walked rapidly down a road that followed -the windings of Wine Creek as it ran through fields and -forests into the west. - -On the ground by the creek Jesse Bentley moved uneasily -about. He groaned and opened his eyes. For a long time -he lay perfectly still and looked at the sky. When at -last he got to his feet, his mind was confused and he -was not surprised by the boy's disappearance. By the -roadside he sat down on a log and began to talk about -God. That is all they ever got out of him. Whenever -David's name was mentioned he looked vaguely at the sky -and said that a messenger from God had taken the boy. -"It happened because I was too greedy for glory," he -declared, and would have no more to say in the matter. - - - - -A MAN OF IDEAS - -He lived with his mother, a grey, silent woman with a -peculiar ashy complexion. The house in which they lived -stood in a little grove of trees beyond where the main -street of Winesburg crossed Wine Creek. His name was -Joe Welling, and his father had been a man of some -dignity in the community, a lawyer, and a member of the -state legislature at Columbus. Joe himself was small of -body and in his character unlike anyone else in town. -He was like a tiny little volcano that lies silent for -days and then suddenly spouts fire. No, he wasn't like -that--he was like a man who is subject to fits, one -who walks among his fellow men inspiring fear because a -fit may come upon him suddenly and blow him away into a -strange uncanny physical state in which his eyes roll -and his legs and arms jerk. He was like that, only that -the visitation that descended upon Joe Welling was a -mental and not a physical thing. He was beset by ideas -and in the throes of one of his ideas was -uncontrollable. Words rolled and tumbled from his -mouth. A peculiar smile came upon his lips. The edges -of his teeth that were tipped with gold glistened in -the light. Pouncing upon a bystander he began to talk. -For the bystander there was no escape. The excited man -breathed into his face, peered into his eyes, pounded -upon his chest with a shaking forefinger, demanded, -compelled attention. - -In those days the Standard Oil Company did not deliver -oil to the consumer in big wagons and motor trucks as -it does now, but delivered instead to retail grocers, -hardware stores, and the like. Joe was the Standard Oil -agent in Winesburg and in several towns up and down the -railroad that went through Winesburg. He collected -bills, booked orders, and did other things. His father, -the legislator, had secured the job for him. - -In and out of the stores of Winesburg went Joe -Welling--silent, excessively polite, intent upon his -business. Men watched him with eyes in which lurked -amusement tempered by alarm. They were waiting for him -to break forth, preparing to flee. Although the -seizures that came upon him were harmless enough, they -could not be laughed away. They were overwhelming. -Astride an idea, Joe was overmastering. His personality -became gigantic. It overrode the man to whom he talked, -swept him away, swept all away, all who stood within -sound of his voice. - -In Sylvester West's Drug Store stood four men who were -talking of horse racing. Wesley Moyer's stallion, Tony -Tip, was to race at the June meeting at Tiffin, Ohio, -and there was a rumor that he would meet the stiffest -competition of his career. It was said that Pop Geers, -the great racing driver, would himself be there. A -doubt of the success of Tony Tip hung heavy in the air -of Winesburg. - -Into the drug store came Joe Welling, brushing the -screen door violently aside. With a strange absorbed -light in his eyes he pounced upon Ed Thomas, he who -knew Pop Geers and whose opinion of Tony Tip's chances -was worth considering. - -"The water is up in Wine Creek," cried Joe Welling with -the air of Pheidippides bringing news of the victory of -the Greeks in the struggle at Marathon. His finger beat -a tattoo upon Ed Thomas's broad chest. "By Trunion -bridge it is within eleven and a half inches of the -flooring," he went on, the words coming quickly and -with a little whistling noise from between his teeth. -An expression of helpless annoyance crept over the -faces of the four. - -"I have my facts correct. Depend upon that. I went to -Sinnings' Hardware Store and got a rule. Then I went -back and measured. I could hardly believe my own eyes. -It hasn't rained you see for ten days. At first I -didn't know what to think. Thoughts rushed through my -head. I thought of subterranean passages and springs. -Down under the ground went my mind, delving about. I -sat on the floor of the bridge and rubbed my head. -There wasn't a cloud in the sky, not one. Come out into -the street and you'll see. There wasn't a cloud. There -isn't a cloud now. Yes, there was a cloud. I don't want -to keep back any facts. There was a cloud in the west -down near the horizon, a cloud no bigger than a man's -hand. - -"Not that I think that has anything to do with it. -There it is, you see. You understand how puzzled I was. - -"Then an idea came to me. I laughed. You'll laugh, -too. Of course it rained over in Medina County. That's -interesting, eh? If we had no trains, no mails, no -telegraph, we would know that it rained over in Medina -County. That's where Wine Creek comes from. Everyone -knows that. Little old Wine Creek brought us the news. -That's interesting. I laughed. I thought I'd tell -you--it's interesting, eh?" - -Joe Welling turned and went out at the door. Taking a -book from his pocket, he stopped and ran a finger down -one of the pages. Again he was absorbed in his duties -as agent of the Standard Oil Company. "Hern's Grocery -will be getting low on coal oil. I'll see them," he -muttered, hurrying along the street, and bowing -politely to the right and left at the people walking -past. - -When George Willard went to work for the Winesburg -Eagle he was besieged by Joe Welling. Joe envied the -boy. It seemed to him that he was meant by Nature to be -a reporter on a newspaper. "It is what I should be -doing, there is no doubt of that," he declared, -stopping George Willard on the sidewalk before -Daugherty's Feed Store. His eyes began to glisten and -his forefinger to tremble. "Of course I make more money -with the Standard Oil Company and I'm only telling -you," he added. "I've got nothing against you but I -should have your place. I could do the work at odd -moments. Here and there I would run finding out things -you'll never see." - -Becoming more excited Joe Welling crowded the young -reporter against the front of the feed store. He -appeared to be lost in thought, rolling his eyes about -and running a thin nervous hand through his hair. A -smile spread over his face and his gold teeth -glittered. "You get out your note book," he commanded. -"You carry a little pad of paper in your pocket, don't -you? I knew you did. Well, you set this down. I thought -of it the other day. Let's take decay. Now what is -decay? It's fire. It burns up wood and other things. -You never thought of that? Of course not. This sidewalk -here and this feed store, the trees down the street -there--they're all on fire. They're burning up. Decay -you see is always going on. It doesn't stop. Water and -paint can't stop it. If a thing is iron, then what? It -rusts, you see. That's fire, too. The world is on fire. -Start your pieces in the paper that way. Just say in -big letters 'The World Is On Fire.' That will make 'em -look up. They'll say you're a smart one. I don't care. -I don't envy you. I just snatched that idea out of the -air. I would make a newspaper hum. You got to admit -that."' - -Turning quickly, Joe Welling walked rapidly away. When -he had taken several steps he stopped and looked back. -"I'm going to stick to you," he said. "I'm going to -make you a regular hummer. I should start a newspaper -myself, that's what I should do. I'd be a marvel. -Everybody knows that." - -When George Willard had been for a year on the -Winesburg Eagle, four things happened to Joe Welling. -His mother died, he came to live at the New Willard -House, he became involved in a love affair, and he -organized the Winesburg Baseball Club. - -Joe organized the baseball club because he wanted to be -a coach and in that position he began to win the -respect of his townsmen. "He is a wonder," they -declared after Joe's team had whipped the team from -Medina County. "He gets everybody working together. You -just watch him." - -Upon the baseball field Joe Welling stood by first -base, his whole body quivering with excitement. In -spite of themselves all the players watched him -closely. The opposing pitcher became confused. - -"Now! Now! Now! Now!" shouted the excited man. "Watch -me! Watch me! Watch my fingers! Watch my hands! Watch -my feet! Watch my eyes! Let's work together here! Watch -me! In me you see all the movements of the game! Work -with me! Work with me! Watch me! Watch me! Watch me!" - -With runners of the Winesburg team on bases, Joe -Welling became as one inspired. Before they knew what -had come over them, the base runners were watching the -man, edging off the bases, advancing, retreating, held -as by an invisible cord. The players of the opposing -team also watched Joe. They were fascinated. For a -moment they watched and then, as though to break a -spell that hung over them, they began hurling the ball -wildly about, and amid a series of fierce animal-like -cries from the coach, the runners of the Winesburg team -scampered home. - -Joe Welling's love affair set the town of Winesburg on -edge. When it began everyone whispered and shook his -head. When people tried to laugh, the laughter was -forced and unnatural. Joe fell in love with Sarah King, -a lean, sad-looking woman who lived with her father and -brother in a brick house that stood opposite the gate -leading to the Winesburg Cemetery. - -The two Kings, Edward the father, and Tom the son, were -not popular in Winesburg. They were called proud and -dangerous. They had come to Winesburg from some place -in the South and ran a cider mill on the Trunion Pike. -Tom King was reported to have killed a man before he -came to Winesburg. He was twenty-seven years old and -rode about town on a grey pony. Also he had a long -yellow mustache that dropped down over his teeth, and -always carried a heavy, wicked-looking walking stick in -his hand. Once he killed a dog with the stick. The dog -belonged to Win Pawsey, the shoe merchant, and stood on -the sidewalk wagging its tail. Tom King killed it with -one blow. He was arrested and paid a fine of ten -dollars. - -Old Edward King was small of stature and when he passed -people in the street laughed a queer unmirthful laugh. -When he laughed he scratched his left elbow with his -right hand. The sleeve of his coat was almost worn -through from the habit. As he walked along the street, -looking nervously about and laughing, he seemed more -dangerous than his silent, fierce-looking son. - -When Sarah King began walking out in the evening with -Joe Welling, people shook their heads in alarm. She was -tall and pale and had dark rings under her eyes. The -couple looked ridiculous together. Under the trees they -walked and Joe talked. His passionate eager -protestations of love, heard coming out of the darkness -by the cemetery wall, or from the deep shadows of the -trees on the hill that ran up to the Fair Grounds from -Waterworks Pond, were repeated in the stores. Men stood -by the bar in the New Willard House laughing and -talking of Joe's courtship. After the laughter came the -silence. The Winesburg baseball team, under his -management, was winning game after game, and the town -had begun to respect him. Sensing a tragedy, they -waited, laughing nervously. - -Late on a Saturday afternoon the meeting between Joe -Welling and the two Kings, the anticipation of which -had set the town on edge, took place in Joe Welling's -room in the New Willard House. George Willard was a -witness to the meeting. It came about in this way: - -When the young reporter went to his room after the -evening meal he saw Tom King and his father sitting in -the half darkness in Joe's room. The son had the heavy -walking stick in his hand and sat near the door. Old -Edward King walked nervously about, scratching his left -elbow with his right hand. The hallways were empty and -silent. - -George Willard went to his own room and sat down at his -desk. He tried to write but his hand trembled so that -he could not hold the pen. He also walked nervously up -and down. Like the rest of the town of Winesburg he was -perplexed and knew not what to do. - -It was seven-thirty and fast growing dark when Joe -Welling came along the station platform toward the New -Willard House. In his arms he held a bundle of weeds -and grasses. In spite of the terror that made his body -shake, George Willard was amused at the sight of the -small spry figure holding the grasses and half running -along the platform. - -Shaking with fright and anxiety, the young reporter -lurked in the hallway outside the door of the room in -which Joe Welling talked to the two Kings. There had -been an oath, the nervous giggle of old Edward King, -and then silence. Now the voice of Joe Welling, sharp -and clear, broke forth. George Willard began to laugh. -He understood. As he had swept all men before him, so -now Joe Welling was carrying the two men in the room -off their feet with a tidal wave of words. The listener -in the hall walked up and down, lost in amazement. - -Inside the room Joe Welling had paid no attention to -the grumbled threat of Tom King. Absorbed in an idea he -closed the door and, lighting a lamp, spread the -handful of weeds and grasses upon the floor. "I've got -something here," he announced solemnly. "I was going to -tell George Willard about it, let him make a piece out -of it for the paper. I'm glad you're here. I wish Sarah -were here also. I've been going to come to your house -and tell you of some of my ideas. They're interesting. -Sarah wouldn't let me. She said we'd quarrel. That's -foolish." - -Running up and down before the two perplexed men, Joe -Welling began to explain. "Don't you make a mistake -now," he cried. "This is something big." His voice was -shrill with excitement. "You just follow me, you'll be -interested. I know you will. Suppose this--suppose all -of the wheat, the corn, the oats, the peas, the -potatoes, were all by some miracle swept away. Now here -we are, you see, in this county. There is a high fence -built all around us. We'll suppose that. No one can get -over the fence and all the fruits of the earth are -destroyed, nothing left but these wild things, these -grasses. Would we be done for? I ask you that. Would we -be done for?" Again Tom King growled and for a moment -there was silence in the room. Then again Joe plunged -into the exposition of his idea. "Things would go hard -for a time. I admit that. I've got to admit that. No -getting around it. We'd be hard put to it. More than -one fat stomach would cave in. But they couldn't down -us. I should say not." - -Tom King laughed good naturedly and the shivery, -nervous laugh of Edward King rang through the house. -Joe Welling hurried on. "We'd begin, you see, to breed -up new vegetables and fruits. Soon we'd regain all we -had lost. Mind, I don't say the new things would be the -same as the old. They wouldn't. Maybe they'd be better, -maybe not so good. That's interesting, eh? You can -think about that. It starts your mind working, now -don't it?" - -In the room there was silence and then again old Edward -King laughed nervously. "Say, I wish Sarah was here," -cried Joe Welling. "Let's go up to your house. I want -to tell her of this." - -There was a scraping of chairs in the room. It was -then that George Willard retreated to his own room. -Leaning out at the window he saw Joe Welling going -along the street with the two Kings. Tom King was -forced to take extraordinary long strides to keep pace -with the little man. As he strode along, he leaned -over, listening--absorbed, fascinated. Joe Welling -again talked excitedly. "Take milkweed now," he cried. -"A lot might be done with milkweed, eh? It's almost -unbelievable. I want you to think about it. I want you -two to think about it. There would be a new vegetable -kingdom you see. It's interesting, eh? It's an idea. -Wait till you see Sarah, she'll get the idea. She'll be -interested. Sarah is always interested in ideas. You -can't be too smart for Sarah, now can you? Of course -you can't. You know that." - - - - -ADVENTURE - -Alice Hindman, a woman of twenty-seven when George -Willard was a mere boy, had lived in Winesburg all her -life. She clerked in Winney's Dry Goods Store and lived -with her mother, who had married a second husband. - -Alice's step-father was a carriage painter, and given -to drink. His story is an odd one. It will be worth -telling some day. - -At twenty-seven Alice was tall and somewhat slight. -Her head was large and overshadowed her body. Her -shoulders were a little stooped and her hair and eyes -brown. She was very quiet but beneath a placid exterior -a continual ferment went on. - -When she was a girl of sixteen and before she began to -work in the store, Alice had an affair with a young -man. The young man, named Ned Currie, was older than -Alice. He, like George Willard, was employed on the -Winesburg Eagle and for a long time he went to see -Alice almost every evening. Together the two walked -under the trees through the streets of the town and -talked of what they would do with their lives. Alice -was then a very pretty girl and Ned Currie took her -into his arms and kissed her. He became excited and -said things he did not intend to say and Alice, -betrayed by her desire to have something beautiful come -into her rather narrow life, also grew excited. She -also talked. The outer crust of her life, all of her -natural diffidence and reserve, was torn away and she -gave herself over to the emotions of love. When, late -in the fall of her sixteenth year, Ned Currie went away -to Cleveland where he hoped to get a place on a city -newspaper and rise in the world, she wanted to go with -him. With a trembling voice she told him what was in -her mind. "I will work and you can work," she said. "I -do not want to harness you to a needless expense that -will prevent your making progress. Don't marry me now. -We will get along without that and we can be together. -Even though we live in the same house no one will say -anything. In the city we will be unknown and people -will pay no attention to us." - -Ned Currie was puzzled by the determination and abandon -of his sweetheart and was also deeply touched. He had -wanted the girl to become his mistress but changed his -mind. He wanted to protect and care for her. "You don't -know what you're talking about," he said sharply; "you -may be sure I'll let you do no such thing. As soon as I -get a good job I'll come back. For the present you'll -have to stay here. It's the only thing we can do." - -On the evening before he left Winesburg to take up his -new life in the city, Ned Currie went to call on Alice. -They walked about through the streets for an hour and -then got a rig from Wesley Moyer's livery and went for -a drive in the country. The moon came up and they found -themselves unable to talk. In his sadness the young man -forgot the resolutions he had made regarding his -conduct with the girl. - -They got out of the buggy at a place where a long -meadow ran down to the bank of Wine Creek and there in -the dim light became lovers. When at midnight they -returned to town they were both glad. It did not seem -to them that anything that could happen in the future -could blot out the wonder and beauty of the thing that -had happened. "Now we will have to stick to each other, -whatever happens we will have to do that," Ned Currie -said as he left the girl at her father's door. - -The young newspaper man did not succeed in getting a -place on a Cleveland paper and went west to Chicago. -For a time he was lonely and wrote to Alice almost -every day. Then he was caught up by the life of the -city; he began to make friends and found new interests -in life. In Chicago he boarded at a house where there -were several women. One of them attracted his attention -and he forgot Alice in Winesburg. At the end of a year -he had stopped writing letters, and only once in a long -time, when he was lonely or when he went into one of -the city parks and saw the moon shining on the grass as -it had shone that night on the meadow by Wine Creek, -did he think of her at all. - -In Winesburg the girl who had been loved grew to be a -woman. When she was twenty-two years old her father, -who owned a harness repair shop, died suddenly. The -harness maker was an old soldier, and after a few -months his wife received a widow's pension. She used -the first money she got to buy a loom and became a -weaver of carpets, and Alice got a place in Winney's -store. For a number of years nothing could have induced -her to believe that Ned Currie would not in the end -return to her. - -She was glad to be employed because the daily round of -toil in the store made the time of waiting seem less -long and uninteresting. She began to save money, -thinking that when she had saved two or three hundred -dollars she would follow her lover to the city and try -if her presence would not win back his affections. - -Alice did not blame Ned Currie for what had happened in -the moonlight in the field, but felt that she could -never marry another man. To her the thought of giving -to another what she still felt could belong only to Ned -seemed monstrous. When other young men tried to attract -her attention she would have nothing to do with them. -"I am his wife and shall remain his wife whether he -comes back or not," she whispered to herself, and for -all of her willingness to support herself could not -have understood the growing modern idea of a woman's -owning herself and giving and taking for her own ends -in life. - -Alice worked in the dry goods store from eight in the -morning until six at night and on three evenings a week -went back to the store to stay from seven until nine. -As time passed and she became more and more lonely she -began to practice the devices common to lonely people. -When at night she went upstairs into her own room she -knelt on the floor to pray and in her prayers whispered -things she wanted to say to her lover. She became -attached to inanimate objects, and because it was her -own, could not bare to have anyone touch the furniture -of her room. The trick of saving money, begun for a -purpose, was carried on after the scheme of going to -the city to find Ned Currie had been given up. It -became a fixed habit, and when she needed new clothes -she did not get them. Sometimes on rainy afternoons in -the store she got out her bank book and, letting it lie -open before her, spent hours dreaming impossible dreams -of saving money enough so that the interest would -support both herself and her future husband. - -"Ned always liked to travel about," she thought. "I'll -give him the chance. Some day when we are married and I -can save both his money and my own, we will be rich. -Then we can travel together all over the world." - -In the dry goods store weeks ran into months and months -into years as Alice waited and dreamed of her lover's -return. Her employer, a grey old man with false teeth -and a thin grey mustache that drooped down over his -mouth, was not given to conversation, and sometimes, on -rainy days and in the winter when a storm raged in Main -Street, long hours passed when no customers came in. -Alice arranged and rearranged the stock. She stood near -the front window where she could look down the deserted -street and thought of the evenings when she had walked -with Ned Currie and of what he had said. "We will have -to stick to each other now." The words echoed and -re-echoed through the mind of the maturing woman. Tears -came into her eyes. Sometimes when her employer had -gone out and she was alone in the store she put her -head on the counter and wept. "Oh, Ned, I am waiting," -she whispered over and over, and all the time the -creeping fear that he would never come back grew -stronger within her. - -In the spring when the rains have passed and before the -long hot days of summer have come, the country about -Winesburg is delightful. The town lies in the midst of -open fields, but beyond the fields are pleasant patches -of woodlands. In the wooded places are many little -cloistered nooks, quiet places where lovers go to sit -on Sunday afternoons. Through the trees they look out -across the fields and see farmers at work about the -barns or people driving up and down on the roads. In -the town bells ring and occasionally a train passes, -looking like a toy thing in the distance. - -For several years after Ned Currie went away Alice did -not go into the wood with the other young people on -Sunday, but one day after he had been gone for two or -three years and when her loneliness seemed unbearable, -she put on her best dress and set out. Finding a little -sheltered place from which she could see the town and a -long stretch of the fields, she sat down. Fear of age -and ineffectuality took possession of her. She could -not sit still, and arose. As she stood looking out over -the land something, perhaps the thought of never -ceasing life as it expresses itself in the flow of the -seasons, fixed her mind on the passing years. With a -shiver of dread, she realized that for her the beauty -and freshness of youth had passed. For the first time -she felt that she had been cheated. She did not blame -Ned Currie and did not know what to blame. Sadness -swept over her. Dropping to her knees, she tried to -pray, but instead of prayers words of protest came to -her lips. "It is not going to come to me. I will never -find happiness. Why do I tell myself lies?" she cried, -and an odd sense of relief came with this, her first -bold attempt to face the fear that had become a part of -her everyday life. - -In the year when Alice Hindman became twenty-five two -things happened to disturb the dull uneventfulness of -her days. Her mother married Bush Milton, the carriage -painter of Winesburg, and she herself became a member -of the Winesburg Methodist Church. Alice joined the -church because she had become frightened by the -loneliness of her position in life. Her mother's second -marriage had emphasized her isolation. "I am becoming -old and queer. If Ned comes he will not want me. In the -city where he is living men are perpetually young. -There is so much going on that they do not have time to -grow old," she told herself with a grim little smile, -and went resolutely about the business of becoming -acquainted with people. Every Thursday evening when the -store had closed she went to a prayer meeting in the -basement of the church and on Sunday evening attended a -meeting of an organization called The Epworth League. - -When Will Hurley, a middle-aged man who clerked in a -drug store and who also belonged to the church, offered -to walk home with her she did not protest. "Of course I -will not let him make a practice of being with me, but -if he comes to see me once in a long time there can be -no harm in that," she told herself, still determined in -her loyalty to Ned Currie. - -Without realizing what was happening, Alice was trying -feebly at first, but with growing determination, to get -a new hold upon life. Beside the drug clerk she walked -in silence, but sometimes in the darkness as they went -stolidly along she put out her hand and touched softly -the folds of his coat. When he left her at the gate -before her mother's house she did not go indoors, but -stood for a moment by the door. She wanted to call to -the drug clerk, to ask him to sit with her in the -darkness on the porch before the house, but was afraid -he would not understand. "It is not him that I want," -she told herself; "I want to avoid being so much alone. -If I am not careful I will grow unaccustomed to being -with people." - - * * * - -During the early fall of her twenty-seventh year a -passionate restlessness took possession of Alice. She -could not bear to be in the company of the drug clerk, -and when, in the evening, he came to walk with her she -sent him away. Her mind became intensely active and -when, weary from the long hours of standing behind the -counter in the store, she went home and crawled into -bed, she could not sleep. With staring eyes she looked -into the darkness. Her imagination, like a child -awakened from long sleep, played about the room. Deep -within her there was something that would not be -cheated by phantasies and that demanded some definite -answer from life. - -Alice took a pillow into her arms and held it tightly -against her breasts. Getting out of bed, she arranged a -blanket so that in the darkness it looked like a form -lying between the sheets and, kneeling beside the bed, -she caressed it, whispering words over and over, like a -refrain. "Why doesn't something happen? Why am I left -here alone?" she muttered. Although she sometimes -thought of Ned Currie, she no longer depended on him. -Her desire had grown vague. She did not want Ned Currie -or any other man. She wanted to be loved, to have -something answer the call that was growing louder and -louder within her. - -And then one night when it rained Alice had an -adventure. It frightened and confused her. She had come -home from the store at nine and found the house empty. -Bush Milton had gone off to town and her mother to the -house of a neighbor. Alice went upstairs to her room -and undressed in the darkness. For a moment she stood -by the window hearing the rain beat against the glass -and then a strange desire took possession of her. -Without stopping to think of what she intended to do, -she ran downstairs through the dark house and out into -the rain. As she stood on the little grass plot before -the house and felt the cold rain on her body a mad -desire to run naked through the streets took possession -of her. - -She thought that the rain would have some creative and -wonderful effect on her body. Not for years had she -felt so full of youth and courage. She wanted to leap -and run, to cry out, to find some other lonely human -and embrace him. On the brick sidewalk before the house -a man stumbled homeward. Alice started to run. A wild, -desperate mood took possession of her. "What do I care -who it is. He is alone, and I will go to him," she -thought; and then without stopping to consider the -possible result of her madness, called softly. "Wait!" -she cried. "Don't go away. Whoever you are, you must -wait." - -The man on the sidewalk stopped and stood listening. -He was an old man and somewhat deaf. Putting his hand -to his mouth, he shouted. "What? What say?" he called. - -Alice dropped to the ground and lay trembling. She was -so frightened at the thought of what she had done that -when the man had gone on his way she did not dare get -to her feet, but crawled on hands and knees through the -grass to the house. When she got to her own room she -bolted the door and drew her dressing table across the -doorway. Her body shook as with a chill and her hands -trembled so that she had difficulty getting into her -nightdress. When she got into bed she buried her face -in the pillow and wept brokenheartedly. "What is the -matter with me? I will do something dreadful if I am -not careful," she thought, and turning her face to the -wall, began trying to force herself to face bravely the -fact that many people must live and die alone, even in -Winesburg. - - - - -RESPECTABILITY - -If you have lived in cities and have walked in the park -on a summer afternoon, you have perhaps seen, blinking -in a corner of his iron cage, a huge, grotesque kind of -monkey, a creature with ugly, sagging, hairless skin -below his eyes and a bright purple underbody. This -monkey is a true monster. In the completeness of his -ugliness he achieved a kind of perverted beauty. -Children stopping before the cage are fascinated, men -turn away with an air of disgust, and women linger for -a moment, trying perhaps to remember which one of their -male acquaintances the thing in some faint way -resembles. - -Had you been in the earlier years of your life a -citizen of the village of Winesburg, Ohio, there would -have been for you no mystery in regard to the beast in -his cage. "It is like Wash Williams," you would have -said. "As he sits in the corner there, the beast is -exactly like old Wash sitting on the grass in the -station yard on a summer evening after he has closed -his office for the night." - -Wash Williams, the telegraph operator of Winesburg, was -the ugliest thing in town. His girth was immense, his -neck thin, his legs feeble. He was dirty. Everything -about him was unclean. Even the whites of his eyes -looked soiled. - -I go too fast. Not everything about Wash was unclean. -He took care of his hands. His fingers were fat, but -there was something sensitive and shapely in the hand -that lay on the table by the instrument in the -telegraph office. In his youth Wash Williams had been -called the best telegraph operator in the state, and in -spite of his degradement to the obscure office at -Winesburg, he was still proud of his ability. - -Wash Williams did not associate with the men of the -town in which he lived. "I'll have nothing to do with -them," he said, looking with bleary eyes at the men who -walked along the station platform past the telegraph -office. Up along Main Street he went in the evening to -Ed Griffith's saloon, and after drinking unbelievable -quantities of beer staggered off to his room in the New -Willard House and to his bed for the night. - -Wash Williams was a man of courage. A thing had -happened to him that made him hate life, and he hated -it wholeheartedly, with the abandon of a poet. First of -all, he hated women. "Bitches," he called them. His -feeling toward men was somewhat different. He pitied -them. "Does not every man let his life be managed for -him by some bitch or another?" he asked. - -In Winesburg no attention was paid to Wash Williams and -his hatred of his fellows. Once Mrs. White, the -banker's wife, complained to the telegraph company, -saying that the office in Winesburg was dirty and -smelled abominably, but nothing came of her complaint. -Here and there a man respected the operator. -Instinctively the man felt in him a glowing resentment -of something he had not the courage to resent. When -Wash walked through the streets such a one had an -instinct to pay him homage, to raise his hat or to bow -before him. The superintendent who had supervision over -the telegraph operators on the railroad that went -through Winesburg felt that way. He had put Wash into -the obscure office at Winesburg to avoid discharging -him, and he meant to keep him there. When he received -the letter of complaint from the banker's wife, he tore -it up and laughed unpleasantly. For some reason he -thought of his own wife as he tore up the letter. - -Wash Williams once had a wife. When he was still a -young man he married a woman at Dayton, Ohio. The woman -was tall and slender and had blue eyes and yellow hair. -Wash was himself a comely youth. He loved the woman -with a love as absorbing as the hatred he later felt -for all women. - -In all of Winesburg there was but one person who knew -the story of the thing that had made ugly the person -and the character of Wash Williams. He once told the -story to George Willard and the telling of the tale -came about in this way: - -George Willard went one evening to walk with Belle -Carpenter, a trimmer of women's hats who worked in a -millinery shop kept by Mrs. Kate McHugh. The young man -was not in love with the woman, who, in fact, had a -suitor who worked as bartender in Ed Griffith's saloon, -but as they walked about under the trees they -occasionally embraced. The night and their own thoughts -had aroused something in them. As they were returning -to Main Street they passed the little lawn beside the -railroad station and saw Wash Williams apparently -asleep on the grass beneath a tree. On the next evening -the operator and George Willard walked out together. -Down the railroad they went and sat on a pile of -decaying railroad ties beside the tracks. It was then -that the operator told the young reporter his story of -hate. - -Perhaps a dozen times George Willard and the strange, -shapeless man who lived at his father's hotel had been -on the point of talking. The young man looked at the -hideous, leering face staring about the hotel dining -room and was consumed with curiosity. Something he saw -lurking in the staring eyes told him that the man who -had nothing to say to others had nevertheless something -to say to him. On the pile of railroad ties on the -summer evening, he waited expectantly. When the -operator remained silent and seemed to have changed his -mind about talking, he tried to make conversation. -"Were you ever married, Mr. Williams?" he began. "I -suppose you were and your wife is dead, is that it?" - -Wash Williams spat forth a succession of vile oaths. -"Yes, she is dead," he agreed. "She is dead as all -women are dead. She is a living-dead thing, walking in -the sight of men and making the earth foul by her -presence." Staring into the boy's eyes, the man became -purple with rage. "Don't have fool notions in your -head," he commanded. "My wife, she is dead; yes, -surely. I tell you, all women are dead, my mother, your -mother, that tall dark woman who works in the millinery -store and with whom I saw you walking about -yesterday--all of them, they are all dead. I tell you -there is something rotten about them. I was married, -sure. My wife was dead before she married me, she was a -foul thing come out a woman more foul. She was a thing -sent to make life unbearable to me. I was a fool, do -you see, as you are now, and so I married this woman. I -would like to see men a little begin to understand -women. They are sent to prevent men making the world -worth while. It is a trick in Nature. Ugh! They are -creeping, crawling, squirming things, they with their -soft hands and their blue eyes. The sight of a woman -sickens me. Why I don't kill every woman I see I don't -know." - -Half frightened and yet fascinated by the light burning -in the eyes of the hideous old man, George Willard -listened, afire with curiosity. Darkness came on and he -leaned forward trying to see the face of the man who -talked. When, in the gathering darkness, he could no -longer see the purple, bloated face and the burning -eyes, a curious fancy came to him. Wash Williams talked -in low even tones that made his words seem the more -terrible. In the darkness the young reporter found -himself imagining that he sat on the railroad ties -beside a comely young man with black hair and black -shining eyes. There was something almost beautiful in -the voice of Wash Williams, the hideous, telling his -story of hate. - -The telegraph operator of Winesburg, sitting in the -darkness on the railroad ties, had become a poet. -Hatred had raised him to that elevation. "It is because -I saw you kissing the lips of that Belle Carpenter that -I tell you my story," he said. "What happened to me may -next happen to you. I want to put you on your guard. -Already you may be having dreams in your head. I want -to destroy them." - -Wash Williams began telling the story of his married -life with the tall blonde girl with the blue eyes whom -he had met when he was a young operator at Dayton, -Ohio. Here and there his story was touched with moments -of beauty intermingled with strings of vile curses. The -operator had married the daughter of a dentist who was -the youngest of three sisters. On his marriage day, -because of his ability, he was promoted to a position -as dispatcher at an increased salary and sent to an -office at Columbus, Ohio. There he settled down with -his young wife and began buying a house on the -installment plan. - -The young telegraph operator was madly in love. With a -kind of religious fervor he had managed to go through -the pitfalls of his youth and to remain virginal until -after his marriage. He made for George Willard a -picture of his life in the house at Columbus, Ohio, -with the young wife. "In the garden back of our house -we planted vegetables," he said, "you know, peas and -corn and such things. We went to Columbus in early -March and as soon as the days became warm I went to -work in the garden. With a spade I turned up the black -ground while she ran about laughing and pretending to -be afraid of the worms I uncovered. Late in April came -the planting. In the little paths among the seed beds -she stood holding a paper bag in her hand. The bag was -filled with seeds. A few at a time she handed me the -seeds that I might thrust them into the warm, soft -ground." - -For a moment there was a catch in the voice of the man -talking in the darkness. "I loved her," he said. "I -don't claim not to be a fool. I love her yet. There in -the dusk in the spring evening I crawled along the -black ground to her feet and groveled before her. I -kissed her shoes and the ankles above her shoes. When -the hem of her garment touched my face I trembled. When -after two years of that life I found she had managed to -acquire three other lovers who came regularly to our -house when I was away at work, I didn't want to touch -them or her. I just sent her home to her mother and -said nothing. There was nothing to say. I had four -hundred dollars in the bank and I gave her that. I -didn't ask her reasons. I didn't say anything. When she -had gone I cried like a silly boy. Pretty soon I had a -chance to sell the house and I sent that money to her." - -Wash Williams and George Willard arose from the pile of -railroad ties and walked along the tracks toward town. -The operator finished his tale quickly, breathlessly. - -"Her mother sent for me," he said. "She wrote me a -letter and asked me to come to their house at Dayton. -When I got there it was evening about this time." - -Wash Williams' voice rose to a half scream. "I sat in -the parlor of that house two hours. Her mother took me -in there and left me. Their house was stylish. They -were what is called respectable people. There were -plush chairs and a couch in the room. I was trembling -all over. I hated the men I thought had wronged her. I -was sick of living alone and wanted her back. The -longer I waited the more raw and tender I became. I -thought that if she came in and just touched me with -her hand I would perhaps faint away. I ached to forgive -and forget." - -Wash Williams stopped and stood staring at George -Willard. The boy's body shook as from a chill. Again -the man's voice became soft and low. "She came into the -room naked," he went on. "Her mother did that. While I -sat there she was taking the girl's clothes off, -perhaps coaxing her to do it. First I heard voices at -the door that led into a little hallway and then it -opened softly. The girl was ashamed and stood perfectly -still staring at the floor. The mother didn't come into -the room. When she had pushed the girl in through the -door she stood in the hallway waiting, hoping we -would--well, you see--waiting." - -George Willard and the telegraph operator came into the -main street of Winesburg. The lights from the store -windows lay bright and shining on the sidewalks. People -moved about laughing and talking. The young reporter -felt ill and weak. In imagination, he also became old -and shapeless. "I didn't get the mother killed," said -Wash Williams, staring up and down the street. "I -struck her once with a chair and then the neighbors -came in and took it away. She screamed so loud you see. -I won't ever have a chance to kill her now. She died of -a fever a month after that happened." - - - - -THE THINKER - -The house in which Seth Richmond of Winesburg lived -with his mother had been at one time the show place of -the town, but when young Seth lived there its glory had -become somewhat dimmed. The huge brick house which -Banker White had built on Buckeye Street had -overshadowed it. The Richmond place was in a little -valley far out at the end of Main Street. Farmers -coming into town by a dusty road from the south passed -by a grove of walnut trees, skirted the Fair Ground -with its high board fence covered with advertisements, -and trotted their horses down through the valley past -the Richmond place into town. As much of the country -north and south of Winesburg was devoted to fruit and -berry raising, Seth saw wagon-loads of berry -pickers--boys, girls, and women--going to the fields in -the morning and returning covered with dust in the -evening. The chattering crowd, with their rude jokes -cried out from wagon to wagon, sometimes irritated him -sharply. He regretted that he also could not laugh -boisterously, shout meaningless jokes and make of -himself a figure in the endless stream of moving, -giggling activity that went up and down the road. - -The Richmond house was built of limestone, and, -although it was said in the village to have become run -down, had in reality grown more beautiful with every -passing year. Already time had begun a little to color -the stone, lending a golden richness to its surface and -in the evening or on dark days touching the shaded -places beneath the eaves with wavering patches of -browns and blacks. - -The house had been built by Seth's grandfather, a stone -quarryman, and it, together with the stone quarries on -Lake Erie eighteen miles to the north, had been left to -his son, Clarence Richmond, Seth's father. Clarence -Richmond, a quiet passionate man extraordinarily -admired by his neighbors, had been killed in a street -fight with the editor of a newspaper in Toledo, Ohio. -The fight concerned the publication of Clarence -Richmond's name coupled with that of a woman school -teacher, and as the dead man had begun the row by -firing upon the editor, the effort to punish the slayer -was unsuccessful. After the quarryman's death it was -found that much of the money left to him had been -squandered in speculation and in insecure investments -made through the influence of friends. - -Left with but a small income, Virginia Richmond had -settled down to a retired life in the village and to -the raising of her son. Although she had been deeply -moved by the death of the husband and father, she did -not at all believe the stories concerning him that ran -about after his death. To her mind, the sensitive, -boyish man whom all had instinctively loved, was but an -unfortunate, a being too fine for everyday life. -"You'll be hearing all sorts of stories, but you are -not to believe what you hear," she said to her son. "He -was a good man, full of tenderness for everyone, and -should not have tried to be a man of affairs. No matter -how much I were to plan and dream of your future, I -could not imagine anything better for you than that you -turn out as good a man as your father." - -Several years after the death of her husband, Virginia -Richmond had become alarmed at the growing demands upon -her income and had set herself to the task of -increasing it. She had learned stenography and through -the influence of her husband's friends got the position -of court stenographer at the county seat. There she -went by train each morning during the sessions of the -court, and when no court sat, spent her days working -among the rosebushes in her garden. She was a tall, -straight figure of a woman with a plain face and a -great mass of brown hair. - -In the relationship between Seth Richmond and his -mother, there was a quality that even at eighteen had -begun to color all of his traffic with men. An almost -unhealthy respect for the youth kept the mother for the -most part silent in his presence. When she did speak -sharply to him he had only to look steadily into her -eyes to see dawning there the puzzled look he had -already noticed in the eyes of others when he looked at -them. - -The truth was that the son thought with remarkable -clearness and the mother did not. She expected from all -people certain conventional reactions to life. A boy -was your son, you scolded him and he trembled and -looked at the floor. When you had scolded enough he -wept and all was forgiven. After the weeping and when -he had gone to bed, you crept into his room and kissed -him. - -Virginia Richmond could not understand why her son did -not do these things. After the severest reprimand, he -did not tremble and look at the floor but instead -looked steadily at her, causing uneasy doubts to invade -her mind. As for creeping into his room--after Seth -had passed his fifteenth year, she would have been half -afraid to do anything of the kind. - -Once when he was a boy of sixteen, Seth in company with -two other boys ran away from home. The three boys -climbed into the open door of an empty freight car and -rode some forty miles to a town where a fair was being -held. One of the boys had a bottle filled with a -combination of whiskey and blackberry wine, and the -three sat with legs dangling out of the car door -drinking from the bottle. Seth's two companions sang -and waved their hands to idlers about the stations of -the towns through which the train passed. They planned -raids upon the baskets of farmers who had come with -their families to the fair. "We will live like kings -and won't have to spend a penny to see the fair and -horse races," they declared boastfully. - -After the disappearance of Seth, Virginia Richmond -walked up and down the floor of her home filled with -vague alarms. Although on the next day she discovered, -through an inquiry made by the town marshal, on what -adventure the boys had gone, she could not quiet -herself. All through the night she lay awake hearing -the clock tick and telling herself that Seth, like his -father, would come to a sudden and violent end. So -determined was she that the boy should this time feel -the weight of her wrath that, although she would not -allow the marshal to interfere with his adventure, she -got out a pencil and paper and wrote down a series of -sharp, stinging reproofs she intended to pour out upon -him. The reproofs she committed to memory, going about -the garden and saying them aloud like an actor -memorizing his part. - -And when, at the end of the week, Seth returned, a -little weary and with coal soot in his ears and about -his eyes, she again found herself unable to reprove -him. Walking into the house he hung his cap on a nail -by the kitchen door and stood looking steadily at her. -"I wanted to turn back within an hour after we had -started," he explained. "I didn't know what to do. I -knew you would be bothered, but I knew also that if I -didn't go on I would be ashamed of myself. I went -through with the thing for my own good. It was -uncomfortable, sleeping on wet straw, and two drunken -Negroes came and slept with us. When I stole a lunch -basket out of a farmer's wagon I couldn't help thinking -of his children going all day without food. I was sick -of the whole affair, but I was determined to stick it -out until the other boys were ready to come back." - -"I'm glad you did stick it out," replied the mother, -half resentfully, and kissing him upon the forehead -pretended to busy herself with the work about the -house. - -On a summer evening Seth Richmond went to the New -Willard House to visit his friend, George Willard. It -had rained during the afternoon, but as he walked -through Main Street, the sky had partially cleared and -a golden glow lit up the west. Going around a corner, -he turned in at the door of the hotel and began to -climb the stairway leading up to his friend's room. In -the hotel office the proprietor and two traveling men -were engaged in a discussion of politics. - -On the stairway Seth stopped and listened to the voices -of the men below. They were excited and talked rapidly. -Tom Willard was berating the traveling men. "I am a -Democrat but your talk makes me sick," he said. "You -don't understand McKinley. McKinley and Mark Hanna are -friends. It is impossible perhaps for your mind to -grasp that. If anyone tells you that a friendship can -be deeper and bigger and more worth while than dollars -and cents, or even more worth while than state -politics, you snicker and laugh." - -The landlord was interrupted by one of the guests, a -tall, grey-mustached man who worked for a wholesale -grocery house. "Do you think that I've lived in -Cleveland all these years without knowing Mark Hanna?" -he demanded. "Your talk is piffle. Hanna is after money -and nothing else. This McKinley is his tool. He has -McKinley bluffed and don't you forget it." - -The young man on the stairs did not linger to hear the -rest of the discussion, but went on up the stairway and -into the little dark hall. Something in the voices of -the men talking in the hotel office started a chain of -thoughts in his mind. He was lonely and had begun to -think that loneliness was a part of his character, -something that would always stay with him. Stepping -into a side hall he stood by a window that looked into -an alleyway. At the back of his shop stood Abner Groff, -the town baker. His tiny bloodshot eyes looked up and -down the alleyway. In his shop someone called the -baker, who pretended not to hear. The baker had an -empty milk bottle in his hand and an angry sullen look -in his eyes. - -In Winesburg, Seth Richmond was called the "deep one." -"He's like his father," men said as he went through the -streets. "He'll break out some of these days. You wait -and see." - -The talk of the town and the respect with which men and -boys instinctively greeted him, as all men greet silent -people, had affected Seth Richmond's outlook on life -and on himself. He, like most boys, was deeper than -boys are given credit for being, but he was not what -the men of the town, and even his mother, thought him -to be. No great underlying purpose lay back of his -habitual silence, and he had no definite plan for his -life. When the boys with whom he associated were noisy -and quarrelsome, he stood quietly at one side. With -calm eyes he watched the gesticulating lively figures -of his companions. He wasn't particularly interested in -what was going on, and sometimes wondered if he would -ever be particularly interested in anything. Now, as he -stood in the half-darkness by the window watching the -baker, he wished that he himself might become -thoroughly stirred by something, even by the fits of -sullen anger for which Baker Groff was noted. "It would -be better for me if I could become excited and wrangle -about politics like windy old Tom Willard," he thought, -as he left the window and went again along the hallway -to the room occupied by his friend, George Willard. - -George Willard was older than Seth Richmond, but in the -rather odd friendship between the two, it was he who -was forever courting and the younger boy who was being -courted. The paper on which George worked had one -policy. It strove to mention by name in each issue, as -many as possible of the inhabitants of the village. -Like an excited dog, George Willard ran here and there, -noting on his pad of paper who had gone on business to -the county seat or had returned from a visit to a -neighboring village. All day he wrote little facts upon -the pad. "A. P. Wringlet had received a shipment of -straw hats. Ed Byerbaum and Tom Marshall were in -Cleveland Friday. Uncle Tom Sinnings is building a new -barn on his place on the Valley Road." - -The idea that George Willard would some day become a -writer had given him a place of distinction in -Winesburg, and to Seth Richmond he talked continually -of the matter, "It's the easiest of all lives to live," -he declared, becoming excited and boastful. "Here and -there you go and there is no one to boss you. Though -you are in India or in the South Seas in a boat, you -have but to write and there you are. Wait till I get my -name up and then see what fun I shall have." - -In George Willard's room, which had a window looking -down into an alleyway and one that looked across -railroad tracks to Biff Carter's Lunch Room facing the -railroad station, Seth Richmond sat in a chair and -looked at the floor. George Willard, who had been -sitting for an hour idly playing with a lead pencil, -greeted him effusively. "I've been trying to write a -love story," he explained, laughing nervously. Lighting -a pipe he began walking up and down the room. "I know -what I'm going to do. I'm going to fall in love. I've -been sitting here and thinking it over and I'm going to -do it." - -As though embarrassed by his declaration, George went -to a window and turning his back to his friend leaned -out. "I know who I'm going to fall in love with," he -said sharply. "It's Helen White. She is the only girl -in town with any 'get-up' to her." - -Struck with a new idea, young Willard turned and walked -toward his visitor. "Look here," he said. "You know -Helen White better than I do. I want you to tell her -what I said. You just get to talking to her and say -that I'm in love with her. See what she says to that. -See how she takes it, and then you come and tell me." - -Seth Richmond arose and went toward the door. The words -of his comrade irritated him unbearably. "Well, -good-bye," he said briefly. - -George was amazed. Running forward he stood in the -darkness trying to look into Seth's face. "What's the -matter? What are you going to do? You stay here and -let's talk," he urged. - -A wave of resentment directed against his friend, the -men of the town who were, he thought, perpetually -talking of nothing, and most of all, against his own -habit of silence, made Seth half desperate. "Aw, speak -to her yourself," he burst forth and then, going -quickly through the door, slammed it sharply in his -friend's face. "I'm going to find Helen White and talk -to her, but not about him," he muttered. - -Seth went down the stairway and out at the front door -of the hotel muttering with wrath. Crossing a little -dusty street and climbing a low iron railing, he went -to sit upon the grass in the station yard. George -Willard he thought a profound fool, and he wished that -he had said so more vigorously. Although his -acquaintanceship with Helen White, the banker's -daughter, was outwardly but casual, she was often the -subject of his thoughts and he felt that she was -something private and personal to himself. "The busy -fool with his love stories," he muttered, staring back -over his shoulder at George Willard's room, "why does -he never tire of his eternal talking." - -It was berry harvest time in Winesburg and upon the -station platform men and boys loaded the boxes of red, -fragrant berries into two express cars that stood upon -the siding. A June moon was in the sky, although in the -west a storm threatened, and no street lamps were -lighted. In the dim light the figures of the men -standing upon the express truck and pitching the boxes -in at the doors of the cars were but dimly discernible. -Upon the iron railing that protected the station lawn -sat other men. Pipes were lighted. Village jokes went -back and forth. Away in the distance a train whistled -and the men loading the boxes into the cars worked with -renewed activity. - -Seth arose from his place on the grass and went -silently past the men perched upon the railing and into -Main Street. He had come to a resolution. "I'll get out -of here," he told himself. "What good am I here? I'm -going to some city and go to work. I'll tell mother -about it tomorrow." - -Seth Richmond went slowly along Main Street, past -Wacker's Cigar Store and the Town Hall, and into -Buckeye Street. He was depressed by the thought that he -was not a part of the life in his own town, but the -depression did not cut deeply as he did not think of -himself as at fault. In the heavy shadows of a big tree -before Doctor Welling's house, he stopped and stood -watching half-witted Turk Smollet, who was pushing a -wheelbarrow in the road. The old man with his absurdly -boyish mind had a dozen long boards on the wheelbarrow, -and, as he hurried along the road, balanced the load -with extreme nicety. "Easy there, Turk! Steady now, old -boy!" the old man shouted to himself, and laughed so -that the load of boards rocked dangerously. - -Seth knew Turk Smollet, the half dangerous old wood -chopper whose peculiarities added so much of color to -the life of the village. He knew that when Turk got -into Main Street he would become the center of a -whirlwind of cries and comments, that in truth the old -man was going far out of his way in order to pass -through Main Street and exhibit his skill in wheeling -the boards. "If George Willard were here, he'd have -something to say," thought Seth. "George belongs to -this town. He'd shout at Turk and Turk would shout at -him. They'd both be secretly pleased by what they had -said. It's different with me. I don't belong. I'll not -make a fuss about it, but I'm going to get out of -here." - -Seth stumbled forward through the half-darkness, -feeling himself an outcast in his own town. He began to -pity himself, but a sense of the absurdity of his -thoughts made him smile. In the end he decided that he -was simply old beyond his years and not at all a -subject for self-pity. "I'm made to go to work. I may -be able to make a place for myself by steady working, -and I might as well be at it," he decided. - -Seth went to the house of Banker White and stood in the -darkness by the front door. On the door hung a heavy -brass knocker, an innovation introduced into the -village by Helen White's mother, who had also organized -a women's club for the study of poetry. Seth raised the -knocker and let it fall. Its heavy clatter sounded like -a report from distant guns. "How awkward and foolish I -am," he thought. "If Mrs. White comes to the door, I -won't know what to say." - -It was Helen White who came to the door and found Seth -standing at the edge of the porch. Blushing with -pleasure, she stepped forward, closing the door softly. -"I'm going to get out of town. I don't know what I'll -do, but I'm going to get out of here and go to work. I -think I'll go to Columbus," he said. "Perhaps I'll get -into the State University down there. Anyway, I'm -going. I'll tell mother tonight." He hesitated and -looked doubtfully about. "Perhaps you wouldn't mind -coming to walk with me?" - -Seth and Helen walked through the streets beneath the -trees. Heavy clouds had drifted across the face of the -moon, and before them in the deep twilight went a man -with a short ladder upon his shoulder. Hurrying -forward, the man stopped at the street crossing and, -putting the ladder against the wooden lamp-post, -lighted the village lights so that their way was half -lighted, half darkened, by the lamps and by the -deepening shadows cast by the low-branched trees. In -the tops of the trees the wind began to play, -disturbing the sleeping birds so that they flew about -calling plaintively. In the lighted space before one of -the lamps, two bats wheeled and circled, pursuing the -gathering swarm of night flies. - -Since Seth had been a boy in knee trousers there had -been a half expressed intimacy between him and the -maiden who now for the first time walked beside him. -For a time she had been beset with a madness for -writing notes which she addressed to Seth. He had found -them concealed in his books at school and one had been -given him by a child met in the street, while several -had been delivered through the village post office. - -The notes had been written in a round, boyish hand and -had reflected a mind inflamed by novel reading. Seth -had not answered them, although he had been moved and -flattered by some of the sentences scrawled in pencil -upon the stationery of the banker's wife. Putting them -into the pocket of his coat, he went through the street -or stood by the fence in the school yard with something -burning at his side. He thought it fine that he should -be thus selected as the favorite of the richest and -most attractive girl in town. - -Helen and Seth stopped by a fence near where a low dark -building faced the street. The building had once been a -factory for the making of barrel staves but was now -vacant. Across the street upon the porch of a house a -man and woman talked of their childhood, their voices -coming dearly across to the half-embarrassed youth and -maiden. There was the sound of scraping chairs and the -man and woman came down the gravel path to a wooden -gate. Standing outside the gate, the man leaned over -and kissed the woman. "For old times' sake," he said -and, turning, walked rapidly away along the sidewalk. - -"That's Belle Turner," whispered Helen, and put her -hand boldly into Seth's hand. "I didn't know she had a -fellow. I thought she was too old for that." Seth -laughed uneasily. The hand of the girl was warm and a -strange, dizzy feeling crept over him. Into his mind -came a desire to tell her something he had been -determined not to tell. "George Willard's in love with -you," he said, and in spite of his agitation his voice -was low and quiet. "He's writing a story, and he wants -to be in love. He wants to know how it feels. He wanted -me to tell you and see what you said." - -Again Helen and Seth walked in silence. They came to -the garden surrounding the old Richmond place and going -through a gap in the hedge sat on a wooden bench -beneath a bush. - -On the street as he walked beside the girl new and -daring thoughts had come into Seth Richmond's mind. He -began to regret his decision to get out of town. "It -would be something new and altogether delightful to -remain and walk often through the streets with Helen -White," he thought. In imagination he saw himself -putting his arm about her waist and feeling her arms -clasped tightly about his neck. One of those odd -combinations of events and places made him connect the -idea of love-making with this girl and a spot he had -visited some days before. He had gone on an errand to -the house of a farmer who lived on a hillside beyond -the Fair Ground and had returned by a path through a -field. At the foot of the hill below the farmer's house -Seth had stopped beneath a sycamore tree and looked -about him. A soft humming noise had greeted his ears. -For a moment he had thought the tree must be the home -of a swarm of bees. - -And then, looking down, Seth had seen the bees -everywhere all about him in the long grass. He stood in -a mass of weeds that grew waist-high in the field that -ran away from the hillside. The weeds were abloom with -tiny purple blossoms and gave forth an overpowering -fragrance. Upon the weeds the bees were gathered in -armies, singing as they worked. - -Seth imagined himself lying on a summer evening, buried -deep among the weeds beneath the tree. Beside him, in -the scene built in his fancy, lay Helen White, her hand -lying in his hand. A peculiar reluctance kept him from -kissing her lips, but he felt he might have done that -if he wished. Instead, he lay perfectly still, looking -at her and listening to the army of bees that sang the -sustained masterful song of labor above his head. - -On the bench in the garden Seth stirred uneasily. -Releasing the hand of the girl, he thrust his hands -into his trouser pockets. A desire to impress the mind -of his companion with the importance of the resolution -he had made came over him and he nodded his head toward -the house. "Mother'll make a fuss, I suppose," he -whispered. "She hasn't thought at all about what I'm -going to do in life. She thinks I'm going to stay on -here forever just being a boy." - -Seth's voice became charged with boyish earnestness. -"You see, I've got to strike out. I've got to get to -work. It's what I'm good for." - -Helen White was impressed. She nodded her head and a -feeling of admiration swept over her. "This is as it -should be," she thought. "This boy is not a boy at all, -but a strong, purposeful man." Certain vague desires -that had been invading her body were swept away and she -sat up very straight on the bench. The thunder -continued to rumble and flashes of heat lightning lit -up the eastern sky. The garden that had been so -mysterious and vast, a place that with Seth beside her -might have become the background for strange and -wonderful adventures, now seemed no more than an -ordinary Winesburg back yard, quite definite and -limited in its outlines. - -"What will you do up there?" she whispered. - -Seth turned half around on the bench, striving to see -her face in the darkness. He thought her infinitely -more sensible and straightforward than George Willard, -and was glad he had come away from his friend. A -feeling of impatience with the town that had been in -his mind returned, and he tried to tell her of it. -"Everyone talks and talks," he began. "I'm sick of it. -I'll do something, get into some kind of work where -talk don't count. Maybe I'll just be a mechanic in a -shop. I don't know. I guess I don't care much. I just -want to work and keep quiet. That's all I've got in my -mind." - -Seth arose from the bench and put out his hand. He did -not want to bring the meeting to an end but could not -think of anything more to say. "It's the last time -we'll see each other," he whispered. - -A wave of sentiment swept over Helen. Putting her hand -upon Seth's shoulder, she started to draw his face down -toward her own upturned face. The act was one of pure -affection and cutting regret that some vague adventure -that had been present in the spirit of the night would -now never be realized. "I think I'd better be going -along," she said, letting her hand fall heavily to her -side. A thought came to her. "Don't you go with me; I -want to be alone," she said. "You go and talk with your -mother. You'd better do that now." - -Seth hesitated and, as he stood waiting, the girl -turned and ran away through the hedge. A desire to run -after her came to him, but he only stood staring, -perplexed and puzzled by her action as he had been -perplexed and puzzled by all of the life of the town -out of which she had come. Walking slowly toward the -house, he stopped in the shadow of a large tree and -looked at his mother sitting by a lighted window busily -sewing. The feeling of loneliness that had visited him -earlier in the evening returned and colored his -thoughts of the adventure through which he had just -passed. "Huh!" he exclaimed, turning and staring in the -direction taken by Helen White. "That's how things'll -turn out. She'll be like the rest. I suppose she'll -begin now to look at me in a funny way." He looked at -the ground and pondered this thought. "She'll be -embarrassed and feel strange when I'm around," he -whispered to himself. "That's how it'll be. That's how -everything'll turn out. When it comes to loving -someone, it won't never be me. It'll be someone -else--some fool--someone who talks a lot--someone like -that George Willard." - - - - -TANDY - -Until she was seven years old she lived in an old -unpainted house on an unused road that led off Trunion -Pike. Her father gave her but little attention and her -mother was dead. The father spent his time talking and -thinking of religion. He proclaimed himself an agnostic -and was so absorbed in destroying the ideas of God that -had crept into the minds of his neighbors that he never -saw God manifesting himself in the little child that, -half forgotten, lived here and there on the bounty of -her dead mother's relatives. - -A stranger came to Winesburg and saw in the child what -the father did not see. He was a tall, redhaired young -man who was almost always drunk. Sometimes he sat in a -chair before the New Willard House with Tom Hard, the -father. As Tom talked, declaring there could be no God, -the stranger smiled and winked at the bystanders. He -and Tom became friends and were much together. - -The stranger was the son of a rich merchant of -Cleveland and had come to Winesburg on a mission. He -wanted to cure himself of the habit of drink, and -thought that by escaping from his city associates and -living in a rural community he would have a better -chance in the struggle with the appetite that was -destroying him. - -His sojourn in Winesburg was not a success. The -dullness of the passing hours led to his drinking -harder than ever. But he did succeed in doing -something. He gave a name rich with meaning to Tom -Hard's daughter. - -One evening when he was recovering from a long debauch -the stranger came reeling along the main street of the -town. Tom Hard sat in a chair before the New Willard -House with his daughter, then a child of five, on his -knees. Beside him on the board sidewalk sat young -George Willard. The stranger dropped into a chair -beside them. His body shook and when he tried to talk -his voice trembled. - -It was late evening and darkness lay over the town and -over the railroad that ran along the foot of a little -incline before the hotel. Somewhere in the distance, -off to the west, there was a prolonged blast from the -whistle of a passenger engine. A dog that had been -sleeping in the roadway arose and barked. The stranger -began to babble and made a prophecy concerning the -child that lay in the arms of the agnostic. - -"I came here to quit drinking," he said, and tears -began to run down his cheeks. He did not look at Tom -Hard, but leaned forward and stared into the darkness -as though seeing a vision. "I ran away to the country -to be cured, but I am not cured. There is a reason." He -turned to look at the child who sat up very straight on -her father's knee and returned the look. - -The stranger touched Tom Hard on the arm. "Drink is not -the only thing to which I am addicted," he said. "There -is something else. I am a lover and have not found my -thing to love. That is a big point if you know enough -to realize what I mean. It makes my destruction -inevitable, you see. There are few who understand -that." - -The stranger became silent and seemed overcome with -sadness, but another blast from the whistle of the -passenger engine aroused him. "I have not lost faith. I -proclaim that. I have only been brought to the place -where I know my faith will not be realized," he -declared hoarsely. He looked hard at the child and -began to address her, paying no more attention to the -father. "There is a woman coming," he said, and his -voice was now sharp and earnest. "I have missed her, -you see. She did not come in my time. You may be the -woman. It would be like fate to let me stand in her -presence once, on such an evening as this, when I have -destroyed myself with drink and she is as yet only a -child." - -The shoulders of the stranger shook violently, and when -he tried to roll a cigarette the paper fell from his -trembling fingers. He grew angry and scolded. "They -think it's easy to be a woman, to be loved, but I know -better," he declared. Again he turned to the child. "I -understand," he cried. "Perhaps of all men I alone -understand." - -His glance again wandered away to the darkened street. -"I know about her, although she has never crossed my -path," he said softly. "I know about her struggles and -her defeats. It is because of her defeats that she is -to me the lovely one. Out of her defeats has been born -a new quality in woman. I have a name for it. I call it -Tandy. I made up the name when I was a true dreamer and -before my body became vile. It is the quality of being -strong to be loved. It is something men need from women -and that they do not get." - -The stranger arose and stood before Tom Hard. His body -rocked back and forth and he seemed about to fall, but -instead he dropped to his knees on the sidewalk and -raised the hands of the little girl to his drunken -lips. He kissed them ecstatically. "Be Tandy, little -one," he pleaded. "Dare to be strong and courageous. -That is the road. Venture anything. Be brave enough to -dare to be loved. Be something more than man or woman. -Be Tandy." - -The stranger arose and staggered off down the street. -A day or two later he got aboard a train and returned -to his home in Cleveland. On the summer evening, after -the talk before the hotel, Tom Hard took the girl child -to the house of a relative where she had been invited -to spend the night. As he went along in the darkness -under the trees he forgot the babbling voice of the -stranger and his mind returned to the making of -arguments by which he might destroy men's faith in God. -He spoke his daughter's name and she began to weep. - -"I don't want to be called that," she declared. "I -want to be called Tandy--Tandy Hard." The child wept so -bitterly that Tom Hard was touched and tried to comfort -her. He stopped beneath a tree and, taking her into his -arms, began to caress her. "Be good, now," he said -sharply; but she would not be quieted. With childish -abandon she gave herself over to grief, her voice -breaking the evening stillness of the street. "I want -to be Tandy. I want to be Tandy. I want to be Tandy -Hard," she cried, shaking her head and sobbing as -though her young strength were not enough to bear the -vision the words of the drunkard had brought to her. - - - - -THE STRENGTH OF GOD - -The Reverend Curtis Hartman was pastor of the -Presbyterian Church of Winesburg, and had been in that -position ten years. He was forty years old, and by his -nature very silent and reticent. To preach, standing in -the pulpit before the people, was always a hardship for -him and from Wednesday morning until Saturday evening -he thought of nothing but the two sermons that must be -preached on Sunday. Early on Sunday morning he went -into a little room called a study in the bell tower of -the church and prayed. In his prayers there was one -note that always predominated. "Give me strength and -courage for Thy work, O Lord!" he pleaded, kneeling on -the bare floor and bowing his head in the presence of -the task that lay before him. - -The Reverend Hartman was a tall man with a brown beard. -His wife, a stout, nervous woman, was the daughter of a -manufacturer of underwear at Cleveland, Ohio. The -minister himself was rather a favorite in the town. The -elders of the church liked him because he was quiet and -unpretentious and Mrs. White, the banker's wife, -thought him scholarly and refined. - -The Presbyterian Church held itself somewhat aloof from -the other churches of Winesburg. It was larger and more -imposing and its minister was better paid. He even had -a carriage of his own and on summer evenings sometimes -drove about town with his wife. Through Main Street and -up and down Buckeye Street he went, bowing gravely to -the people, while his wife, afire with secret pride, -looked at him out of the corners of her eyes and -worried lest the horse become frightened and run away. - -For a good many years after he came to Winesburg things -went well with Curtis Hartman. He was not one to arouse -keen enthusiasm among the worshippers in his church but -on the other hand he made no enemies. In reality he was -much in earnest and sometimes suffered prolonged -periods of remorse because he could not go crying the -word of God in the highways and byways of the town. He -wondered if the flame of the spirit really burned in -him and dreamed of a day when a strong sweet new -current of power would come like a great wind into his -voice and his soul and the people would tremble before -the spirit of God made manifest in him. "I am a poor -stick and that will never really happen to me," he -mused dejectedly, and then a patient smile lit up his -features. "Oh well, I suppose I'm doing well enough," -he added philosophically. - -The room in the bell tower of the church, where on -Sunday mornings the minister prayed for an increase in -him of the power of God, had but one window. It was -long and narrow and swung outward on a hinge like a -door. On the window, made of little leaded panes, was a -design showing the Christ laying his hand upon the head -of a child. One Sunday morning in the summer as he sat -by his desk in the room with a large Bible opened -before him, and the sheets of his sermon scattered -about, the minister was shocked to see, in the upper -room of the house next door, a woman lying in her bed -and smoking a cigarette while she read a book. Curtis -Hartman went on tiptoe to the window and closed it -softly. He was horror stricken at the thought of a -woman smoking and trembled also to think that his eyes, -just raised from the pages of the book of God, had -looked upon the bare shoulders and white throat of a -woman. With his brain in a whirl he went down into the -pulpit and preached a long sermon without once thinking -of his gestures or his voice. The sermon attracted -unusual attention because of its power and clearness. -"I wonder if she is listening, if my voice is carrying -a message into her soul," he thought and began to hope -that on future Sunday mornings he might be able to say -words that would touch and awaken the woman apparently -far gone in secret sin. - -The house next door to the Presbyterian Church, through -the windows of which the minister had seen the sight -that had so upset him, was occupied by two women. Aunt -Elizabeth Swift, a grey competent-looking widow with -money in the Winesburg National Bank, lived there with -her daughter Kate Swift, a school teacher. The school -teacher was thirty years old and had a neat -trim-looking figure. She had few friends and bore a -reputation of having a sharp tongue. When he began to -think about her, Curtis Hartman remembered that she had -been to Europe and had lived for two years in New York -City. "Perhaps after all her smoking means nothing," he -thought. He began to remember that when he was a -student in college and occasionally read novels, good -although somewhat worldly women, had smoked through the -pages of a book that had once fallen into his hands. -With a rush of new determination he worked on his -sermons all through the week and forgot, in his zeal to -reach the ears and the soul of this new listener, both -his embarrassment in the pulpit and the necessity of -prayer in the study on Sunday mornings. - -Reverend Hartman's experience with women had been -somewhat limited. He was the son of a wagon maker from -Muncie, Indiana, and had worked his way through -college. The daughter of the underwear manufacturer had -boarded in a house where he lived during his school -days and he had married her after a formal and -prolonged courtship, carried on for the most part by -the girl herself. On his marriage day the underwear -manufacturer had given his daughter five thousand -dollars and he promised to leave her at least twice -that amount in his will. The minister had thought -himself fortunate in marriage and had never permitted -himself to think of other women. He did not want to -think of other women. What he wanted was to do the work -of God quietly and earnestly. - -In the soul of the minister a struggle awoke. From -wanting to reach the ears of Kate Swift, and through -his sermons to delve into her soul, he began to want -also to look again at the figure lying white and quiet -in the bed. On a Sunday morning when he could not sleep -because of his thoughts he arose and went to walk in -the streets. When he had gone along Main Street almost -to the old Richmond place he stopped and picking up a -stone rushed off to the room in the bell tower. With -the stone he broke out a corner of the window and then -locked the door and sat down at the desk before the -open Bible to wait. When the shade of the window to -Kate Swift's room was raised he could see, through the -hole, directly into her bed, but she was not there. She -also had arisen and had gone for a walk and the hand -that raised the shade was the hand of Aunt Elizabeth -Swift. - -The minister almost wept with joy at this deliverance -from the carnal desire to "peep" and went back to his -own house praising God. In an ill moment he forgot, -however, to stop the hole in the window. The piece of -glass broken out at the corner of the window just -nipped off the bare heel of the boy standing motionless -and looking with rapt eyes into the face of the Christ. - -Curtis Hartman forgot his sermon on that Sunday -morning. He talked to his congregation and in his talk -said that it was a mistake for people to think of their -minister as a man set aside and intended by nature to -lead a blameless life. "Out of my own experience I know -that we, who are the ministers of God's word, are beset -by the same temptations that assail you," he declared. -"I have been tempted and have surrendered to -temptation. It is only the hand of God, placed beneath -my head, that has raised me up. As he has raised me so -also will he raise you. Do not despair. In your hour of -sin raise your eyes to the skies and you will be again -and again saved." - -Resolutely the minister put the thoughts of the woman -in the bed out of his mind and began to be something -like a lover in the presence of his wife. One evening -when they drove out together he turned the horse out of -Buckeye Street and in the darkness on Gospel Hill, -above Waterworks Pond, put his arm about Sarah -Hartman's waist. When he had eaten breakfast in the -morning and was ready to retire to his study at the -back of his house he went around the table and kissed -his wife on the cheek. When thoughts of Kate Swift came -into his head, he smiled and raised his eyes to the -skies. "Intercede for me, Master," he muttered, "keep -me in the narrow path intent on Thy work." - -And now began the real struggle in the soul of the -brown-bearded minister. By chance he discovered that -Kate Swift was in the habit of lying in her bed in the -evenings and reading a book. A lamp stood on a table by -the side of the bed and the light streamed down upon -her white shoulders and bare throat. On the evening -when he made the discovery the minister sat at the desk -in the dusty room from nine until after eleven and when -her light was put out stumbled out of the church to -spend two more hours walking and praying in the -streets. He did not want to kiss the shoulders and the -throat of Kate Swift and had not allowed his mind to -dwell on such thoughts. He did not know what he wanted. -"I am God's child and he must save me from myself," he -cried, in the darkness under the trees as he wandered -in the streets. By a tree he stood and looked at the -sky that was covered with hurrying clouds. He began to -talk to God intimately and closely. "Please, Father, do -not forget me. Give me power to go tomorrow and repair -the hole in the window. Lift my eyes again to the -skies. Stay with me, Thy servant, in his hour of need." - -Up and down through the silent streets walked the -minister and for days and weeks his soul was troubled. -He could not understand the temptation that had come to -him nor could he fathom the reason for its coming. In a -way he began to blame God, saying to himself that he -had tried to keep his feet in the true path and had not -run about seeking sin. "Through my days as a young man -and all through my life here I have gone quietly about -my work," he declared. "Why now should I be tempted? -What have I done that this burden should be laid on -me?" - -Three times during the early fall and winter of that -year Curtis Hartman crept out of his house to the room -in the bell tower to sit in the darkness looking at the -figure of Kate Swift lying in her bed and later went to -walk and pray in the streets. He could not understand -himself. For weeks he would go along scarcely thinking -of the school teacher and telling himself that he had -conquered the carnal desire to look at her body. And -then something would happen. As he sat in the study of -his own house, hard at work on a sermon, he would -become nervous and begin to walk up and down the room. -"I will go out into the streets," he told himself and -even as he let himself in at the church door he -persistently denied to himself the cause of his being -there. "I will not repair the hole in the window and I -will train myself to come here at night and sit in the -presence of this woman without raising my eyes. I will -not be defeated in this thing. The Lord has devised -this temptation as a test of my soul and I will grope -my way out of darkness into the light of -righteousness." - -One night in January when it was bitter cold and snow -lay deep on the streets of Winesburg Curtis Hartman -paid his last visit to the room in the bell tower of -the church. It was past nine o'clock when he left his -own house and he set out so hurriedly that he forgot to -put on his overshoes. In Main Street no one was abroad -but Hop Higgins the night watchman and in the whole -town no one was awake but the watchman and young George -Willard, who sat in the office of the Winesburg Eagle -trying to write a story. Along the street to the church -went the minister, plowing through the drifts and -thinking that this time he would utterly give way to -sin. "I want to look at the woman and to think of -kissing her shoulders and I am going to let myself -think what I choose," he declared bitterly and tears -came into his eyes. He began to think that he would get -out of the ministry and try some other way of life. "I -shall go to some city and get into business," he -declared. "If my nature is such that I cannot resist -sin, I shall give myself over to sin. At least I shall -not be a hypocrite, preaching the word of God with my -mind thinking of the shoulders and neck of a woman who -does not belong to me." - -It was cold in the room of the bell tower of the church -on that January night and almost as soon as he came -into the room Curtis Hartman knew that if he stayed he -would be ill. His feet were wet from tramping in the -snow and there was no fire. In the room in the house -next door Kate Swift had not yet appeared. With grim -determination the man sat down to wait. Sitting in the -chair and gripping the edge of the desk on which lay -the Bible he stared into the darkness thinking the -blackest thoughts of his life. He thought of his wife -and for the moment almost hated her. "She has always -been ashamed of passion and has cheated me," he -thought. "Man has a right to expect living passion and -beauty in a woman. He has no right to forget that he is -an animal and in me there is something that is Greek. I -will throw off the woman of my bosom and seek other -women. I will besiege this school teacher. I will fly -in the face of all men and if I am a creature of carnal -lusts I will live then for my lusts." - -The distracted man trembled from head to foot, partly -from cold, partly from the struggle in which he was -engaged. Hours passed and a fever assailed his body. -His throat began to hurt and his teeth chattered. His -feet on the study floor felt like two cakes of ice. -Still he would not give up. "I will see this woman and -will think the thoughts I have never dared to think," -he told himself, gripping the edge of the desk and -waiting. - -Curtis Hartman came near dying from the effects of that -night of waiting in the church, and also he found in -the thing that happened what he took to be the way of -life for him. On other evenings when he had waited he -had not been able to see, through the little hole in -the glass, any part of the school teacher's room except -that occupied by her bed. In the darkness he had waited -until the woman suddenly appeared sitting in the bed in -her white nightrobe. When the light was turned up she -propped herself up among the pillows and read a book. -Sometimes she smoked one of the cigarettes. Only her -bare shoulders and throat were visible. - -On the January night, after he had come near dying with -cold and after his mind had two or three times actually -slipped away into an odd land of fantasy so that he had -by an exercise of will power to force himself back into -consciousness, Kate Swift appeared. In the room next -door a lamp was lighted and the waiting man stared into -an empty bed. Then upon the bed before his eyes a naked -woman threw herself. Lying face downward she wept and -beat with her fists upon the pillow. With a final -outburst of weeping she half arose, and in the presence -of the man who had waited to look and not to think -thoughts the woman of sin began to pray. In the -lamplight her figure, slim and strong, looked like the -figure of the boy in the presence of the Christ on the -leaded window. - -Curtis Hartman never remembered how he got out of the -church. With a cry he arose, dragging the heavy desk -along the floor. The Bible fell, making a great clatter -in the silence. When the light in the house next door -went out he stumbled down the stairway and into the -street. Along the street he went and ran in at the door -of the Winesburg Eagle. To George Willard, who was -tramping up and down in the office undergoing a -struggle of his own, he began to talk half -incoherently. "The ways of God are beyond human -understanding," he cried, running in quickly and -closing the door. He began to advance upon the young -man, his eyes glowing and his voice ringing with -fervor. "I have found the light," he cried. "After ten -years in this town, God has manifested himself to me in -the body of a woman." His voice dropped and he began to -whisper. "I did not understand," he said. "What I took -to be a trial of my soul was only a preparation for a -new and more beautiful fervor of the spirit. God has -appeared to me in the person of Kate Swift, the school -teacher, kneeling naked on a bed. Do you know Kate -Swift? Although she may not be aware of it, she is an -instrument of God, bearing the message of truth." - -Reverend Curtis Hartman turned and ran out of the -office. At the door he stopped, and after looking up -and down the deserted street, turned again to George -Willard. "I am delivered. Have no fear." He held up a -bleeding fist for the young man to see. "I smashed the -glass of the window," he cried. "Now it will have to be -wholly replaced. The strength of God was in me and I -broke it with my fist." - - - - -THE TEACHER - -Snow lay deep in the streets of Winesburg. It had -begun to snow about ten o'clock in the morning and a -wind sprang up and blew the snow in clouds along Main -Street. The frozen mud roads that led into town were -fairly smooth and in places ice covered the mud. "There -will be good sleighing," said Will Henderson, standing -by the bar in Ed Griffith's saloon. Out of the saloon -he went and met Sylvester West the druggist stumbling -along in the kind of heavy overshoes called arctics. -"Snow will bring the people into town on Saturday," -said the druggist. The two men stopped and discussed -their affairs. Will Henderson, who had on a light -overcoat and no overshoes, kicked the heel of his left -foot with the toe of the right. "Snow will be good for -the wheat," observed the druggist sagely. - -Young George Willard, who had nothing to do, was glad -because he did not feel like working that day. The -weekly paper had been printed and taken to the post -office Wednesday evening and the snow began to fall on -Thursday. At eight o'clock, after the morning train had -passed, he put a pair of skates in his pocket and went -up to Waterworks Pond but did not go skating. Past the -pond and along a path that followed Wine Creek he went -until he came to a grove of beech trees. There he built -a fire against the side of a log and sat down at the -end of the log to think. When the snow began to fall -and the wind to blow he hurried about getting fuel for -the fire. - -The young reporter was thinking of Kate Swift, who had -once been his school teacher. On the evening before he -had gone to her house to get a book she wanted him to -read and had been alone with her for an hour. For the -fourth or fifth time the woman had talked to him with -great earnestness and he could not make out what she -meant by her talk. He began to believe she must be in -love with him and the thought was both pleasing and -annoying. - -Up from the log he sprang and began to pile sticks on -the fire. Looking about to be sure he was alone he -talked aloud pretending he was in the presence of the -woman, "Oh, you're just letting on, you know you are," -he declared. "I am going to find out about you. You -wait and see." - -The young man got up and went back along the path -toward town leaving the fire blazing in the wood. As he -went through the streets the skates clanked in his -pocket. In his own room in the New Willard House he -built a fire in the stove and lay down on top of the -bed. He began to have lustful thoughts and pulling down -the shade of the window closed his eyes and turned his -face to the wall. He took a pillow into his arms and -embraced it thinking first of the school teacher, who -by her words had stirred something within him, and -later of Helen White, the slim daughter of the town -banker, with whom he had been for a long time half in -love. - -By nine o'clock of that evening snow lay deep in the -streets and the weather had become bitter cold. It was -difficult to walk about. The stores were dark and the -people had crawled away to their houses. The evening -train from Cleveland was very late but nobody was -interested in its arrival. By ten o'clock all but four -of the eighteen hundred citizens of the town were in -bed. - -Hop Higgins, the night watchman, was partially awake. -He was lame and carried a heavy stick. On dark nights -he carried a lantern. Between nine and ten o'clock he -went his rounds. Up and down Main Street he stumbled -through the drifts trying the doors of the stores. Then -he went into alleyways and tried the back doors. -Finding all tight he hurried around the corner to the -New Willard House and beat on the door. Through the -rest of the night he intended to stay by the stove. -"You go to bed. I'll keep the stove going," he said to -the boy who slept on a cot in the hotel office. - -Hop Higgins sat down by the stove and took off his -shoes. When the boy had gone to sleep he began to think -of his own affairs. He intended to paint his house in -the spring and sat by the stove calculating the cost of -paint and labor. That led him into other calculations. -The night watchman was sixty years old and wanted to -retire. He had been a soldier in the Civil War and drew -a small pension. He hoped to find some new method of -making a living and aspired to become a professional -breeder of ferrets. Already he had four of the -strangely shaped savage little creatures, that are used -by sportsmen in the pursuit of rabbits, in the cellar -of his house. "Now I have one male and three females," -he mused. "If I am lucky by spring I shall have twelve -or fifteen. In another year I shall be able to begin -advertising ferrets for sale in the sporting papers." - -The nightwatchman settled into his chair and his mind -became a blank. He did not sleep. By years of practice -he had trained himself to sit for hours through the -long nights neither asleep nor awake. In the morning he -was almost as refreshed as though he had slept. - -With Hop Higgins safely stowed away in the chair behind -the stove only three people were awake in Winesburg. -George Willard was in the office of the Eagle -pretending to be at work on the writing of a story but -in reality continuing the mood of the morning by the -fire in the wood. In the bell tower of the Presbyterian -Church the Reverend Curtis Hartman was sitting in the -darkness preparing himself for a revelation from God, -and Kate Swift, the school teacher, was leaving her -house for a walk in the storm. - -It was past ten o'clock when Kate Swift set out and the -walk was unpremeditated. It was as though the man and -the boy, by thinking of her, had driven her forth into -the wintry streets. Aunt Elizabeth Swift had gone to -the county seat concerning some business in connection -with mortgages in which she had money invested and -would not be back until the next day. By a huge stove, -called a base burner, in the living room of the house -sat the daughter reading a book. Suddenly she sprang to -her feet and, snatching a cloak from a rack by the -front door, ran out of the house. - -At the age of thirty Kate Swift was not known in -Winesburg as a pretty woman. Her complexion was not -good and her face was covered with blotches that -indicated ill health. Alone in the night in the winter -streets she was lovely. Her back was straight, her -shoulders square, and her features were as the features -of a tiny goddess on a pedestal in a garden in the dim -light of a summer evening. - -During the afternoon the school teacher had been to see -Doctor Welling concerning her health. The doctor had -scolded her and had declared she was in danger of -losing her hearing. It was foolish for Kate Swift to be -abroad in the storm, foolish and perhaps dangerous. - -The woman in the streets did not remember the words of -the doctor and would not have turned back had she -remembered. She was very cold but after walking for -five minutes no longer minded the cold. First she went -to the end of her own street and then across a pair of -hay scales set in the ground before a feed barn and -into Trunion Pike. Along Trunion Pike she went to Ned -Winters' barn and turning east followed a street of low -frame houses that led over Gospel Hill and into Sucker -Road that ran down a shallow valley past Ike Smead's -chicken farm to Waterworks Pond. As she went along, the -bold, excited mood that had driven her out of doors -passed and then returned again. - -There was something biting and forbidding in the -character of Kate Swift. Everyone felt it. In the -schoolroom she was silent, cold, and stern, and yet in -an odd way very close to her pupils. Once in a long -while something seemed to have come over her and she -was happy. All of the children in the schoolroom felt -the effect of her happiness. For a time they did not -work but sat back in their chairs and looked at her. - -With hands clasped behind her back the school teacher -walked up and down in the schoolroom and talked very -rapidly. It did not seem to matter what subject came -into her mind. Once she talked to the children of -Charles Lamb and made up strange, intimate little -stories concerning the life of the dead writer. The -stories were told with the air of one who had lived in -a house with Charles Lamb and knew all the secrets of -his private life. The children were somewhat confused, -thinking Charles Lamb must be someone who had once -lived in Winesburg. - -On another occasion the teacher talked to the children -of Benvenuto Cellini. That time they laughed. What a -bragging, blustering, brave, lovable fellow she made of -the old artist! Concerning him also she invented -anecdotes. There was one of a German music teacher who -had a room above Cellini's lodgings in the city of -Milan that made the boys guffaw. Sugars McNutts, a fat -boy with red cheeks, laughed so hard that he became -dizzy and fell off his seat and Kate Swift laughed with -him. Then suddenly she became again cold and stern. - -On the winter night when she walked through the -deserted snow-covered streets, a crisis had come into -the life of the school teacher. Although no one in -Winesburg would have suspected it, her life had been -very adventurous. It was still adventurous. Day by day -as she worked in the schoolroom or walked in the -streets, grief, hope, and desire fought within her. -Behind a cold exterior the most extraordinary events -transpired in her mind. The people of the town thought -of her as a confirmed old maid and because she spoke -sharply and went her own way thought her lacking in all -the human feeling that did so much to make and mar -their own lives. In reality she was the most eagerly -passionate soul among them, and more than once, in the -five years since she had come back from her travels to -settle in Winesburg and become a school teacher, had -been compelled to go out of the house and walk half -through the night fighting out some battle raging -within. Once on a night when it rained she had stayed -out six hours and when she came home had a quarrel with -Aunt Elizabeth Swift. "I am glad you're not a man," -said the mother sharply. "More than once I've waited -for your father to come home, not knowing what new mess -he had got into. I've had my share of uncertainty and -you cannot blame me if I do not want to see the worst -side of him reproduced in you." - - * * * - -Kate Swift's mind was ablaze with thoughts of George -Willard. In something he had written as a school boy -she thought she had recognized the spark of genius and -wanted to blow on the spark. One day in the summer she -had gone to the Eagle office and finding the boy -unoccupied had taken him out Main Street to the Fair -Ground, where the two sat on a grassy bank and talked. -The school teacher tried to bring home to the mind of -the boy some conception of the difficulties he would -have to face as a writer. "You will have to know life," -she declared, and her voice trembled with earnestness. -She took hold of George Willard's shoulders and turned -him about so that she could look into his eyes. A -passer-by might have thought them about to embrace. "If -you are to become a writer you'll have to stop fooling -with words," she explained. "It would be better to give -up the notion of writing until you are better prepared. -Now it's time to be living. I don't want to frighten -you, but I would like to make you understand the import -of what you think of attempting. You must not become a -mere peddler of words. The thing to learn is to know -what people are thinking about, not what they say." - -On the evening before that stormy Thursday night when -the Reverend Curtis Hartman sat in the bell tower of -the church waiting to look at her body, young Willard -had gone to visit the teacher and to borrow a book. It -was then the thing happened that confused and puzzled -the boy. He had the book under his arm and was -preparing to depart. Again Kate Swift talked with great -earnestness. Night was coming on and the light in the -room grew dim. As he turned to go she spoke his name -softly and with an impulsive movement took hold of his -hand. Because the reporter was rapidly becoming a man -something of his man's appeal, combined with the -winsomeness of the boy, stirred the heart of the lonely -woman. A passionate desire to have him understand the -import of life, to learn to interpret it truly and -honestly, swept over her. Leaning forward, her lips -brushed his cheek. At the same moment he for the first -time became aware of the marked beauty of her features. -They were both embarrassed, and to relieve her feeling -she became harsh and domineering. "What's the use? It -will be ten years before you begin to understand what I -mean when I talk to you," she cried passionately. - - * * * - -On the night of the storm and while the minister sat in -the church waiting for her, Kate Swift went to the -office of the Winesburg Eagle, intending to have -another talk with the boy. After the long walk in the -snow she was cold, lonely, and tired. As she came -through Main Street she saw the light from the -printshop window shining on the snow and on an impulse -opened the door and went in. For an hour she sat by the -stove in the office talking of life. She talked with -passionate earnestness. The impulse that had driven her -out into the snow poured itself out into talk. She -became inspired as she sometimes did in the presence of -the children in school. A great eagerness to open the -door of life to the boy, who had been her pupil and who -she thought might possess a talent for the -understanding of life, had possession of her. So strong -was her passion that it became something physical. -Again her hands took hold of his shoulders and she -turned him about. In the dim light her eyes blazed. She -arose and laughed, not sharply as was customary with -her, but in a queer, hesitating way. "I must be going," -she said. "In a moment, if I stay, I'll be wanting to -kiss you." - -In the newspaper office a confusion arose. Kate Swift -turned and walked to the door. She was a teacher but -she was also a woman. As she looked at George Willard, -the passionate desire to be loved by a man, that had a -thousand times before swept like a storm over her body, -took possession of her. In the lamplight George Willard -looked no longer a boy, but a man ready to play the -part of a man. - -The school teacher let George Willard take her into his -arms. In the warm little office the air became suddenly -heavy and the strength went out of her body. Leaning -against a low counter by the door she waited. When he -came and put a hand on her shoulder she turned and let -her body fall heavily against him. For George Willard -the confusion was immediately increased. For a moment -he held the body of the woman tightly against his body -and then it stiffened. Two sharp little fists began to -beat on his face. When the school teacher had run away -and left him alone, he walked up and down the office -swearing furiously. - -It was into this confusion that the Reverend Curtis -Hartman protruded himself. When he came in George -Willard thought the town had gone mad. Shaking a -bleeding fist in the air, the minister proclaimed the -woman George had only a moment before held in his arms -an instrument of God bearing a message of truth. - - * * * - -George blew out the lamp by the window and locking the -door of the printshop went home. Through the hotel -office, past Hop Higgins lost in his dream of the -raising of ferrets, he went and up into his own room. -The fire in the stove had gone out and he undressed in -the cold. When he got into bed the sheets were like -blankets of dry snow. - -George Willard rolled about in the bed on which he had -lain in the afternoon hugging the pillow and thinking -thoughts of Kate Swift. The words of the minister, who -he thought had gone suddenly insane, rang in his ears. -His eyes stared about the room. The resentment, natural -to the baffled male, passed and he tried to understand -what had happened. He could not make it out. Over and -over he turned the matter in his mind. Hours passed and -he began to think it must be time for another day to -come. At four o'clock he pulled the covers up about his -neck and tried to sleep. When he became drowsy and -closed his eyes, he raised a hand and with it groped -about in the darkness. "I have missed something. I have -missed something Kate Swift was trying to tell me," he -muttered sleepily. Then he slept and in all Winesburg -he was the last soul on that winter night to go to -sleep. - - - - -LONELINESS - -He was the son of Mrs. Al Robinson who once owned a -farm on a side road leading off Trunion Pike, east of -Winesburg and two miles beyond the town limits. The -farmhouse was painted brown and the blinds to all of -the windows facing the road were kept closed. In the -road before the house a flock of chickens, accompanied -by two guinea hens, lay in the deep dust. Enoch lived -in the house with his mother in those days and when he -was a young boy went to school at the Winesburg High -School. Old citizens remembered him as a quiet, smiling -youth inclined to silence. He walked in the middle of -the road when he came into town and sometimes read a -book. Drivers of teams had to shout and swear to make -him realize where he was so that he would turn out of -the beaten track and let them pass. - -When he was twenty-one years old Enoch went to New York -City and was a city man for fifteen years. He studied -French and went to an art school, hoping to develop a -faculty he had for drawing. In his own mind he planned -to go to Paris and to finish his art education among -the masters there, but that never turned out. - -Nothing ever turned out for Enoch Robinson. He could -draw well enough and he had many odd delicate thoughts -hidden away in his brain that might have expressed -themselves through the brush of a painter, but he was -always a child and that was a handicap to his worldly -development. He never grew up and of course he couldn't -understand people and he couldn't make people -understand him. The child in him kept bumping against -things, against actualities like money and sex and -opinions. Once he was hit by a street car and thrown -against an iron post. That made him lame. It was one of -the many things that kept things from turning out for -Enoch Robinson. - -In New York City, when he first went there to live and -before he became confused and disconcerted by the facts -of life, Enoch went about a good deal with young men. -He got into a group of other young artists, both men -and women, and in the evenings they sometimes came to -visit him in his room. Once he got drunk and was taken -to a police station where a police magistrate -frightened him horribly, and once he tried to have an -affair with a woman of the town met on the sidewalk -before his lodging house. The woman and Enoch walked -together three blocks and then the young man grew -afraid and ran away. The woman had been drinking and -the incident amused her. She leaned against the wall of -a building and laughed so heartily that another man -stopped and laughed with her. The two went away -together, still laughing, and Enoch crept off to his -room trembling and vexed. - -The room in which young Robinson lived in New York -faced Washington Square and was long and narrow like a -hallway. It is important to get that fixed in your -mind. The story of Enoch is in fact the story of a room -almost more than it is the story of a man. - -And so into the room in the evening came young Enoch's -friends. There was nothing particularly striking about -them except that they were artists of the kind that -talk. Everyone knows of the talking artists. Throughout -all of the known history of the world they have -gathered in rooms and talked. They talk of art and are -passionately, almost feverishly, in earnest about it. -They think it matters much more than it does. - -And so these people gathered and smoked cigarettes and -talked and Enoch Robinson, the boy from the farm near -Winesburg, was there. He stayed in a corner and for the -most part said nothing. How his big blue childlike eyes -stared about! On the walls were pictures he had made, -crude things, half finished. His friends talked of -these. Leaning back in their chairs, they talked and -talked with their heads rocking from side to side. -Words were said about line and values and composition, -lots of words, such as are always being said. - -Enoch wanted to talk too but he didn't know how. He was -too excited to talk coherently. When he tried he -sputtered and stammered and his voice sounded strange -and squeaky to him. That made him stop talking. He knew -what he wanted to say, but he knew also that he could -never by any possibility say it. When a picture he had -painted was under discussion, he wanted to burst out -with something like this: "You don't get the point," he -wanted to explain; "the picture you see doesn't consist -of the things you see and say words about. There is -something else, something you don't see at all, -something you aren't intended to see. Look at this one -over here, by the door here, where the light from the -window falls on it. The dark spot by the road that you -might not notice at all is, you see, the beginning of -everything. There is a clump of elders there such as -used to grow beside the road before our house back in -Winesburg, Ohio, and in among the elders there is -something hidden. It is a woman, that's what it is. She -has been thrown from a horse and the horse has run away -out of sight. Do you not see how the old man who drives -a cart looks anxiously about? That is Thad Grayback who -has a farm up the road. He is taking corn to Winesburg -to be ground into meal at Comstock's mill. He knows -there is something in the elders, something hidden -away, and yet he doesn't quite know. - -"It's a woman you see, that's what it is! It's a woman -and, oh, she is lovely! She is hurt and is suffering -but she makes no sound. Don't you see how it is? She -lies quite still, white and still, and the beauty comes -out from her and spreads over everything. It is in the -sky back there and all around everywhere. I didn't try -to paint the woman, of course. She is too beautiful to -be painted. How dull to talk of composition and such -things! Why do you not look at the sky and then run -away as I used to do when I was a boy back there in -Winesburg, Ohio?" - -That is the kind of thing young Enoch Robinson trembled -to say to the guests who came into his room when he was -a young fellow in New York City, but he always ended by -saying nothing. Then he began to doubt his own mind. He -was afraid the things he felt were not getting -expressed in the pictures he painted. In a half -indignant mood he stopped inviting people into his room -and presently got into the habit of locking the door. -He began to think that enough people had visited him, -that he did not need people any more. With quick -imagination he began to invent his own people to whom -he could really talk and to whom he explained the -things he had been unable to explain to living people. -His room began to be inhabited by the spirits of men -and women among whom he went, in his turn saying words. -It was as though everyone Enoch Robinson had ever seen -had left with him some essence of himself, something he -could mould and change to suit his own fancy, something -that understood all about such things as the wounded -woman behind the elders in the pictures. - -The mild, blue-eyed young Ohio boy was a complete -egotist, as all children are egotists. He did not want -friends for the quite simple reason that no child wants -friends. He wanted most of all the people of his own -mind, people with whom he could really talk, people he -could harangue and scold by the hour, servants, you -see, to his fancy. Among these people he was always -self-confident and bold. They might talk, to be sure, -and even have opinions of their own, but always he -talked last and best. He was like a writer busy among -the figures of his brain, a kind of tiny blue-eyed king -he was, in a six-dollar room facing Washington Square in -the city of New York. - -Then Enoch Robinson got married. He began to get -lonely and to want to touch actual flesh-and-bone -people with his hands. Days passed when his room seemed -empty. Lust visited his body and desire grew in his -mind. At night strange fevers, burning within, kept him -awake. He married a girl who sat in a chair next to his -own in the art school and went to live in an apartment -house in Brooklyn. Two children were born to the woman -he married, and Enoch got a job in a place where -illustrations are made for advertisements. - -That began another phase of Enoch's life. He began to -play at a new game. For a while he was very proud of -himself in the role of producing citizen of the world. -He dismissed the essence of things and played with -realities. In the fall he voted at an election and he -had a newspaper thrown on his porch each morning. When -in the evening he came home from work he got off a -streetcar and walked sedately along behind some -business man, striving to look very substantial and -important. As a payer of taxes he thought he should -post himself on how things are run. "I'm getting to be -of some moment, a real part of things, of the state and -the city and all that," he told himself with an amusing -miniature air of dignity. Once, coming home from -Philadelphia, he had a discussion with a man met on a -train. Enoch talked about the advisability of the -government's owning and operating the railroads and the -man gave him a cigar. It was Enoch's notion that such a -move on the part of the government would be a good -thing, and he grew quite excited as he talked. Later he -remembered his own words with pleasure. "I gave him -something to think about, that fellow," he muttered to -himself as he climbed the stairs to his Brooklyn -apartment. - -To be sure, Enoch's marriage did not turn out. He -himself brought it to an end. He began to feel choked -and walled in by the life in the apartment, and to feel -toward his wife and even toward his children as he had -felt concerning the friends who once came to visit him. -He began to tell little lies about business engagements -that would give him freedom to walk alone in the street -at night and, the chance offering, he secretly -re-rented the room facing Washington Square. Then Mrs. -Al Robinson died on the farm near Winesburg, and he got -eight thousand dollars from the bank that acted as -trustee of her estate. That took Enoch out of the world -of men altogether. He gave the money to his wife and -told her he could not live in the apartment any more. -She cried and was angry and threatened, but he only -stared at her and went his own way. In reality the wife -did not care much. She thought Enoch slightly insane -and was a little afraid of him. When it was quite sure -that he would never come back, she took the two -children and went to a village in Connecticut where she -had lived as a girl. In the end she married a man who -bought and sold real estate and was contented enough. - -And so Enoch Robinson stayed in the New York room among -the people of his fancy, playing with them, talking to -them, happy as a child is happy. They were an odd lot, -Enoch's people. They were made, I suppose, out of real -people he had seen and who had for some obscure reason -made an appeal to him. There was a woman with a sword -in her hand, an old man with a long white beard who -went about followed by a dog, a young girl whose -stockings were always coming down and hanging over her -shoe tops. There must have been two dozen of the shadow -people, invented by the child-mind of Enoch Robinson, -who lived in the room with him. - -And Enoch was happy. Into the room he went and locked -the door. With an absurd air of importance he talked -aloud, giving instructions, making comments on life. He -was happy and satisfied to go on making his living in -the advertising place until something happened. Of -course something did happen. That is why he went back -to live in Winesburg and why we know about him. The -thing that happened was a woman. It would be that way. -He was too happy. Something had to come into his world. -Something had to drive him out of the New York room to -live out his life an obscure, jerky little figure, -bobbing up and down on the streets of an Ohio town at -evening when the sun was going down behind the roof of -Wesley Moyer's livery barn. - -About the thing that happened. Enoch told George -Willard about it one night. He wanted to talk to -someone, and he chose the young newspaper reporter -because the two happened to be thrown together at a -time when the younger man was in a mood to understand. - -Youthful sadness, young man's sadness, the sadness of a -growing boy in a village at the year's end, opened the -lips of the old man. The sadness was in the heart of -George Willard and was without meaning, but it appealed -to Enoch Robinson. - -It rained on the evening when the two met and talked, a -drizzly wet October rain. The fruition of the year had -come and the night should have been fine with a moon in -the sky and the crisp sharp promise of frost in the -air, but it wasn't that way. It rained and little -puddles of water shone under the street lamps on Main -Street. In the woods in the darkness beyond the Fair -Ground water dripped from the black trees. Beneath the -trees wet leaves were pasted against tree roots that -protruded from the ground. In gardens back of houses in -Winesburg dry shriveled potato vines lay sprawling on -the ground. Men who had finished the evening meal and -who had planned to go uptown to talk the evening away -with other men at the back of some store changed their -minds. George Willard tramped about in the rain and was -glad that it rained. He felt that way. He was like -Enoch Robinson on the evenings when the old man came -down out of his room and wandered alone in the streets. -He was like that only that George Willard had become a -tall young man and did not think it manly to weep and -carry on. For a month his mother had been very ill and -that had something to do with his sadness, but not -much. He thought about himself and to the young that -always brings sadness. - -Enoch Robinson and George Willard met beneath a wooden -awning that extended out over the sidewalk before -Voight's wagon shop on Maumee Street just off the main -street of Winesburg. They went together from there -through the rain-washed streets to the older man's room -on the third floor of the Heffner Block. The young -reporter went willingly enough. Enoch Robinson asked -him to go after the two had talked for ten minutes. The -boy was a little afraid but had never been more curious -in his life. A hundred times he had heard the old man -spoken of as a little off his head and he thought -himself rather brave and manly to go at all. From the -very beginning, in the street in the rain, the old man -talked in a queer way, trying to tell the story of the -room in Washington Square and of his life in the room. -"You'll understand if you try hard enough," he said -conclusively. "I have looked at you when you went past -me on the street and I think you can understand. It -isn't hard. All you have to do is to believe what I -say, just listen and believe, that's all there is to -it." - -It was past eleven o'clock that evening when old Enoch, -talking to George Willard in the room in the Heffner -Block, came to the vital thing, the story of the woman -and of what drove him out of the city to live out his -life alone and defeated in Winesburg. He sat on a cot -by the window with his head in his hand and George -Willard was in a chair by a table. A kerosene lamp sat -on the table and the room, although almost bare of -furniture, was scrupulously clean. As the man talked -George Willard began to feel that he would like to get -out of the chair and sit on the cot also. He wanted to -put his arms about the little old man. In the half -darkness the man talked and the boy listened, filled -with sadness. - -"She got to coming in there after there hadn't been -anyone in the room for years," said Enoch Robinson. -"She saw me in the hallway of the house and we got -acquainted. I don't know just what she did in her own -room. I never went there. I think she was a musician -and played a violin. Every now and then she came and -knocked at the door and I opened it. In she came and -sat down beside me, just sat and looked about and said -nothing. Anyway, she said nothing that mattered." - -The old man arose from the cot and moved about the -room. The overcoat he wore was wet from the rain and -drops of water kept falling with a soft thump on the -floor. When he again sat upon the cot George Willard -got out of the chair and sat beside him. - -"I had a feeling about her. She sat there in the room -with me and she was too big for the room. I felt that -she was driving everything else away. We just talked of -little things, but I couldn't sit still. I wanted to -touch her with my fingers and to kiss her. Her hands -were so strong and her face was so good and she looked -at me all the time." - -The trembling voice of the old man became silent and -his body shook as from a chill. "I was afraid," he -whispered. "I was terribly afraid. I didn't want to let -her come in when she knocked at the door but I couldn't -sit still. 'No, no,' I said to myself, but I got up and -opened the door just the same. She was so grown up, you -see. She was a woman. I thought she would be bigger -than I was there in that room." - -Enoch Robinson stared at George Willard, his childlike -blue eyes shining in the lamplight. Again he shivered. -"I wanted her and all the time I didn't want her," he -explained. "Then I began to tell her about my people, -about everything that meant anything to me. I tried to -keep quiet, to keep myself to myself, but I couldn't. I -felt just as I did about opening the door. Sometimes I -ached to have her go away and never come back any -more." - -The old man sprang to his feet and his voice shook with -excitement. "One night something happened. I became mad -to make her understand me and to know what a big thing -I was in that room. I wanted her to see how important I -was. I told her over and over. When she tried to go -away, I ran and locked the door. I followed her about. -I talked and talked and then all of a sudden things -went to smash. A look came into her eyes and I knew she -did understand. Maybe she had understood all the time. -I was furious. I couldn't stand it. I wanted her to -understand but, don't you see, I couldn't let her -understand. I felt that then she would know everything, -that I would be submerged, drowned out, you see. That's -how it is. I don't know why." - -The old man dropped into a chair by the lamp and the -boy listened, filled with awe. "Go away, boy," said the -man. "Don't stay here with me any more. I thought it -might be a good thing to tell you but it isn't. I don't -want to talk any more. Go away." - -George Willard shook his head and a note of command -came into his voice. "Don't stop now. Tell me the rest -of it," he commanded sharply. "What happened? Tell me -the rest of the story." - -Enoch Robinson sprang to his feet and ran to the window -that looked down into the deserted main street of -Winesburg. George Willard followed. By the window the -two stood, the tall awkward boy-man and the little -wrinkled man-boy. The childish, eager voice carried -forward the tale. "I swore at her," he explained. "I -said vile words. I ordered her to go away and not to -come back. Oh, I said terrible things. At first she -pretended not to understand but I kept at it. I -screamed and stamped on the floor. I made the house -ring with my curses. I didn't want ever to see her -again and I knew, after some of the things I said, that -I never would see her again." - -The old man's voice broke and he shook his head. -"Things went to smash," he said quietly and sadly. "Out -she went through the door and all the life there had -been in the room followed her out. She took all of my -people away. They all went out through the door after -her. That's the way it was." - -George Willard turned and went out of Enoch Robinson's -room. In the darkness by the window, as he went through -the door, he could hear the thin old voice whimpering -and complaining. "I'm alone, all alone here," said the -voice. "It was warm and friendly in my room but now I'm -all alone." - - - - -AN AWAKENING - -Belle Carpenter had a dark skin, grey eyes, and thick -lips. She was tall and strong. When black thoughts -visited her she grew angry and wished she were a man -and could fight someone with her fists. She worked in -the millinery shop kept by Mrs. Kate McHugh and during -the day sat trimming hats by a window at the rear of -the store. She was the daughter of Henry Carpenter, -bookkeeper in the First National Bank of Winesburg, and -lived with him in a gloomy old house far out at the end -of Buckeye Street. The house was surrounded by pine -trees and there was no grass beneath the trees. A rusty -tin eaves-trough had slipped from its fastenings at the -back of the house and when the wind blew it beat -against the roof of a small shed, making a dismal -drumming noise that sometimes persisted all through the -night. - -When she was a young girl Henry Carpenter made life -almost unbearable for Belle, but as she emerged from -girlhood into womanhood he lost his power over her. The -bookkeeper's life was made up of innumerable little -pettinesses. When he went to the bank in the morning he -stepped into a closet and put on a black alpaca coat -that had become shabby with age. At night when he -returned to his home he donned another black alpaca -coat. Every evening he pressed the clothes worn in the -streets. He had invented an arrangement of boards for -the purpose. The trousers to his street suit were -placed between the boards and the boards were clamped -together with heavy screws. In the morning he wiped the -boards with a damp cloth and stood them upright behind -the dining room door. If they were moved during the day -he was speechless with anger and did not recover his -equilibrium for a week. - -The bank cashier was a little bully and was afraid of -his daughter. She, he realized, knew the story of his -brutal treatment of her mother and hated him for it. -One day she went home at noon and carried a handful of -soft mud, taken from the road, into the house. With the -mud she smeared the face of the boards used for the -pressing of trousers and then went back to her work -feeling relieved and happy. - -Belle Carpenter occasionally walked out in the evening -with George Willard. Secretly she loved another man, -but her love affair, about which no one knew, caused -her much anxiety. She was in love with Ed Handby, -bartender in Ed Griffith's Saloon, and went about with -the young reporter as a kind of relief to her feelings. -She did not think that her station in life would permit -her to be seen in the company of the bartender and -walked about under the trees with George Willard and -let him kiss her to relieve a longing that was very -insistent in her nature. She felt that she could keep -the younger man within bounds. About Ed Handby she was -somewhat uncertain. - -Handby, the bartender, was a tall, broad-shouldered man -of thirty who lived in a room upstairs above Griffith's -saloon. His fists were large and his eyes unusually -small, but his voice, as though striving to conceal the -power back of his fists, was soft and quiet. - -At twenty-five the bartender had inherited a large farm -from an uncle in Indiana. When sold, the farm brought -in eight thousand dollars, which Ed spent in six -months. Going to Sandusky, on Lake Erie, he began an -orgy of dissipation, the story of which afterward -filled his home town with awe. Here and there he went -throwing the money about, driving carriages through the -streets, giving wine parties to crowds of men and -women, playing cards for high stakes and keeping -mistresses whose wardrobes cost him hundreds of -dollars. One night at a resort called Cedar Point, he -got into a fight and ran amuck like a wild thing. With -his fist he broke a large mirror in the wash room of a -hotel and later went about smashing windows and -breaking chairs in dance halls for the joy of hearing -the glass rattle on the floor and seeing the terror in -the eyes of clerks who had come from Sandusky to spend -the evening at the resort with their sweethearts. - -The affair between Ed Handby and Belle Carpenter on the -surface amounted to nothing. He had succeeded in -spending but one evening in her company. On that -evening he hired a horse and buggy at Wesley Moyer's -livery barn and took her for a drive. The conviction -that she was the woman his nature demanded and that he -must get her settled upon him and he told her of his -desires. The bartender was ready to marry and to begin -trying to earn money for the support of his wife, but -so simple was his nature that he found it difficult to -explain his intentions. His body ached with physical -longing and with his body he expressed himself. Taking -the milliner into his arms and holding her tightly in -spite of her struggles, he kissed her until she became -helpless. Then he brought her back to town and let her -out of the buggy. "When I get hold of you again I'll -not let you go. You can't play with me," he declared as -he turned to drive away. Then, jumping out of the -buggy, he gripped her shoulders with his strong hands. -"I'll keep you for good the next time," he said. "You -might as well make up your mind to that. It's you and -me for it and I'm going to have you before I get -through." - -One night in January when there was a new moon George -Willard, who was in Ed Handby's mind the only obstacle -to his getting Belle Carpenter, went for a walk. Early -that evening George went into Ransom Surbeck's pool -room with Seth Richmond and Art Wilson, son of the town -butcher. Seth Richmond stood with his back against the -wall and remained silent, but George Willard talked. -The pool room was filled with Winesburg boys and they -talked of women. The young reporter got into that vein. -He said that women should look out for themselves, that -the fellow who went out with a girl was not responsible -for what happened. As he talked he looked about, eager -for attention. He held the floor for five minutes and -then Art Wilson began to talk. Art was learning the -barber's trade in Cal Prouse's shop and already began -to consider himself an authority in such matters as -baseball, horse racing, drinking, and going about with -women. He began to tell of a night when he with two men -from Winesburg went into a house of prostitution at the -county seat. The butcher's son held a cigar in the side -of his mouth and as he talked spat on the floor. "The -women in the place couldn't embarrass me although they -tried hard enough," he boasted. "One of the girls in -the house tried to get fresh, but I fooled her. As soon -as she began to talk I went and sat in her lap. -Everyone in the room laughed when I kissed her. I -taught her to let me alone." - -George Willard went out of the pool room and into Main -Street. For days the weather had been bitter cold with -a high wind blowing down on the town from Lake Erie, -eighteen miles to the north, but on that night the wind -had died away and a new moon made the night unusually -lovely. Without thinking where he was going or what he -wanted to do, George went out of Main Street and began -walking in dimly lighted streets filled with frame -houses. - -Out of doors under the black sky filled with stars he -forgot his companions of the pool room. Because it was -dark and he was alone he began to talk aloud. In a -spirit of play he reeled along the street imitating a -drunken man and then imagined himself a soldier clad in -shining boots that reached to the knees and wearing a -sword that jingled as he walked. As a soldier he -pictured himself as an inspector, passing before a long -line of men who stood at attention. He began to examine -the accoutrements of the men. Before a tree he stopped -and began to scold. "Your pack is not in order," he -said sharply. "How many times will I have to speak of -this matter? Everything must be in order here. We have -a difficult task before us and no difficult task can be -done without order." - -Hypnotized by his own words, the young man stumbled -along the board sidewalk saying more words. "There is a -law for armies and for men too," he muttered, lost in -reflection. "The law begins with little things and -spreads out until it covers everything. In every little -thing there must be order, in the place where men work, -in their clothes, in their thoughts. I myself must be -orderly. I must learn that law. I must get myself into -touch with something orderly and big that swings -through the night like a star. In my little way I must -begin to learn something, to give and swing and work -with life, with the law." - -George Willard stopped by a picket fence near a street -lamp and his body began to tremble. He had never before -thought such thoughts as had just come into his head -and he wondered where they had come from. For the -moment it seemed to him that some voice outside of -himself had been talking as he walked. He was amazed -and delighted with his own mind and when he walked on -again spoke of the matter with fervor. "To come out of -Ransom Surbeck's pool room and think things like that," -he whispered. "It is better to be alone. If I talked -like Art Wilson the boys would understand me but they -wouldn't understand what I've been thinking down here." - -In Winesburg, as in all Ohio towns of twenty years ago, -there was a section in which lived day laborers. As the -time of factories had not yet come, the laborers worked -in the fields or were section hands on the railroads. -They worked twelve hours a day and received one dollar -for the long day of toil. The houses in which they -lived were small cheaply constructed wooden affairs -with a garden at the back. The more comfortable among -them kept cows and perhaps a pig, housed in a little -shed at the rear of the garden. - -With his head filled with resounding thoughts, George -Willard walked into such a street on the clear January -night. The street was dimly lighted and in places there -was no sidewalk. In the scene that lay about him there -was something that excited his already aroused fancy. -For a year he had been devoting all of his odd moments -to the reading of books and now some tale he had read -concerning life in old world towns of the middle ages -came sharply back to his mind so that he stumbled -forward with the curious feeling of one revisiting a -place that had been a part of some former existence. On -an impulse he turned out of the street and went into a -little dark alleyway behind the sheds in which lived -the cows and pigs. - -For a half hour he stayed in the alleyway, smelling the -strong smell of animals too closely housed and letting -his mind play with the strange new thoughts that came -to him. The very rankness of the smell of manure in the -clear sweet air awoke something heady in his brain. The -poor little houses lighted by kerosene lamps, the smoke -from the chimneys mounting straight up into the clear -air, the grunting of pigs, the women clad in cheap -calico dresses and washing dishes in the kitchens, the -footsteps of men coming out of the houses and going off -to the stores and saloons of Main Street, the dogs -barking and the children crying--all of these things -made him seem, as he lurked in the darkness, oddly -detached and apart from all life. - -The excited young man, unable to bear the weight of his -own thoughts, began to move cautiously along the -alleyway. A dog attacked him and had to be driven away -with stones, and a man appeared at the door of one of -the houses and swore at the dog. George went into a -vacant lot and throwing back his head looked up at the -sky. He felt unutterably big and remade by the simple -experience through which he had been passing and in a -kind of fervor of emotion put up his hands, thrusting -them into the darkness above his head and muttering -words. The desire to say words overcame him and he said -words without meaning, rolling them over on his tongue -and saying them because they were brave words, full of -meaning. "Death," he muttered, "night, the sea, fear, -loveliness." - -George Willard came out of the vacant lot and stood -again on the sidewalk facing the houses. He felt that -all of the people in the little street must be brothers -and sisters to him and he wished he had the courage to -call them out of their houses and to shake their hands. -"If there were only a woman here I would take hold of -her hand and we would run until we were both tired -out," he thought. "That would make me feel better." -With the thought of a woman in his mind he walked out -of the street and went toward the house where Belle -Carpenter lived. He thought she would understand his -mood and that he could achieve in her presence a -position he had long been wanting to achieve. In the -past when he had been with her and had kissed her lips -he had come away filled with anger at himself. He had -felt like one being used for some obscure purpose and -had not enjoyed the feeling. Now he thought he had -suddenly become too big to be used. - -When George got to Belle Carpenter's house there had -already been a visitor there before him. Ed Handby had -come to the door and calling Belle out of the house had -tried to talk to her. He had wanted to ask the woman to -come away with him and to be his wife, but when she -came and stood by the door he lost his self-assurance -and became sullen. "You stay away from that kid," he -growled, thinking of George Willard, and then, not -knowing what else to say, turned to go away. "If I -catch you together I will break your bones and his -too," he added. The bartender had come to woo, not to -threaten, and was angry with himself because of his -failure. - -When her lover had departed Belle went indoors and ran -hurriedly upstairs. From a window at the upper part of -the house she saw Ed Handby cross the street and sit -down on a horse block before the house of a neighbor. -In the dim light the man sat motionless holding his -head in his hands. She was made happy by the sight, and -when George Willard came to the door she greeted him -effusively and hurriedly put on her hat. She thought -that, as she walked through the streets with young -Willard, Ed Handby would follow and she wanted to make -him suffer. - -For an hour Belle Carpenter and the young reporter -walked about under the trees in the sweet night air. -George Willard was full of big words. The sense of -power that had come to him during the hour in the -darkness in the alleyway remained with him and he -talked boldly, swaggering along and swinging his arms -about. He wanted to make Belle Carpenter realize that -he was aware of his former weakness and that he had -changed. "You'll find me different," he declared, -thrusting his hands into his pockets and looking boldly -into her eyes. "I don't know why but it is so. You've -got to take me for a man or let me alone. That's how it -is." - -Up and down the quiet streets under the new moon went -the woman and the boy. When George had finished talking -they turned down a side street and went across a bridge -into a path that ran up the side of a hill. The hill -began at Waterworks Pond and climbed upward to the -Winesburg Fair Grounds. On the hillside grew dense -bushes and small trees and among the bushes were little -open spaces carpeted with long grass, now stiff and -frozen. - -As he walked behind the woman up the hill George -Willard's heart began to beat rapidly and his shoulders -straightened. Suddenly he decided that Belle Carpenter -was about to surrender herself to him. The new force -that had manifested itself in him had, he felt, been at -work upon her and had led to her conquest. The thought -made him half drunk with the sense of masculine power. -Although he had been annoyed that as they walked about -she had not seemed to be listening to his words, the -fact that she had accompanied him to this place took -all his doubts away. "It is different. Everything has -become different," he thought and taking hold of her -shoulder turned her about and stood looking at her, his -eyes shining with pride. - -Belle Carpenter did not resist. When he kissed her -upon the lips she leaned heavily against him and looked -over his shoulder into the darkness. In her whole -attitude there was a suggestion of waiting. Again, as -in the alleyway, George Willard's mind ran off into -words and, holding the woman tightly he whispered the -words into the still night. "Lust," he whispered, "lust -and night and women." - -George Willard did not understand what happened to him -that night on the hillside. Later, when he got to his -own room, he wanted to weep and then grew half insane -with anger and hate. He hated Belle Carpenter and was -sure that all his life he would continue to hate her. -On the hillside he had led the woman to one of the -little open spaces among the bushes and had dropped to -his knees beside her. As in the vacant lot, by the -laborers' houses, he had put up his hands in gratitude -for the new power in himself and was waiting for the -woman to speak when Ed Handby appeared. - -The bartender did not want to beat the boy, who he -thought had tried to take his woman away. He knew that -beating was unnecessary, that he had power within -himself to accomplish his purpose without using his -fists. Gripping George by the shoulder and pulling him -to his feet, he held him with one hand while he looked -at Belle Carpenter seated on the grass. Then with a -quick wide movement of his arm he sent the younger man -sprawling away into the bushes and began to bully the -woman, who had risen to her feet. "You're no good," he -said roughly. "I've half a mind not to bother with you. -I'd let you alone if I didn't want you so much." - -On his hands and knees in the bushes George Willard -stared at the scene before him and tried hard to think. -He prepared to spring at the man who had humiliated -him. To be beaten seemed to be infinitely better than -to be thus hurled ignominiously aside. - -Three times the young reporter sprang at Ed Handby and -each time the bartender, catching him by the shoulder, -hurled him back into the bushes. The older man seemed -prepared to keep the exercise going indefinitely but -George Willard's head struck the root of a tree and he -lay still. Then Ed Handby took Belle Carpenter by the -arm and marched her away. - -George heard the man and woman making their way through -the bushes. As he crept down the hillside his heart was -sick within him. He hated himself and he hated the fate -that had brought about his humiliation. When his mind -went back to the hour alone in the alleyway he was -puzzled and stopping in the darkness listened, hoping -to hear again the voice outside himself that had so -short a time before put new courage into his heart. -When his way homeward led him again into the street of -frame houses he could not bear the sight and began to -run, wanting to get quickly out of the neighborhood -that now seemed to him utterly squalid and commonplace. - - - - -"QUEER" - -From his seat on a box in the rough board shed that -stuck like a burr on the rear of Cowley & Son's store -in Winesburg, Elmer Cowley, the junior member of the -firm, could see through a dirty window into the -printshop of the Winesburg Eagle. Elmer was putting new -shoelaces in his shoes. They did not go in readily and -he had to take the shoes off. With the shoes in his -hand he sat looking at a large hole in the heel of one -of his stockings. Then looking quickly up he saw George -Willard, the only newspaper reporter in Winesburg, -standing at the back door of the Eagle printshop and -staring absentmindedly about. "Well, well, what next!" -exclaimed the young man with the shoes in his hand, -jumping to his feet and creeping away from the window. - -A flush crept into Elmer Cowley's face and his hands -began to tremble. In Cowley & Son's store a Jewish -traveling salesman stood by the counter talking to his -father. He imagined the reporter could hear what was -being said and the thought made him furious. With one -of the shoes still held in his hand he stood in a -corner of the shed and stamped with a stockinged foot -upon the board floor. - -Cowley & Son's store did not face the main street of -Winesburg. The front was on Maumee Street and beyond it -was Voight's wagon shop and a shed for the sheltering -of farmers' horses. Beside the store an alleyway ran -behind the main street stores and all day drays and -delivery wagons, intent on bringing in and taking out -goods, passed up and down. The store itself was -indescribable. Will Henderson once said of it that it -sold everything and nothing. In the window facing -Maumee Street stood a chunk of coal as large as an -apple barrel, to indicate that orders for coal were -taken, and beside the black mass of the coal stood -three combs of honey grown brown and dirty in their -wooden frames. - -The honey had stood in the store window for six months. -It was for sale as were also the coat hangers, patent -suspender buttons, cans of roof paint, bottles of -rheumatism cure, and a substitute for coffee that -companioned the honey in its patient willingness to -serve the public. - -Ebenezer Cowley, the man who stood in the store -listening to the eager patter of words that fell from -the lips of the traveling man, was tall and lean and -looked unwashed. On his scrawny neck was a large wen -partially covered by a grey beard. He wore a long -Prince Albert coat. The coat had been purchased to -serve as a wedding garment. Before he became a merchant -Ebenezer was a farmer and after his marriage he wore -the Prince Albert coat to church on Sundays and on -Saturday afternoons when he came into town to trade. -When he sold the farm to become a merchant he wore the -coat constantly. It had become brown with age and was -covered with grease spots, but in it Ebenezer always -felt dressed up and ready for the day in town. - -As a merchant Ebenezer was not happily placed in life -and he had not been happily placed as a farmer. Still -he existed. His family, consisting of a daughter named -Mabel and the son, lived with him in rooms above the -store and it did not cost them much to live. His -troubles were not financial. His unhappiness as a -merchant lay in the fact that when a traveling man with -wares to be sold came in at the front door he was -afraid. Behind the counter he stood shaking his head. -He was afraid, first that he would stubbornly refuse to -buy and thus lose the opportunity to sell again; second -that he would not be stubborn enough and would in a -moment of weakness buy what could not be sold. - -In the store on the morning when Elmer Cowley saw -George Willard standing and apparently listening at the -back door of the Eagle printshop, a situation had -arisen that always stirred the son's wrath. The -traveling man talked and Ebenezer listened, his whole -figure expressing uncertainty. "You see how quickly it -is done," said the traveling man, who had for sale a -small flat metal substitute for collar buttons. With -one hand he quickly unfastened a collar from his shirt -and then fastened it on again. He assumed a flattering -wheedling tone. "I tell you what, men have come to the -end of all this fooling with collar buttons and you are -the man to make money out of the change that is coming. -I am offering you the exclusive agency for this town. -Take twenty dozen of these fasteners and I'll not visit -any other store. I'll leave the field to you." - -The traveling man leaned over the counter and tapped -with his finger on Ebenezer's breast. "It's an -opportunity and I want you to take it," he urged. "A -friend of mine told me about you. 'See that man -Cowley,' he said. 'He's a live one.'" - -The traveling man paused and waited. Taking a book -from his pocket he began writing out the order. Still -holding the shoe in his hand Elmer Cowley went through -the store, past the two absorbed men, to a glass -showcase near the front door. He took a cheap revolver -from the case and began to wave it about. "You get out -of here!" he shrieked. "We don't want any collar -fasteners here." An idea came to him. "Mind, I'm not -making any threat," he added. "I don't say I'll shoot. -Maybe I just took this gun out of the case to look at -it. But you better get out. Yes sir, I'll say that. You -better grab up your things and get out." - -The young storekeeper's voice rose to a scream and -going behind the counter he began to advance upon the -two men. "We're through being fools here!" he cried. -"We ain't going to buy any more stuff until we begin to -sell. We ain't going to keep on being queer and have -folks staring and listening. You get out of here!" - -The traveling man left. Raking the samples of collar -fasteners off the counter into a black leather bag, he -ran. He was a small man and very bow-legged and he ran -awkwardly. The black bag caught against the door and he -stumbled and fell. "Crazy, that's what he is--crazy!" -he sputtered as he arose from the sidewalk and hurried -away. - -In the store Elmer Cowley and his father stared at each -other. Now that the immediate object of his wrath had -fled, the younger man was embarrassed. "Well, I meant -it. I think we've been queer long enough," he declared, -going to the showcase and replacing the revolver. -Sitting on a barrel he pulled on and fastened the shoe -he had been holding in his hand. He was waiting for -some word of understanding from his father but when -Ebenezer spoke his words only served to reawaken the -wrath in the son and the young man ran out of the store -without replying. Scratching his grey beard with his -long dirty fingers, the merchant looked at his son with -the same wavering uncertain stare with which he had -confronted the traveling man. "I'll be starched," he -said softly. "Well, well, I'll be washed and ironed and -starched!" - -Elmer Cowley went out of Winesburg and along a country -road that paralleled the railroad track. He did not -know where he was going or what he was going to do. In -the shelter of a deep cut where the road, after turning -sharply to the right, dipped under the tracks he -stopped and the passion that had been the cause of his -outburst in the store began to again find expression. -"I will not be queer--one to be looked at and listened -to," he declared aloud. "I'll be like other people. -I'll show that George Willard. He'll find out. I'll -show him!" - -The distraught young man stood in the middle of the -road and glared back at the town. He did not know the -reporter George Willard and had no special feeling -concerning the tall boy who ran about town gathering -the town news. The reporter had merely come, by his -presence in the office and in the printshop of the -Winesburg Eagle, to stand for something in the young -merchant's mind. He thought the boy who passed and -repassed Cowley & Son's store and who stopped to talk -to people in the street must be thinking of him and -perhaps laughing at him. George Willard, he felt, -belonged to the town, typified the town, represented in -his person the spirit of the town. Elmer Cowley could -not have believed that George Willard had also his days -of unhappiness, that vague hungers and secret unnamable -desires visited also his mind. Did he not represent -public opinion and had not the public opinion of -Winesburg condemned the Cowleys to queerness? Did he -not walk whistling and laughing through Main Street? -Might not one by striking his person strike also the -greater enemy--the thing that smiled and went its own -way--the judgment of Winesburg? - -Elmer Cowley was extraordinarily tall and his arms were -long and powerful. His hair, his eyebrows, and the -downy beard that had begun to grow upon his chin, were -pale almost to whiteness. His teeth protruded from -between his lips and his eyes were blue with the -colorless blueness of the marbles called "aggies" that -the boys of Winesburg carried in their pockets. Elmer -had lived in Winesburg for a year and had made no -friends. He was, he felt, one condemned to go through -life without friends and he hated the thought. - -Sullenly the tall young man tramped along the road with -his hands stuffed into his trouser pockets. The day was -cold with a raw wind, but presently the sun began to -shine and the road became soft and muddy. The tops of -the ridges of frozen mud that formed the road began to -melt and the mud clung to Elmer's shoes. His feet -became cold. When he had gone several miles he turned -off the road, crossed a field and entered a wood. In -the wood he gathered sticks to build a fire, by which -he sat trying to warm himself, miserable in body and in -mind. - -For two hours he sat on the log by the fire and then, -arising and creeping cautiously through a mass of -underbrush, he went to a fence and looked across fields -to a small farmhouse surrounded by low sheds. A smile -came to his lips and he began making motions with his -long arms to a man who was husking corn in one of the -fields. - -In his hour of misery the young merchant had returned -to the farm where he had lived through boyhood and -where there was another human being to whom he felt he -could explain himself. The man on the farm was a -half-witted old fellow named Mook. He had once been -employed by Ebenezer Cowley and had stayed on the farm -when it was sold. The old man lived in one of the -unpainted sheds back of the farmhouse and puttered -about all day in the fields. - -Mook the half-wit lived happily. With childlike faith -he believed in the intelligence of the animals that -lived in the sheds with him, and when he was lonely -held long conversations with the cows, the pigs, and -even with the chickens that ran about the barnyard. He -it was who had put the expression regarding being -"laundered" into the mouth of his former employer. When -excited or surprised by anything he smiled vaguely and -muttered: "I'll be washed and ironed. Well, well, I'll -be washed and ironed and starched." - -When the half-witted old man left his husking of corn -and came into the wood to meet Elmer Cowley, he was -neither surprised nor especially interested in the -sudden appearance of the young man. His feet also were -cold and he sat on the log by the fire, grateful for -the warmth and apparently indifferent to what Elmer had -to say. - -Elmer talked earnestly and with great freedom, walking -up and down and waving his arms about. "You don't -understand what's the matter with me so of course you -don't care," he declared. "With me it's different. Look -how it has always been with me. Father is queer and -mother was queer, too. Even the clothes mother used to -wear were not like other people's clothes, and look at -that coat in which father goes about there in town, -thinking he's dressed up, too. Why don't he get a new -one? It wouldn't cost much. I'll tell you why. Father -doesn't know and when mother was alive she didn't know -either. Mabel is different. She knows but she won't say -anything. I will, though. I'm not going to be stared at -any longer. Why look here, Mook, father doesn't know -that his store there in town is just a queer jumble, -that he'll never sell the stuff he buys. He knows -nothing about it. Sometimes he's a little worried that -trade doesn't come and then he goes and buys something -else. In the evenings he sits by the fire upstairs and -says trade will come after a while. He isn't worried. -He's queer. He doesn't know enough to be worried." - -The excited young man became more excited. "He don't -know but I know," he shouted, stopping to gaze down -into the dumb, unresponsive face of the half-wit. "I -know too well. I can't stand it. When we lived out here -it was different. I worked and at night I went to bed -and slept. I wasn't always seeing people and thinking -as I am now. In the evening, there in town, I go to the -post office or to the depot to see the train come in, -and no one says anything to me. Everyone stands around -and laughs and they talk but they say nothing to me. -Then I feel so queer that I can't talk either. I go -away. I don't say anything. I can't." - -The fury of the young man became uncontrollable. "I -won't stand it," he yelled, looking up at the bare -branches of the trees. "I'm not made to stand it." - -Maddened by the dull face of the man on the log by the -fire, Elmer turned and glared at him as he had glared -back along the road at the town of Winesburg. "Go on -back to work," he screamed. "What good does it do me to -talk to you?" A thought came to him and his voice -dropped. "I'm a coward too, eh?" he muttered. "Do you -know why I came clear out here afoot? I had to tell -someone and you were the only one I could tell. I -hunted out another queer one, you see. I ran away, -that's what I did. I couldn't stand up to someone like -that George Willard. I had to come to you. I ought to -tell him and I will." - -Again his voice arose to a shout and his arms flew -about. "I will tell him. I won't be queer. I don't care -what they think. I won't stand it." - -Elmer Cowley ran out of the woods leaving the half-wit -sitting on the log before the fire. Presently the old -man arose and climbing over the fence went back to his -work in the corn. "I'll be washed and ironed and -starched," he declared. "Well, well, I'll be washed and -ironed." Mook was interested. He went along a lane to a -field where two cows stood nibbling at a straw stack. -"Elmer was here," he said to the cows. "Elmer is crazy. -You better get behind the stack where he don't see you. -He'll hurt someone yet, Elmer will." - -At eight o'clock that evening Elmer Cowley put his head -in at the front door of the office of the Winesburg -Eagle where George Willard sat writing. His cap was -pulled down over his eyes and a sullen determined look -was on his face. "You come on outside with me," he -said, stepping in and closing the door. He kept his -hand on the knob as though prepared to resist anyone -else coming in. "You just come along outside. I want to -see you." - -George Willard and Elmer Cowley walked through the main -street of Winesburg. The night was cold and George -Willard had on a new overcoat and looked very spruce -and dressed up. He thrust his hands into the overcoat -pockets and looked inquiringly at his companion. He had -long been wanting to make friends with the young -merchant and find out what was in his mind. Now he -thought he saw a chance and was delighted. "I wonder -what he's up to? Perhaps he thinks he has a piece of -news for the paper. It can't be a fire because I -haven't heard the fire bell and there isn't anyone -running," he thought. - -In the main street of Winesburg, on the cold November -evening, but few citizens appeared and these hurried -along bent on getting to the stove at the back of some -store. The windows of the stores were frosted and the -wind rattled the tin sign that hung over the entrance -to the stairway leading to Doctor Welling's office. -Before Hern's Grocery a basket of apples and a rack -filled with new brooms stood on the sidewalk. Elmer -Cowley stopped and stood facing George Willard. He -tried to talk and his arms began to pump up and down. -His face worked spasmodically. He seemed about to -shout. "Oh, you go on back," he cried. "Don't stay out -here with me. I ain't got anything to tell you. I don't -want to see you at all." - -For three hours the distracted young merchant wandered -through the resident streets of Winesburg blind with -anger, brought on by his failure to declare his -determination not to be queer. Bitterly the sense of -defeat settled upon him and he wanted to weep. After -the hours of futile sputtering at nothingness that had -occupied the afternoon and his failure in the presence -of the young reporter, he thought he could see no hope -of a future for himself. - -And then a new idea dawned for him. In the darkness -that surrounded him he began to see a light. Going to -the now darkened store, where Cowley & Son had for over -a year waited vainly for trade to come, he crept -stealthily in and felt about in a barrel that stood by -the stove at the rear. In the barrel beneath shavings -lay a tin box containing Cowley & Son's cash. Every -evening Ebenezer Cowley put the box in the barrel when -he closed the store and went upstairs to bed. "They -wouldn't never think of a careless place like that," he -told himself, thinking of robbers. - -Elmer took twenty dollars, two ten-dollar bills, from -the little roll containing perhaps four hundred -dollars, the cash left from the sale of the farm. Then -replacing the box beneath the shavings he went quietly -out at the front door and walked again in the streets. - -The idea that he thought might put an end to all of his -unhappiness was very simple. "I will get out of here, -run away from home," he told himself. He knew that a -local freight train passed through Winesburg at -midnight and went on to Cleveland, where it arrived at -dawn. He would steal a ride on the local and when he -got to Cleveland would lose himself in the crowds -there. He would get work in some shop and become -friends with the other workmen and would be -indistinguishable. Then he could talk and laugh. He -would no longer be queer and would make friends. Life -would begin to have warmth and meaning for him as it -had for others. - -The tall awkward young man, striding through the -streets, laughed at himself because he had been angry -and had been half afraid of George Willard. He decided -he would have his talk with the young reporter before -he left town, that he would tell him about things, -perhaps challenge him, challenge all of Winesburg -through him. - -Aglow with new confidence Elmer went to the office of -the New Willard House and pounded on the door. A -sleep-eyed boy slept on a cot in the office. He -received no salary but was fed at the hotel table and -bore with pride the title of "night clerk." Before the -boy Elmer was bold, insistent. "You 'wake him up," he -commanded. "You tell him to come down by the depot. I -got to see him and I'm going away on the local. Tell -him to dress and come on down. I ain't got much time." - -The midnight local had finished its work in Winesburg -and the trainsmen were coupling cars, swinging lanterns -and preparing to resume their flight east. George -Willard, rubbing his eyes and again wearing the new -overcoat, ran down to the station platform afire with -curiosity. "Well, here I am. What do you want? You've -got something to tell me, eh?" he said. - -Elmer tried to explain. He wet his lips with his -tongue and looked at the train that had begun to groan -and get under way. "Well, you see," he began, and then -lost control of his tongue. "I'll be washed and ironed. -I'll be washed and ironed and starched," he muttered -half incoherently. - -Elmer Cowley danced with fury beside the groaning train -in the darkness on the station platform. Lights leaped -into the air and bobbed up and down before his eyes. -Taking the two ten-dollar bills from his pocket he -thrust them into George Willard's hand. "Take them," he -cried. "I don't want them. Give them to father. I stole -them." With a snarl of rage he turned and his long arms -began to flay the air. Like one struggling for release -from hands that held him he struck out, hitting George -Willard blow after blow on the breast, the neck, the -mouth. The young reporter rolled over on the platform -half unconscious, stunned by the terrific force of the -blows. Springing aboard the passing train and running -over the tops of cars, Elmer sprang down to a flat car -and lying on his face looked back, trying to see the -fallen man in the darkness. Pride surged up in him. "I -showed him," he cried. "I guess I showed him. I ain't -so queer. I guess I showed him I ain't so queer." - - - - -THE UNTOLD LIE - -Ray Pearson and Hal Winters were farm hands employed on -a farm three miles north of Winesburg. On Saturday -afternoons they came into town and wandered about -through the streets with other fellows from the -country. - -Ray was a quiet, rather nervous man of perhaps fifty -with a brown beard and shoulders rounded by too much -and too hard labor. In his nature he was as unlike Hal -Winters as two men can be unlike. - -Ray was an altogether serious man and had a little -sharp-featured wife who had also a sharp voice. The -two, with half a dozen thin-legged children, lived in a -tumble-down frame house beside a creek at the back end -of the Wills farm where Ray was employed. - -Hal Winters, his fellow employee, was a young fellow. -He was not of the Ned Winters family, who were very -respectable people in Winesburg, but was one of the -three sons of the old man called Windpeter Winters who -had a sawmill near Unionville, six miles away, and who -was looked upon by everyone in Winesburg as a confirmed -old reprobate. - -People from the part of Northern Ohio in which -Winesburg lies will remember old Windpeter by his -unusual and tragic death. He got drunk one evening in -town and started to drive home to Unionville along the -railroad tracks. Henry Brattenburg, the butcher, who -lived out that way, stopped him at the edge of the town -and told him he was sure to meet the down train but -Windpeter slashed at him with his whip and drove on. -When the train struck and killed him and his two horses -a farmer and his wife who were driving home along a -nearby road saw the accident. They said that old -Windpeter stood up on the seat of his wagon, raving and -swearing at the onrushing locomotive, and that he -fairly screamed with delight when the team, maddened by -his incessant slashing at them, rushed straight ahead -to certain death. Boys like young George Willard and -Seth Richmond will remember the incident quite vividly -because, although everyone in our town said that the -old man would go straight to hell and that the -community was better off without him, they had a secret -conviction that he knew what he was doing and admired -his foolish courage. Most boys have seasons of wishing -they could die gloriously instead of just being grocery -clerks and going on with their humdrum lives. - -But this is not the story of Windpeter Winters nor yet -of his son Hal who worked on the Wills farm with Ray -Pearson. It is Ray's story. It will, however, be -necessary to talk a little of young Hal so that you -will get into the spirit of it. - -Hal was a bad one. Everyone said that. There were -three of the Winters boys in that family, John, Hal, -and Edward, all broad-shouldered big fellows like old -Windpeter himself and all fighters and woman-chasers -and generally all-around bad ones. - -Hal was the worst of the lot and always up to some -devilment. He once stole a load of boards from his -father's mill and sold them in Winesburg. With the -money he bought himself a suit of cheap, flashy -clothes. Then he got drunk and when his father came -raving into town to find him, they met and fought with -their fists on Main Street and were arrested and put -into jail together. - -Hal went to work on the Wills farm because there was a -country school teacher out that way who had taken his -fancy. He was only twenty-two then but had already been -in two or three of what were spoken of in Winesburg as -"women scrapes." Everyone who heard of his infatuation -for the school teacher was sure it would turn out -badly. "He'll only get her into trouble, you'll see," -was the word that went around. - -And so these two men, Ray and Hal, were at work in a -field on a day in the late October. They were husking -corn and occasionally something was said and they -laughed. Then came silence. Ray, who was the more -sensitive and always minded things more, had chapped -hands and they hurt. He put them into his coat pockets -and looked away across the fields. He was in a sad, -distracted mood and was affected by the beauty of the -country. If you knew the Winesburg country in the fall -and how the low hills are all splashed with yellows and -reds you would understand his feeling. He began to -think of the time, long ago when he was a young fellow -living with his father, then a baker in Winesburg, and -how on such days he had wandered away into the woods to -gather nuts, hunt rabbits, or just to loaf about and -smoke his pipe. His marriage had come about through one -of his days of wandering. He had induced a girl who -waited on trade in his father's shop to go with him and -something had happened. He was thinking of that -afternoon and how it had affected his whole life when a -spirit of protest awoke in him. He had forgotten about -Hal and muttered words. "Tricked by Gad, that's what I -was, tricked by life and made a fool of," he said in a -low voice. - -As though understanding his thoughts, Hal Winters spoke -up. "Well, has it been worth while? What about it, eh? -What about marriage and all that?" he asked and then -laughed. Hal tried to keep on laughing but he too was -in an earnest mood. He began to talk earnestly. "Has a -fellow got to do it?" he asked. "Has he got to be -harnessed up and driven through life like a horse?" - -Hal didn't wait for an answer but sprang to his feet -and began to walk back and forth between the corn -shocks. He was getting more and more excited. Bending -down suddenly he picked up an ear of the yellow corn -and threw it at the fence. "I've got Nell Gunther in -trouble," he said. "I'm telling you, but you keep your -mouth shut." - -Ray Pearson arose and stood staring. He was almost a -foot shorter than Hal, and when the younger man came -and put his two hands on the older man's shoulders they -made a picture. There they stood in the big empty field -with the quiet corn shocks standing in rows behind them -and the red and yellow hills in the distance, and from -being just two indifferent workmen they had become all -alive to each other. Hal sensed it and because that was -his way he laughed. "Well, old daddy," he said -awkwardly, "come on, advise me. I've got Nell in -trouble. Perhaps you've been in the same fix yourself. -I know what everyone would say is the right thing to -do, but what do you say? Shall I marry and settle down? -Shall I put myself into the harness to be worn out like -an old horse? You know me, Ray. There can't anyone -break me but I can break myself. Shall I do it or shall -I tell Nell to go to the devil? Come on, you tell me. -Whatever you say, Ray, I'll do." - -Ray couldn't answer. He shook Hal's hands loose and -turning walked straight away toward the barn. He was a -sensitive man and there were tears in his eyes. He knew -there was only one thing to say to Hal Winters, son of -old Windpeter Winters, only one thing that all his own -training and all the beliefs of the people he knew -would approve, but for his life he couldn't say what he -knew he should say. - -At half-past four that afternoon Ray was puttering -about the barnyard when his wife came up the lane along -the creek and called him. After the talk with Hal he -hadn't returned to the cornfield but worked about the -barn. He had already done the evening chores and had -seen Hal, dressed and ready for a roistering night in -town, come out of the farmhouse and go into the road. -Along the path to his own house he trudged behind his -wife, looking at the ground and thinking. He couldn't -make out what was wrong. Every time he raised his eyes -and saw the beauty of the country in the failing light -he wanted to do something he had never done before, -shout or scream or hit his wife with his fists or -something equally unexpected and terrifying. Along the -path he went scratching his head and trying to make it -out. He looked hard at his wife's back but she seemed -all right. - -She only wanted him to go into town for groceries and -as soon as she had told him what she wanted began to -scold. "You're always puttering," she said. "Now I want -you to hustle. There isn't anything in the house for -supper and you've got to get to town and back in a -hurry." - -Ray went into his own house and took an overcoat from a -hook back of the door. It was torn about the pockets -and the collar was shiny. His wife went into the -bedroom and presently came out with a soiled cloth in -one hand and three silver dollars in the other. -Somewhere in the house a child wept bitterly and a dog -that had been sleeping by the stove arose and yawned. -Again the wife scolded. "The children will cry and cry. -Why are you always puttering?" she asked. - -Ray went out of the house and climbed the fence into a -field. It was just growing dark and the scene that lay -before him was lovely. All the low hills were washed -with color and even the little clusters of bushes in -the corners of the fences were alive with beauty. The -whole world seemed to Ray Pearson to have become alive -with something just as he and Hal had suddenly become -alive when they stood in the corn field staring into -each other's eyes. - -The beauty of the country about Winesburg was too much -for Ray on that fall evening. That is all there was to -it. He could not stand it. Of a sudden he forgot all -about being a quiet old farm hand and throwing off the -torn overcoat began to run across the field. As he ran -he shouted a protest against his life, against all -life, against everything that makes life ugly. "There -was no promise made," he cried into the empty spaces -that lay about him. "I didn't promise my Minnie -anything and Hal hasn't made any promise to Nell. I -know he hasn't. She went into the woods with him -because she wanted to go. What he wanted she wanted. -Why should I pay? Why should Hal pay? Why should anyone -pay? I don't want Hal to become old and worn out. I'll -tell him. I won't let it go on. I'll catch Hal before -he gets to town and I'll tell him." - -Ray ran clumsily and once he stumbled and fell down. -"I must catch Hal and tell him," he kept thinking, and -although his breath came in gasps he kept running -harder and harder. As he ran he thought of things that -hadn't come into his mind for years--how at the time he -married he had planned to go west to his uncle in -Portland, Oregon--how he hadn't wanted to be a farm -hand, but had thought when he got out West he would go -to sea and be a sailor or get a job on a ranch and ride -a horse into Western towns, shouting and laughing and -waking the people in the houses with his wild cries. -Then as he ran he remembered his children and in fancy -felt their hands clutching at him. All of his thoughts -of himself were involved with the thoughts of Hal and -he thought the children were clutching at the younger -man also. "They are the accidents of life, Hal," he -cried. "They are not mine or yours. I had nothing to do -with them." - -Darkness began to spread over the fields as Ray Pearson -ran on and on. His breath came in little sobs. When he -came to the fence at the edge of the road and -confronted Hal Winters, all dressed up and smoking a -pipe as he walked jauntily along, he could not have -told what he thought or what he wanted. - -Ray Pearson lost his nerve and this is really the end -of the story of what happened to him. It was almost -dark when he got to the fence and he put his hands on -the top bar and stood staring. Hal Winters jumped a -ditch and coming up close to Ray put his hands into his -pockets and laughed. He seemed to have lost his own -sense of what had happened in the corn field and when -he put up a strong hand and took hold of the lapel of -Ray's coat he shook the old man as he might have shaken -a dog that had misbehaved. - -"You came to tell me, eh?" he said. "Well, never mind -telling me anything. I'm not a coward and I've already -made up my mind." He laughed again and jumped back -across the ditch. "Nell ain't no fool," he said. "She -didn't ask me to marry her. I want to marry her. I want -to settle down and have kids." - -Ray Pearson also laughed. He felt like laughing at -himself and all the world. - -As the form of Hal Winters disappeared in the dusk that -lay over the road that led to Winesburg, he turned and -walked slowly back across the fields to where he had -left his torn overcoat. As he went some memory of -pleasant evenings spent with the thin-legged children -in the tumble-down house by the creek must have come -into his mind, for he muttered words. "It's just as -well. Whatever I told him would have been a lie," he -said softly, and then his form also disappeared into -the darkness of the fields. - - - - -DRINK - -Tom Foster came to Winesburg from Cincinnati when he -was still young and could get many new impressions. His -grandmother had been raised on a farm near the town and -as a young girl had gone to school there when Winesburg -was a village of twelve or fifteen houses clustered -about a general store on the Trunion Pike. - -What a life the old woman had led since she went away -from the frontier settlement and what a strong, capable -little old thing she was! She had been in Kansas, in -Canada, and in New York City, traveling about with her -husband, a mechanic, before he died. Later she went to -stay with her daughter, who had also married a mechanic -and lived in Covington, Kentucky, across the river from -Cincinnati. - -Then began the hard years for Tom Foster's grandmother. -First her son-in-law was killed by a policeman during a -strike and then Tom's mother became an invalid and died -also. The grandmother had saved a little money, but it -was swept away by the illness of the daughter and by -the cost of the two funerals. She became a half -worn-out old woman worker and lived with the grandson -above a junk shop on a side street in Cincinnati. For -five years she scrubbed the floors in an office -building and then got a place as dish washer in a -restaurant. Her hands were all twisted out of shape. -When she took hold of a mop or a broom handle the hands -looked like the dried stems of an old creeping vine -clinging to a tree. - -The old woman came back to Winesburg as soon as she got -the chance. One evening as she was coming home from -work she found a pocket-book containing thirty-seven -dollars, and that opened the way. The trip was a great -adventure for the boy. It was past seven o'clock at -night when the grandmother came home with the -pocket-book held tightly in her old hands and she was -so excited she could scarcely speak. She insisted on -leaving Cincinnati that night, saying that if they -stayed until morning the owner of the money would be -sure to find them out and make trouble. Tom, who was -then sixteen years old, had to go trudging off to the -station with the old woman, bearing all of their -earthly belongings done up in a worn-out blanket and -slung across his back. By his side walked the -grandmother urging him forward. Her toothless old mouth -twitched nervously, and when Tom grew weary and wanted -to put the pack down at a street crossing, she snatched -it up and if he had not prevented would have slung it -across her own back. When they got into the train and -it had run out of the city she was as delighted as a -girl and talked as the boy had never heard her talk -before. - -All through the night as the train rattled along, the -grandmother told Tom tales of Winesburg and of how he -would enjoy his life working in the fields and shooting -wild things in the woods there. She could not believe -that the tiny village of fifty years before had grown -into a thriving town in her absence, and in the morning -when the train came to Winesburg did not want to get -off. "It isn't what I thought. It may be hard for you -here," she said, and then the train went on its way and -the two stood confused, not knowing where to turn, in -the presence of Albert Longworth, the Winesburg baggage -master. - -But Tom Foster did get along all right. He was one to -get along anywhere. Mrs. White, the banker's wife, -employed his grandmother to work in the kitchen and he -got a place as stable boy in the banker's new brick -barn. - -In Winesburg servants were hard to get. The woman who -wanted help in her housework employed a "hired girl" -who insisted on sitting at the table with the family. -Mrs. White was sick of hired girls and snatched at the -chance to get hold of the old city woman. She furnished -a room for the boy Tom upstairs in the barn. "He can -mow the lawn and run errands when the horses do not -need attention," she explained to her husband. - -Tom Foster was rather small for his age and had a large -head covered with stiff black hair that stood straight -up. The hair emphasized the bigness of his head. His -voice was the softest thing imaginable, and he was -himself so gentle and quiet that he slipped into the -life of the town without attracting the least bit of -attention. - -One could not help wondering where Tom Foster got his -gentleness. In Cincinnati he had lived in a -neighborhood where gangs of tough boys prowled through -the streets, and all through his early formative years -he ran about with tough boys. For a while he was a -messenger for a telegraph company and delivered -messages in a neighborhood sprinkled with houses of -prostitution. The women in the houses knew and loved -Tom Foster and the tough boys in the gangs loved him -also. - -He never asserted himself. That was one thing that -helped him escape. In an odd way he stood in the shadow -of the wall of life, was meant to stand in the shadow. -He saw the men and women in the houses of lust, sensed -their casual and horrible love affairs, saw boys -fighting and listened to their tales of thieving and -drunkenness, unmoved and strangely unaffected. - -Once Tom did steal. That was while he still lived in -the city. The grandmother was ill at the time and he -himself was out of work. There was nothing to eat in -the house, and so he went into a harness shop on a side -street and stole a dollar and seventy-five cents out of -the cash drawer. - -The harness shop was run by an old man with a long -mustache. He saw the boy lurking about and thought -nothing of it. When he went out into the street to talk -to a teamster Tom opened the cash drawer and taking the -money walked away. Later he was caught and his -grandmother settled the matter by offering to come -twice a week for a month and scrub the shop. The boy -was ashamed, but he was rather glad, too. "It is all -right to be ashamed and makes me understand new -things," he said to the grandmother, who didn't know -what the boy was talking about but loved him so much -that it didn't matter whether she understood or not. - -For a year Tom Foster lived in the banker's stable and -then lost his place there. He didn't take very good -care of the horses and he was a constant source of -irritation to the banker's wife. She told him to mow -the lawn and he forgot. Then she sent him to the store -or to the post office and he did not come back but -joined a group of men and boys and spent the whole -afternoon with them, standing about, listening and -occasionally, when addressed, saying a few words. As in -the city in the houses of prostitution and with the -rowdy boys running through the streets at night, so in -Winesburg among its citizens he had always the power to -be a part of and yet distinctly apart from the life -about him. - -After Tom lost his place at Banker White's he did not -live with his grandmother, although often in the -evening she came to visit him. He rented a room at the -rear of a little frame building belonging to old Rufus -Whiting. The building was on Duane Street, just off -Main Street, and had been used for years as a law -office by the old man, who had become too feeble and -forgetful for the practice of his profession but did -not realize his inefficiency. He liked Tom and let him -have the room for a dollar a month. In the late -afternoon when the lawyer had gone home the boy had the -place to himself and spent hours lying on the floor by -the stove and thinking of things. In the evening the -grandmother came and sat in the lawyer's chair to smoke -a pipe while Tom remained silent, as he always did in -the presence of everyone. - -Often the old woman talked with great vigor. Sometimes -she was angry about some happening at the banker's -house and scolded away for hours. Out of her own -earnings she bought a mop and regularly scrubbed the -lawyer's office. Then when the place was spotlessly -clean and smelled clean she lighted her clay pipe and -she and Tom had a smoke together. "When you get ready -to die then I will die also," she said to the boy lying -on the floor beside her chair. - -Tom Foster enjoyed life in Winesburg. He did odd jobs, -such as cutting wood for kitchen stoves and mowing the -grass before houses. In late May and early June he -picked strawberries in the fields. He had time to loaf -and he enjoyed loafing. Banker White had given him a -cast-off coat which was too large for him, but his -grandmother cut it down, and he had also an overcoat, -got at the same place, that was lined with fur. The fur -was worn away in spots, but the coat was warm and in -the winter Tom slept in it. He thought his method of -getting along good enough and was happy and satisfied -with the way life in Winesburg had turned out for him. - -The most absurd little things made Tom Foster happy. -That, I suppose, was why people loved him. In Hern's -Grocery they would be roasting coffee on Friday -afternoon, preparatory to the Saturday rush of trade, -and the rich odor invaded lower Main Street. Tom Foster -appeared and sat on a box at the rear of the store. For -an hour he did not move but sat perfectly still, -filling his being with the spicy odor that made him -half drunk with happiness. "I like it," he said gently. -"It makes me think of things far away, places and -things like that." - -One night Tom Foster got drunk. That came about in a -curious way. He never had been drunk before, and indeed -in all his life had never taken a drink of anything -intoxicating, but he felt he needed to be drunk that -one time and so went and did it. - -In Cincinnati, when he lived there, Tom had found out -many things, things about ugliness and crime and lust. -Indeed, he knew more of these things than anyone else -in Winesburg. The matter of sex in particular had -presented itself to him in a quite horrible way and had -made a deep impression on his mind. He thought, after -what he had seen of the women standing before the -squalid houses on cold nights and the look he had seen -in the eyes of the men who stopped to talk to them, -that he would put sex altogether out of his own life. -One of the women of the neighborhood tempted him once -and he went into a room with her. He never forgot the -smell of the room nor the greedy look that came into -the eyes of the woman. It sickened him and in a very -terrible way left a scar on his soul. He had always -before thought of women as quite innocent things, much -like his grandmother, but after that one experience in -the room he dismissed women from his mind. So gentle -was his nature that he could not hate anything and not -being able to understand he decided to forget. - -And Tom did forget until he came to Winesburg. After he -had lived there for two years something began to stir -in him. On all sides he saw youth making love and he -was himself a youth. Before he knew what had happened -he was in love also. He fell in love with Helen White, -daughter of the man for whom he had worked, and found -himself thinking of her at night. - -That was a problem for Tom and he settled it in his own -way. He let himself think of Helen White whenever her -figure came into his mind and only concerned himself -with the manner of his thoughts. He had a fight, a -quiet determined little fight of his own, to keep his -desires in the channel where he thought they belonged, -but on the whole he was victorious. - -And then came the spring night when he got drunk. Tom -was wild on that night. He was like an innocent young -buck of the forest that has eaten of some maddening -weed. The thing began, ran its course, and was ended in -one night, and you may be sure that no one in Winesburg -was any the worse for Tom's outbreak. - -In the first place, the night was one to make a -sensitive nature drunk. The trees along the residence -streets of the town were all newly clothed in soft -green leaves, in the gardens behind the houses men were -puttering about in vegetable gardens, and in the air -there was a hush, a waiting kind of silence very -stirring to the blood. - -Tom left his room on Duane Street just as the young -night began to make itself felt. First he walked -through the streets, going softly and quietly along, -thinking thoughts that he tried to put into words. He -said that Helen White was a flame dancing in the air -and that he was a little tree without leaves standing -out sharply against the sky. Then he said that she was -a wind, a strong terrible wind, coming out of the -darkness of a stormy sea and that he was a boat left on -the shore of the sea by a fisherman. - -That idea pleased the boy and he sauntered along -playing with it. He went into Main Street and sat on -the curbing before Wacker's tobacco store. For an hour -he lingered about listening to the talk of men, but it -did not interest him much and he slipped away. Then he -decided to get drunk and went into Willy's saloon and -bought a bottle of whiskey. Putting the bottle into his -pocket, he walked out of town, wanting to be alone to -think more thoughts and to drink the whiskey. - -Tom got drunk sitting on a bank of new grass beside the -road about a mile north of town. Before him was a white -road and at his back an apple orchard in full bloom. He -took a drink out of the bottle and then lay down on the -grass. He thought of mornings in Winesburg and of how -the stones in the graveled driveway by Banker White's -house were wet with dew and glistened in the morning -light. He thought of the nights in the barn when it -rained and he lay awake hearing the drumming of the -raindrops and smelling the warm smell of horses and of -hay. Then he thought of a storm that had gone roaring -through Winesburg several days before and, his mind -going back, he relived the night he had spent on the -train with his grandmother when the two were coming -from Cincinnati. Sharply he remembered how strange it -had seemed to sit quietly in the coach and to feel the -power of the engine hurling the train along through the -night. - -Tom got drunk in a very short time. He kept taking -drinks from the bottle as the thoughts visited him and -when his head began to reel got up and walked along the -road going away from Winesburg. There was a bridge on -the road that ran out of Winesburg north to Lake Erie -and the drunken boy made his way along the road to the -bridge. There he sat down. He tried to drink again, but -when he had taken the cork out of the bottle he became -ill and put it quickly back. His head was rocking back -and forth and so he sat on the stone approach to the -bridge and sighed. His head seemed to be flying about -like a pinwheel and then projecting itself off into -space and his arms and legs flopped helplessly about. - -At eleven o'clock Tom got back into town. George -Willard found him wandering about and took him into the -Eagle printshop. Then he became afraid that the drunken -boy would make a mess on the floor and helped him into -the alleyway. - -The reporter was confused by Tom Foster. The drunken -boy talked of Helen White and said he had been with her -on the shore of a sea and had made love to her. George -had seen Helen White walking in the street with her -father during the evening and decided that Tom was out -of his head. A sentiment concerning Helen White that -lurked in his own heart flamed up and he became angry. -"Now you quit that," he said. "I won't let Helen -White's name be dragged into this. I won't let that -happen." He began shaking Tom's shoulder, trying to -make him understand. "You quit it," he said again. - -For three hours the two young men, thus strangely -thrown together, stayed in the printshop. When he had a -little recovered George took Tom for a walk. They went -into the country and sat on a log near the edge of a -wood. Something in the still night drew them together -and when the drunken boy's head began to clear they -talked. - -"It was good to be drunk," Tom Foster said. "It taught -me something. I won't have to do it again. I will think -more dearly after this. You see how it is." - -George Willard did not see, but his anger concerning -Helen White passed and he felt drawn toward the pale, -shaken boy as he had never before been drawn toward -anyone. With motherly solicitude, he insisted that Tom -get to his feet and walk about. Again they went back to -the printshop and sat in silence in the darkness. - -The reporter could not get the purpose of Tom Foster's -action straightened out in his mind. When Tom spoke -again of Helen White he again grew angry and began to -scold. "You quit that," he said sharply. "You haven't -been with her. What makes you say you have? What makes -you keep saying such things? Now you quit it, do you -hear?" - -Tom was hurt. He couldn't quarrel with George Willard -because he was incapable of quarreling, so he got up to -go away. When George Willard was insistent he put out -his hand, laying it on the older boy's arm, and tried -to explain. - -"Well," he said softly, "I don't know how it was. I was -happy. You see how that was. Helen White made me happy -and the night did too. I wanted to suffer, to be hurt -somehow. I thought that was what I should do. I wanted -to suffer, you see, because everyone suffers and does -wrong. I thought of a lot of things to do, but they -wouldn't work. They all hurt someone else." - -Tom Foster's voice arose, and for once in his life he -became almost excited. "It was like making love, that's -what I mean," he explained. "Don't you see how it is? -It hurt me to do what I did and made everything -strange. That's why I did it. I'm glad, too. It taught -me something, that's it, that's what I wanted. Don't -you understand? I wanted to learn things, you see. -That's why I did it." - - - - -DEATH - -The stairway leading up to Doctor Reefy's office, in -the Heffner Block above the Paris Dry Goods store, was -but dimly lighted. At the head of the stairway hung a -lamp with a dirty chimney that was fastened by a -bracket to the wall. The lamp had a tin reflector, -brown with rust and covered with dust. The people who -went up the stairway followed with their feet the feet -of many who had gone before. The soft boards of the -stairs had yielded under the pressure of feet and deep -hollows marked the way. - -At the top of the stairway a turn to the right brought -you to the doctor's door. To the left was a dark -hallway filled with rubbish. Old chairs, carpenter's -horses, step ladders and empty boxes lay in the -darkness waiting for shins to be barked. The pile of -rubbish belonged to the Paris Dry Goods Company. When a -counter or a row of shelves in the store became -useless, clerks carried it up the stairway and threw it -on the pile. - -Doctor Reefy's office was as large as a barn. A stove -with a round paunch sat in the middle of the room. -Around its base was piled sawdust, held in place by -heavy planks nailed to the floor. By the door stood a -huge table that had once been a part of the furniture -of Herrick's Clothing Store and that had been used for -displaying custom-made clothes. It was covered with -books, bottles, and surgical instruments. Near the edge -of the table lay three or four apples left by John -Spaniard, a tree nurseryman who was Doctor Reefy's -friend, and who had slipped the apples out of his -pocket as he came in at the door. - -At middle age Doctor Reefy was tall and awkward. The -grey beard he later wore had not yet appeared, but on -the upper lip grew a brown mustache. He was not a -graceful man, as when he grew older, and was much -occupied with the problem of disposing of his hands and -feet. - -On summer afternoons, when she had been married many -years and when her son George was a boy of twelve or -fourteen, Elizabeth Willard sometimes went up the worn -steps to Doctor Reefy's office. Already the woman's -naturally tall figure had begun to droop and to drag -itself listlessly about. Ostensibly she went to see the -doctor because of her health, but on the half dozen -occasions when she had been to see him the outcome of -the visits did not primarily concern her health. She -and the doctor talked of that but they talked most of -her life, of their two lives and of the ideas that had -come to them as they lived their lives in Winesburg. - -In the big empty office the man and the woman sat -looking at each other and they were a good deal alike. -Their bodies were different, as were also the color of -their eyes, the length of their noses, and the -circumstances of their existence, but something inside -them meant the same thing, wanted the same release, -would have left the same impression on the memory of an -onlooker. Later, and when he grew older and married a -young wife, the doctor often talked to her of the hours -spent with the sick woman and expressed a good many -things he had been unable to express to Elizabeth. He -was almost a poet in his old age and his notion of what -happened took a poetic turn. "I had come to the time in -my life when prayer became necessary and so I invented -gods and prayed to them," he said. "I did not say my -prayers in words nor did I kneel down but sat perfectly -still in my chair. In the late afternoon when it was -hot and quiet on Main Street or in the winter when the -days were gloomy, the gods came into the office and I -thought no one knew about them. Then I found that this -woman Elizabeth knew, that she worshipped also the same -gods. I have a notion that she came to the office -because she thought the gods would be there but she was -happy to find herself not alone just the same. It was -an experience that cannot be explained, although I -suppose it is always happening to men and women in all -sorts of places." - - * * * - -On the summer afternoons when Elizabeth and the doctor -sat in the office and talked of their two lives they -talked of other lives also. Sometimes the doctor made -philosophic epigrams. Then he chuckled with amusement. -Now and then after a period of silence, a word was said -or a hint given that strangely illuminated the life of -the speaker, a wish became a desire, or a dream, half -dead, flared suddenly into life. For the most part the -words came from the woman and she said them without -looking at the man. - -Each time she came to see the doctor the hotel keeper's -wife talked a little more freely and after an hour or -two in his presence went down the stairway into Main -Street feeling renewed and strengthened against the -dullness of her days. With something approaching a -girlhood swing to her body she walked along, but when -she had got back to her chair by the window of her room -and when darkness had come on and a girl from the hotel -dining room brought her dinner on a tray, she let it -grow cold. Her thoughts ran away to her girlhood with -its passionate longing for adventure and she remembered -the arms of men that had held her when adventure was a -possible thing for her. Particularly she remembered one -who had for a time been her lover and who in the moment -of his passion had cried out to her more than a hundred -times, saying the same words madly over and over: "You -dear! You dear! You lovely dear!" The words, she -thought, expressed something she would have liked to -have achieved in life. - -In her room in the shabby old hotel the sick wife of -the hotel keeper began to weep and, putting her hands -to her face, rocked back and forth. The words of her -one friend, Doctor Reefy, rang in her ears. "Love is -like a wind stirring the grass beneath trees on a black -night," he had said. "You must not try to make love -definite. It is the divine accident of life. If you try -to be definite and sure about it and to live beneath -the trees, where soft night winds blow, the long hot -day of disappointment comes swiftly and the gritty dust -from passing wagons gathers upon lips inflamed and made -tender by kisses." - -Elizabeth Willard could not remember her mother who had -died when she was but five years old. Her girlhood had -been lived in the most haphazard manner imaginable. Her -father was a man who had wanted to be let alone and the -affairs of the hotel would not let him alone. He also -had lived and died a sick man. Every day he arose with -a cheerful face, but by ten o'clock in the morning all -the joy had gone out of his heart. When a guest -complained of the fare in the hotel dining room or one -of the girls who made up the beds got married and went -away, he stamped on the floor and swore. At night when -he went to bed he thought of his daughter growing up -among the stream of people that drifted in and out of -the hotel and was overcome with sadness. As the girl -grew older and began to walk out in the evening with -men he wanted to talk to her, but when he tried was not -successful. He always forgot what he wanted to say and -spent the time complaining of his own affairs. - -In her girlhood and young womanhood Elizabeth had tried -to be a real adventurer in life. At eighteen life had -so gripped her that she was no longer a virgin but, -although she had a half dozen lovers before she married -Tom Willard, she had never entered upon an adventure -prompted by desire alone. Like all the women in the -world, she wanted a real lover. Always there was -something she sought blindly, passionately, some hidden -wonder in life. The tall beautiful girl with the -swinging stride who had walked under the trees with men -was forever putting out her hand into the darkness and -trying to get hold of some other hand. In all the -babble of words that fell from the lips of the men with -whom she adventured she was trying to find what would -be for her the true word. - -Elizabeth had married Tom Willard, a clerk in her -father's hotel, because he was at hand and wanted to -marry at the time when the determination to marry came -to her. For a while, like most young girls, she thought -marriage would change the face of life. If there was in -her mind a doubt of the outcome of the marriage with -Tom she brushed it aside. Her father was ill and near -death at the time and she was perplexed because of the -meaningless outcome of an affair in which she had just -been involved. Other girls of her age in Winesburg were -marrying men she had always known, grocery clerks or -young farmers. In the evening they walked in Main -Street with their husbands and when she passed they -smiled happily. She began to think that the fact of -marriage might be full of some hidden significance. -Young wives with whom she talked spoke softly and -shyly. "It changes things to have a man of your own," -they said. - -On the evening before her marriage the perplexed girl -had a talk with her father. Later she wondered if the -hours alone with the sick man had not led to her -decision to marry. The father talked of his life and -advised the daughter to avoid being led into another -such muddle. He abused Tom Willard, and that led -Elizabeth to come to the clerk's defense. The sick man -became excited and tried to get out of bed. When she -would not let him walk about he began to complain. -"I've never been let alone," he said. "Although I've -worked hard I've not made the hotel pay. Even now I owe -money at the bank. You'll find that out when I'm gone." - -The voice of the sick man became tense with -earnestness. Being unable to arise, he put out his hand -and pulled the girl's head down beside his own. -"There's a way out," he whispered. "Don't marry Tom -Willard or anyone else here in Winesburg. There is -eight hundred dollars in a tin box in my trunk. Take it -and go away." - -Again the sick man's voice became querulous. "You've -got to promise," he declared. "If you won't promise not -to marry, give me your word that you'll never tell Tom -about the money. It is mine and if I give it to you -I've the right to make that demand. Hide it away. It is -to make up to you for my failure as a father. Some time -it may prove to be a door, a great open door to you. -Come now, I tell you I'm about to die, give me your -promise." - - * * * - -In Doctor Reefy's office, Elizabeth, a tired gaunt old -woman at forty-one, sat in a chair near the stove and -looked at the floor. By a small desk near the window -sat the doctor. His hands played with a lead pencil -that lay on the desk. Elizabeth talked of her life as a -married woman. She became impersonal and forgot her -husband, only using him as a lay figure to give point -to her tale. "And then I was married and it did not -turn out at all," she said bitterly. "As soon as I had -gone into it I began to be afraid. Perhaps I knew too -much before and then perhaps I found out too much -during my first night with him. I don't remember. - -"What a fool I was. When father gave me the money and -tried to talk me out of the thought of marriage, I -would not listen. I thought of what the girls who were -married had said of it and I wanted marriage also. It -wasn't Tom I wanted, it was marriage. When father went -to sleep I leaned out of the window and thought of the -life I had led. I didn't want to be a bad woman. The -town was full of stories about me. I even began to be -afraid Tom would change his mind." - -The woman's voice began to quiver with excitement. To -Doctor Reefy, who without realizing what was happening -had begun to love her, there came an odd illusion. He -thought that as she talked the woman's body was -changing, that she was becoming younger, straighter, -stronger. When he could not shake off the illusion his -mind gave it a professional twist. "It is good for both -her body and her mind, this talking," he muttered. - -The woman began telling of an incident that had -happened one afternoon a few months after her marriage. -Her voice became steadier. "In the late afternoon I -went for a drive alone," she said. "I had a buggy and a -little grey pony I kept in Moyer's Livery. Tom was -painting and repapering rooms in the hotel. He wanted -money and I was trying to make up my mind to tell him -about the eight hundred dollars father had given to me. -I couldn't decide to do it. I didn't like him well -enough. There was always paint on his hands and face -during those days and he smelled of paint. He was -trying to fix up the old hotel, and make it new and -smart." - -The excited woman sat up very straight in her chair and -made a quick girlish movement with her hand as she told -of the drive alone on the spring afternoon. "It was -cloudy and a storm threatened," she said. "Black clouds -made the green of the trees and the grass stand out so -that the colors hurt my eyes. I went out Trunion Pike a -mile or more and then turned into a side road. The -little horse went quickly along up hill and down. I was -impatient. Thoughts came and I wanted to get away from -my thoughts. I began to beat the horse. The black -clouds settled down and it began to rain. I wanted to -go at a terrible speed, to drive on and on forever. I -wanted to get out of town, out of my clothes, out of my -marriage, out of my body, out of everything. I almost -killed the horse, making him run, and when he could not -run any more I got out of the buggy and ran afoot into -the darkness until I fell and hurt my side. I wanted to -run away from everything but I wanted to run towards -something too. Don't you see, dear, how it was?" - -Elizabeth sprang out of the chair and began to walk -about in the office. She walked as Doctor Reefy thought -he had never seen anyone walk before. To her whole body -there was a swing, a rhythm that intoxicated him. When -she came and knelt on the floor beside his chair he -took her into his arms and began to kiss her -passionately. "I cried all the way home," she said, as -she tried to continue the story of her wild ride, but -he did not listen. "You dear! You lovely dear! Oh you -lovely dear!" he muttered and thought he held in his -arms not the tired-out woman of forty-one but a lovely -and innocent girl who had been able by some miracle to -project herself out of the husk of the body of the -tired-out woman. - -Doctor Reefy did not see the woman he had held in his -arms again until after her death. On the summer -afternoon in the office when he was on the point of -becoming her lover a half grotesque little incident -brought his love-making quickly to an end. As the man -and woman held each other tightly heavy feet came -tramping up the office stairs. The two sprang to their -feet and stood listening and trembling. The noise on -the stairs was made by a clerk from the Paris Dry Goods -Company. With a loud bang he threw an empty box on the -pile of rubbish in the hallway and then went heavily -down the stairs. Elizabeth followed him almost -immediately. The thing that had come to life in her as -she talked to her one friend died suddenly. She was -hysterical, as was also Doctor Reefy, and did not want -to continue the talk. Along the street she went with -the blood still singing in her body, but when she -turned out of Main Street and saw ahead the lights of -the New Willard House, she began to tremble and her -knees shook so that for a moment she thought she would -fall in the street. - -The sick woman spent the last few months of her life -hungering for death. Along the road of death she went, -seeking, hungering. She personified the figure of death -and made him now a strong black-haired youth running -over hills, now a stern quiet man marked and scarred by -the business of living. In the darkness of her room she -put out her hand, thrusting it from under the covers of -her bed, and she thought that death like a living thing -put out his hand to her. "Be patient, lover," she -whispered. "Keep yourself young and beautiful and be -patient." - -On the evening when disease laid its heavy hand upon -her and defeated her plans for telling her son George -of the eight hundred dollars hidden away, she got out -of bed and crept half across the room pleading with -death for another hour of life. "Wait, dear! The boy! -The boy! The boy!" she pleaded as she tried with all of -her strength to fight off the arms of the lover she had -wanted so earnestly. - - * * * - -Elizabeth died one day in March in the year when her -son George became eighteen, and the young man had but -little sense of the meaning of her death. Only time -could give him that. For a month he had seen her lying -white and still and speechless in her bed, and then one -afternoon the doctor stopped him in the hallway and -said a few words. - -The young man went into his own room and closed the -door. He had a queer empty feeling in the region of his -stomach. For a moment he sat staring at, the floor and -then jumping up went for a walk. Along the station -platform he went, and around through residence streets -past the high-school building, thinking almost entirely -of his own affairs. The notion of death could not get -hold of him and he was in fact a little annoyed that -his mother had died on that day. He had just received a -note from Helen White, the daughter of the town banker, -in answer to one from him. "Tonight I could have gone -to see her and now it will have to be put off," he -thought half angrily. - -Elizabeth died on a Friday afternoon at three o'clock. -It had been cold and rainy in the morning but in the -afternoon the sun came out. Before she died she lay -paralyzed for six days unable to speak or move and with -only her mind and her eyes alive. For three of the six -days she struggled, thinking of her boy, trying to say -some few words in regard to his future, and in her eyes -there was an appeal so touching that all who saw it -kept the memory of the dying woman in their minds for -years. Even Tom Willard, who had always half resented -his wife, forgot his resentment and the tears ran out -of his eyes and lodged in his mustache. The mustache -had begun to turn grey and Tom colored it with dye. -There was oil in the preparation he used for the -purpose and the tears, catching in the mustache and -being brushed away by his hand, formed a fine mist-like -vapor. In his grief Tom Willard's face looked like the -face of a little dog that has been out a long time in -bitter weather. - -George came home along Main Street at dark on the day -of his mother's death and, after going to his own room -to brush his hair and clothes, went along the hallway -and into the room where the body lay. There was a -candle on the dressing table by the door and Doctor -Reefy sat in a chair by the bed. The doctor arose and -started to go out. He put out his hand as though to -greet the younger man and then awkwardly drew it back -again. The air of the room was heavy with the presence -of the two self-conscious human beings, and the man -hurried away. - -The dead woman's son sat down in a chair and looked at -the floor. He again thought of his own affairs and -definitely decided he would make a change in his life, -that he would leave Winesburg. "I will go to some city. -Perhaps I can get a job on some newspaper," he thought, -and then his mind turned to the girl with whom he was -to have spent this evening and again he was half angry -at the turn of events that had prevented his going to -her. - -In the dimly lighted room with the dead woman the young -man began to have thoughts. His mind played with -thoughts of life as his mother's mind had played with -the thought of death. He closed his eyes and imagined -that the red young lips of Helen White touched his own -lips. His body trembled and his hands shook. And then -something happened. The boy sprang to his feet and -stood stiffly. He looked at the figure of the dead -woman under the sheets and shame for his thoughts swept -over him so that he began to weep. A new notion came -into his mind and he turned and looked guiltily about -as though afraid he would be observed. - -George Willard became possessed of a madness to lift -the sheet from the body of his mother and look at her -face. The thought that had come into his mind gripped -him terribly. He became convinced that not his mother -but someone else lay in the bed before him. The -conviction was so real that it was almost unbearable. -The body under the sheets was long and in death looked -young and graceful. To the boy, held by some strange -fancy, it was unspeakably lovely. The feeling that the -body before him was alive, that in another moment a -lovely woman would spring out of the bed and confront -him, became so overpowering that he could not bear the -suspense. Again and again he put out his hand. Once he -touched and half lifted the white sheet that covered -her, but his courage failed and he, like Doctor Reefy, -turned and went out of the room. In the hallway outside -the door he stopped and trembled so that he had to put -a hand against the wall to support himself. "That's not -my mother. That's not my mother in there," he whispered -to himself and again his body shook with fright and -uncertainty. When Aunt Elizabeth Swift, who had come to -watch over the body, came out of an adjoining room he -put his hand into hers and began to sob, shaking his -head from side to side, half blind with grief. "My -mother is dead," he said, and then forgetting the woman -he turned and stared at the door through which he had -just come. "The dear, the dear, oh the lovely dear," -the boy, urged by some impulse outside himself, -muttered aloud. - -As for the eight hundred dollars the dead woman had -kept hidden so long and that was to give George Willard -his start in the city, it lay in the tin box behind the -plaster by the foot of his mother's bed. Elizabeth had -put it there a week after her marriage, breaking the -plaster away with a stick. Then she got one of the -workmen her husband was at that time employing about -the hotel to mend the wall. "I jammed the corner of the -bed against it," she had explained to her husband, -unable at the moment to give up her dream of release, -the release that after all came to her but twice in her -life, in the moments when her lovers Death and Doctor -Reefy held her in their arms. - - - - -SOPHISTICATION - -It was early evening of a day in the late fall and the -Winesburg County Fair had brought crowds of country -people into town. The day had been clear and the night -came on warm and pleasant. On the Trunion Pike, where -the road after it left town stretched away between -berry fields now covered with dry brown leaves, the -dust from passing wagons arose in clouds. Children, -curled into little balls, slept on the straw scattered -on wagon beds. Their hair was full of dust and their -fingers black and sticky. The dust rolled away over the -fields and the departing sun set it ablaze with colors. - -In the main street of Winesburg crowds filled the -stores and the sidewalks. Night came on, horses -whinnied, the clerks in the stores ran madly about, -children became lost and cried lustily, an American -town worked terribly at the task of amusing itself. - -Pushing his way through the crowds in Main Street, -young George Willard concealed himself in the stairway -leading to Doctor Reefy's office and looked at the -people. With feverish eyes he watched the faces -drifting past under the store lights. Thoughts kept -coming into his head and he did not want to think. He -stamped impatiently on the wooden steps and looked -sharply about. "Well, is she going to stay with him all -day? Have I done all this waiting for nothing?" he -muttered. - -George Willard, the Ohio village boy, was fast growing -into manhood and new thoughts had been coming into his -mind. All that day, amid the jam of people at the Fair, -he had gone about feeling lonely. He was about to leave -Winesburg to go away to some city where he hoped to get -work on a city newspaper and he felt grown up. The mood -that had taken possession of him was a thing known to -men and unknown to boys. He felt old and a little -tired. Memories awoke in him. To his mind his new sense -of maturity set him apart, made of him a half-tragic -figure. He wanted someone to understand the feeling -that had taken possession of him after his mother's -death. - -There is a time in the life of every boy when he for -the first time takes the backward view of life. Perhaps -that is the moment when he crosses the line into -manhood. The boy is walking through the street of his -town. He is thinking of the future and of the figure he -will cut in the world. Ambitions and regrets awake -within him. Suddenly something happens; he stops under -a tree and waits as for a voice calling his name. -Ghosts of old things creep into his consciousness; the -voices outside of himself whisper a message concerning -the limitations of life. From being quite sure of -himself and his future he becomes not at all sure. If -he be an imaginative boy a door is torn open and for the -first time he looks out upon the world, seeing, as -though they marched in procession before him, the -countless figures of men who before his time have come -out of nothingness into the world, lived their lives -and again disappeared into nothingness. The sadness of -sophistication has come to the boy. With a little gasp -he sees himself as merely a leaf blown by the wind -through the streets of his village. He knows that in -spite of all the stout talk of his fellows he must live -and die in uncertainty, a thing blown by the winds, a -thing destined like corn to wilt in the sun. He shivers -and looks eagerly about. The eighteen years he has -lived seem but a moment, a breathing space in the long -march of humanity. Already he hears death calling. With -all his heart he wants to come close to some other -human, touch someone with his hands, be touched by the -hand of another. If he prefers that the other be a -woman, that is because he believes that a woman will be -gentle, that she will understand. He wants, most of -all, understanding. - -When the moment of sophistication came to George -Willard his mind turned to Helen White, the Winesburg -banker's daughter. Always he had been conscious of the -girl growing into womanhood as he grew into manhood. -Once on a summer night when he was eighteen, he had -walked with her on a country road and in her presence -had given way to an impulse to boast, to make himself -appear big and significant in her eyes. Now he wanted -to see her for another purpose. He wanted to tell her -of the new impulses that had come to him. He had tried -to make her think of him as a man when he knew nothing -of manhood and now he wanted to be with her and to try -to make her feel the change he believed had taken place -in his nature. - -As for Helen White, she also had come to a period of -change. What George felt, she in her young woman's way -felt also. She was no longer a girl and hungered to -reach into the grace and beauty of womanhood. She had -come home from Cleveland, where she was attending -college, to spend a day at the Fair. She also had begun -to have memories. During the day she sat in the -grand-stand with a young man, one of the instructors -from the college, who was a guest of her mother's. The -young man was of a pedantic turn of mind and she felt -at once he would not do for her purpose. At the Fair -she was glad to be seen in his company as he was well -dressed and a stranger. She knew that the fact of his -presence would create an impression. During the day she -was happy, but when night came on she began to grow -restless. She wanted to drive the instructor away, to -get out of his presence. While they sat together in the -grand-stand and while the eyes of former schoolmates -were upon them, she paid so much attention to her -escort that he grew interested. "A scholar needs money. -I should marry a woman with money," he mused. - -Helen White was thinking of George Willard even as he -wandered gloomily through the crowds thinking of her. -She remembered the summer evening when they had walked -together and wanted to walk with him again. She thought -that the months she had spent in the city, the going to -theaters and the seeing of great crowds wandering in -lighted thoroughfares, had changed her profoundly. She -wanted him to feel and be conscious of the change in -her nature. - -The summer evening together that had left its mark on -the memory of both the young man and woman had, when -looked at quite sensibly, been rather stupidly spent. -They had walked out of town along a country road. Then -they had stopped by a fence near a field of young corn -and George had taken off his coat and let it hang on -his arm. "Well, I've stayed here in -Winesburg--yes--I've not yet gone away but I'm growing -up," he had said. "I've been reading books and I've -been thinking. I'm going to try to amount to something -in life. - -"Well," he explained, "that isn't the point. Perhaps -I'd better quit talking." - -The confused boy put his hand on the girl's arm. His -voice trembled. The two started to walk back along the -road toward town. In his desperation George boasted, -"I'm going to be a big man, the biggest that ever lived -here in Winesburg," he declared. "I want you to do -something, I don't know what. Perhaps it is none of my -business. I want you to try to be different from other -women. You see the point. It's none of my business I -tell you. I want you to be a beautiful woman. You see -what I want." - -The boy's voice failed and in silence the two came back -into town and went along the street to Helen White's -house. At the gate he tried to say something -impressive. Speeches he had thought out came into his -head, but they seemed utterly pointless. "I thought--I -used to think--I had it in my mind you would marry Seth -Richmond. Now I know you won't," was all he could find -to say as she went through the gate and toward the door -of her house. - -On the warm fall evening as he stood in the stairway -and looked at the crowd drifting through Main Street, -George thought of the talk beside the field of young -corn and was ashamed of the figure he had made of -himself. In the street the people surged up and down -like cattle confined in a pen. Buggies and wagons -almost filled the narrow thoroughfare. A band played -and small boys raced along the sidewalk, diving between -the legs of men. Young men with shining red faces -walked awkwardly about with girls on their arms. In a -room above one of the stores, where a dance was to be -held, the fiddlers tuned their instruments. The broken -sounds floated down through an open window and out -across the murmur of voices and the loud blare of the -horns of the band. The medley of sounds got on young -Willard's nerves. Everywhere, on all sides, the sense -of crowding, moving life closed in about him. He wanted -to run away by himself and think. "If she wants to stay -with that fellow she may. Why should I care? What -difference does it make to me?" he growled and went -along Main Street and through Hern's Grocery into a -side street. - -George felt so utterly lonely and dejected that he -wanted to weep but pride made him walk rapidly along, -swinging his arms. He came to Wesley Moyer's livery -barn and stopped in the shadows to listen to a group of -men who talked of a race Wesley's stallion, Tony Tip, -had won at the Fair during the afternoon. A crowd had -gathered in front of the barn and before the crowd -walked Wesley, prancing up and down boasting. He held a -whip in his hand and kept tapping the ground. Little -puffs of dust arose in the lamplight. "Hell, quit your -talking," Wesley exclaimed. "I wasn't afraid, I knew I -had 'em beat all the time. I wasn't afraid." - -Ordinarily George Willard would have been intensely -interested in the boasting of Moyer, the horseman. Now -it made him angry. He turned and hurried away along the -street. "Old windbag," he sputtered. "Why does he want -to be bragging? Why don't he shut up?" - -George went into a vacant lot and, as he hurried along, -fell over a pile of rubbish. A nail protruding from an -empty barrel tore his trousers. He sat down on the -ground and swore. With a pin he mended the torn place -and then arose and went on. "I'll go to Helen White's -house, that's what I'll do. I'll walk right in. I'll -say that I want to see her. I'll walk right in and sit -down, that's what I'll do," he declared, climbing over -a fence and beginning to run. - - * * * - -On the veranda of Banker White's house Helen was -restless and distraught. The instructor sat between the -mother and daughter. His talk wearied the girl. -Although he had also been raised in an Ohio town, the -instructor began to put on the airs of the city. He -wanted to appear cosmopolitan. "I like the chance you -have given me to study the background out of which most -of our girls come," he declared. "It was good of you, -Mrs. White, to have me down for the day." He turned to -Helen and laughed. "Your life is still bound up with -the life of this town?" he asked. "There are people -here in whom you are interested?" To the girl his voice -sounded pompous and heavy. - -Helen arose and went into the house. At the door -leading to a garden at the back she stopped and stood -listening. Her mother began to talk. "There is no one -here fit to associate with a girl of Helen's breeding," -she said. - -Helen ran down a flight of stairs at the back of the -house and into the garden. In the darkness she stopped -and stood trembling. It seemed to her that the world -was full of meaningless people saying words. Afire with -eagerness she ran through a garden gate and, turning a -corner by the banker's barn, went into a little side -street. "George! Where are you, George?" she cried, -filled with nervous excitement. She stopped running, -and leaned against a tree to laugh hysterically. Along -the dark little street came George Willard, still -saying words. "I'm going to walk right into her house. -I'll go right in and sit down," he declared as he came -up to her. He stopped and stared stupidly. "Come on," -he said and took hold of her hand. With hanging heads -they walked away along the street under the trees. Dry -leaves rustled under foot. Now that he had found her -George wondered what he had better do and say. - - * * * - -At the upper end of the Fair Ground, in Winesburg, -there is a half decayed old grand-stand. It has never -been painted and the boards are all warped out of -shape. The Fair Ground stands on top of a low hill -rising out of the valley of Wine Creek and from the -grand-stand one can see at night, over a cornfield, the -lights of the town reflected against the sky. - -George and Helen climbed the hill to the Fair Ground, -coming by the path past Waterworks Pond. The feeling of -loneliness and isolation that had come to the young man -in the crowded streets of his town was both broken and -intensified by the presence of Helen. What he felt was -reflected in her. - -In youth there are always two forces fighting in -people. The warm unthinking little animal struggles -against the thing that reflects and remembers, and the -older, the more sophisticated thing had possession of -George Willard. Sensing his mood, Helen walked beside -him filled with respect. When they got to the -grand-stand they climbed up under the roof and sat down -on one of the long bench-like seats. - -There is something memorable in the experience to be -had by going into a fair ground that stands at the edge -of a Middle Western town on a night after the annual -fair has been held. The sensation is one never to be -forgotten. On all sides are ghosts, not of the dead, -but of living people. Here, during the day just passed, -have come the people pouring in from the town and the -country around. Farmers with their wives and children -and all the people from the hundreds of little frame -houses have gathered within these board walls. Young -girls have laughed and men with beards have talked of -the affairs of their lives. The place has been filled -to overflowing with life. It has itched and squirmed -with life and now it is night and the life has all gone -away. The silence is almost terrifying. One conceals -oneself standing silently beside the trunk of a tree -and what there is of a reflective tendency in his -nature is intensified. One shudders at the thought of -the meaninglessness of life while at the same instant, -and if the people of the town are his people, one loves -life so intensely that tears come into the eyes. - -In the darkness under the roof of the grand-stand, -George Willard sat beside Helen White and felt very -keenly his own insignificance in the scheme of -existence. Now that he had come out of town where the -presence of the people stirring about, busy with a -multitude of affairs, had been so irritating, the -irritation was all gone. The presence of Helen renewed -and refreshed him. It was as though her woman's hand -was assisting him to make some minute readjustment of -the machinery of his life. He began to think of the -people in the town where he had always lived with -something like reverence. He had reverence for Helen. -He wanted to love and to be loved by her, but he did -not want at the moment to be confused by her womanhood. -In the darkness he took hold of her hand and when she -crept close put a hand on her shoulder. A wind began to -blow and he shivered. With all his strength he tried to -hold and to understand the mood that had come upon him. -In that high place in the darkness the two oddly -sensitive human atoms held each other tightly and -waited. In the mind of each was the same thought. "I -have come to this lonely place and here is this other," -was the substance of the thing felt. - -In Winesburg the crowded day had run itself out into -the long night of the late fall. Farm horses jogged -away along lonely country roads pulling their portion -of weary people. Clerks began to bring samples of goods -in off the sidewalks and lock the doors of stores. In -the Opera House a crowd had gathered to see a show and -further down Main Street the fiddlers, their -instruments tuned, sweated and worked to keep the feet -of youth flying over a dance floor. - -In the darkness in the grand-stand Helen White and -George Willard remained silent. Now and then the spell -that held them was broken and they turned and tried in -the dim light to see into each other's eyes. They -kissed but that impulse did not last. At the upper end -of the Fair Ground a half dozen men worked over horses -that had raced during the afternoon. The men had built -a fire and were heating kettles of water. Only their -legs could be seen as they passed back and forth in the -light. When the wind blew the little flames of the fire -danced crazily about. - -George and Helen arose and walked away into the -darkness. They went along a path past a field of corn -that had not yet been cut. The wind whispered among the -dry corn blades. For a moment during the walk back into -town the spell that held them was broken. When they had -come to the crest of Waterworks Hill they stopped by a -tree and George again put his hands on the girl's -shoulders. She embraced him eagerly and then again they -drew quickly back from that impulse. They stopped -kissing and stood a little apart. Mutual respect grew -big in them. They were both embarrassed and to relieve -their embarrassment dropped into the animalism of -youth. They laughed and began to pull and haul at each -other. In some way chastened and purified by the mood -they had been in, they became, not man and woman, not -boy and girl, but excited little animals. - -It was so they went down the hill. In the darkness -they played like two splendid young things in a young -world. Once, running swiftly forward, Helen tripped -George and he fell. He squirmed and shouted. Shaking -with laughter, he roiled down the hill. Helen ran after -him. For just a moment she stopped in the darkness. -There was no way of knowing what woman's thoughts went -through her mind but, when the bottom of the hill was -reached and she came up to the boy, she took his arm -and walked beside him in dignified silence. For some -reason they could not have explained they had both got -from their silent evening together the thing needed. -Man or boy, woman or girl, they had for a moment taken -hold of the thing that makes the mature life of men and -women in the modern world possible. - - - -DEPARTURE - -Young George Willard got out of bed at four in the -morning. It was April and the young tree leaves were -just coming out of their buds. The trees along the -residence streets in Winesburg are maple and the seeds -are winged. When the wind blows they whirl crazily -about, filling the air and making a carpet underfoot. - -George came downstairs into the hotel office carrying a -brown leather bag. His trunk was packed for departure. -Since two o'clock he had been awake thinking of the -journey he was about to take and wondering what he -would find at the end of his journey. The boy who slept -in the hotel office lay on a cot by the door. His mouth -was open and he snored lustily. George crept past the -cot and went out into the silent deserted main street. -The east was pink with the dawn and long streaks of -light climbed into the sky where a few stars still -shone. - -Beyond the last house on Trunion Pike in Winesburg -there is a great stretch of open fields. The fields are -owned by farmers who live in town and drive homeward at -evening along Trunion Pike in light creaking wagons. In -the fields are planted berries and small fruits. In the -late afternoon in the hot summers when the road and the -fields are covered with dust, a smoky haze lies over -the great flat basin of land. To look across it is like -looking out across the sea. In the spring when the land -is green the effect is somewhat different. The land -becomes a wide green billiard table on which tiny human -insects toil up and down. - -All through his boyhood and young manhood George -Willard had been in the habit of walking on Trunion -Pike. He had been in the midst of the great open place -on winter nights when it was covered with snow and only -the moon looked down at him; he had been there in the -fall when bleak winds blew and on summer evenings when -the air vibrated with the song of insects. On the April -morning he wanted to go there again, to walk again in -the silence. He did walk to where the road dipped down -by a little stream two miles from town and then turned -and walked silently back again. When he got to Main -Street clerks were sweeping the sidewalks before the -stores. "Hey, you George. How does it feel to be going -away?" they asked. - -The westbound train leaves Winesburg at seven -forty-five in the morning. Tom Little is conductor. His -train runs from Cleveland to where it connects with a -great trunk line railroad with terminals in Chicago and -New York. Tom has what in railroad circles is called an -"easy run." Every evening he returns to his family. In -the fall and spring he spends his Sundays fishing in -Lake Erie. He has a round red face and small blue eyes. -He knows the people in the towns along his railroad -better than a city man knows the people who live in his -apartment building. - -George came down the little incline from the New -Willard House at seven o'clock. Tom Willard carried his -bag. The son had become taller than the father. - -On the station platform everyone shook the young man's -hand. More than a dozen people waited about. Then they -talked of their own affairs. Even Will Henderson, who -was lazy and often slept until nine, had got out of -bed. George was embarrassed. Gertrude Wilmot, a tall -thin woman of fifty who worked in the Winesburg post -office, came along the station platform. She had never -before paid any attention to George. Now she stopped -and put out her hand. In two words she voiced what -everyone felt. "Good luck," she said sharply and then -turning went on her way. - -When the train came into the station George felt -relieved. He scampered hurriedly aboard. Helen White -came running along Main Street hoping to have a parting -word with him, but he had found a seat and did not see -her. When the train started Tom Little punched his -ticket, grinned and, although he knew George well and -knew on what adventure he was just setting out, made no -comment. Tom had seen a thousand George Willards go out -of their towns to the city. It was a commonplace enough -incident with him. In the smoking car there was a man -who had just invited Tom to go on a fishing trip to -Sandusky Bay. He wanted to accept the invitation and -talk over details. - -George glanced up and down the car to be sure no one -was looking, then took out his pocket-book and counted -his money. His mind was occupied with a desire not to -appear green. Almost the last words his father had said -to him concerned the matter of his behavior when he got -to the city. "Be a sharp one," Tom Willard had said. -"Keep your eyes on your money. Be awake. That's the -ticket. Don't let anyone think you're a greenhorn." - -After George counted his money he looked out of the -window and was surprised to see that the train was -still in Winesburg. - -The young man, going out of his town to meet the -adventure of life, began to think but he did not think -of anything very big or dramatic. Things like his -mother's death, his departure from Winesburg, the -uncertainty of his future life in the city, the serious -and larger aspects of his life did not come into his -mind. - -He thought of little things--Turk Smollet wheeling -boards through the main street of his town in the -morning, a tall woman, beautifully gowned, who had once -stayed overnight at his father's hotel, Butch Wheeler -the lamp lighter of Winesburg hurrying through the -streets on a summer evening and holding a torch in his -hand, Helen White standing by a window in the Winesburg -post office and putting a stamp on an envelope. - -The young man's mind was carried away by his growing -passion for dreams. One looking at him would not have -thought him particularly sharp. With the recollection -of little things occupying his mind he closed his eyes -and leaned back in the car seat. He stayed that way for -a long time and when he aroused himself and again -looked out of the car window the town of Winesburg had -disappeared and his life there had become but a -background on which to paint the dreams of his manhood. - - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Winesburg, Ohio, by Sherwood Anderson - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WINESBURG, OHIO *** - -***** This file should be named 416.txt or 416.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - https://www.gutenberg.org/4/1/416/ - -This etext was created by Judith Boss, Omaha, Nebraska. - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.04.29.93*END* - - - - - -SHERWOOD ANDERSON - -Winesburg, Ohio - - - - - -CONTENTS - - - - -INTRODUCTION by Irving Howe - -THE TALES AND THE PERSONS - - -THE BOOK OF THE GROTESQUE - -HANDS, concerning Wing Biddlebaum - -PAPER PILLS, concerning Doctor Reefy - -MOTHER, concerning Elizabeth Willard - -THE PHILOSOPHER, concerning Doctor Parcival - -NOBODY KNOWS, concerning Louise Trunnion - -GODLINESS, a Tale in Four Parts - I, concerning Jesse Bentley - II, also concerning Jesse Bentley - III Surrender, concerning Louise Bentley - IV Terror, concerning David Hardy - -A MAN OF IDEAS, concerning Joe Welling - -ADVENTURE, concerning Alice Hindman - -RESPECTABILITY, concerning Wash Williams - -THE THINKER, concerning Seth Richmond - -TANDY, concerning Tandy Hard - -THE STRENGTH OF GOD, concerning the - Reverend Curtis Hartman - -THE TEACHER, concerning Kate Swift - -LONELINESS, concerning Enoch Robinson - -AN AWAKENING, concerning Belle Carpenter - -"QUEER," concerning Elmer Cowley - -THE UNTOLD LIE, concerning Ray Pearson - -DRINK, concerning Tom Foster - -DEATH, concerning Doctor Reefy - and Elizabeth Willard - -SOPHISTICATION, concerning Helen White - -DEPARTURE, concerning George Willard - - -INTRODUCTION - -by Irving Howe - - -I must have been no more than fifteen or sixteen -years old when I first chanced upon Winesburg, Ohio. -Gripped by these stories and sketches of Sherwood -Anderson's small-town "grotesques," I felt that he -was opening for me new depths of experience, -touching upon half-buried truths which nothing in -my young life had prepared me for. A New York -City boy who never saw the crops grow or spent -time in the small towns that lay sprinkled across -America, I found myself overwhelmed by the scenes -of wasted life, wasted love--was this the "real" -America?--that Anderson sketched in Winesburg. In -those days only one other book seemed to offer so -powerful a revelation, and that was Thomas Hardy's -Jude the Obscure. - -Several years later, as I was about to go overseas -as a soldier, I spent my last weekend pass on a -somewhat quixotic journey to Clyde, Ohio, the town -upon which Winesburg was partly modeled. Clyde -looked, I suppose, not very different from most -other American towns, and the few of its residents -I tried to engage in talk about Anderson seemed -quite uninterested. This indifference would not have -surprised him; it certainly should not surprise any- -one who reads his book. - -Once freed from the army, I started to write liter- -ary criticism, and in 1951 I published a critical biog- -raphy of Anderson. It came shortly after Lionel -Trilling's influential essay attacking Anderson, an at- -tack from which Anderson's reputation would never -quite recover. Trilling charged Anderson with in- -dulging a vaporous sentimentalism, a kind of vague -emotional meandering in stories that lacked social -or spiritual solidity. There was a certain cogency in -Trilling's attack, at least with regard to Anderson's -inferior work, most of which he wrote after Wines- -burg, Ohio. In my book I tried, somewhat awk- -wardly, to bring together the kinds of judgment -Trilling had made with my still keen affection for -the best of Anderson's writings. By then, I had read -writers more complex, perhaps more distinguished -than Anderson, but his muted stories kept a firm -place in my memories, and the book I wrote might -be seen as a gesture of thanks for the light--a glow -of darkness, you might say--that he had brought to me. - -Decades passed. I no longer read Anderson, per- -haps fearing I might have to surrender an admira- -tion of youth. (There are some writers one should -never return to.) But now, in the fullness of age, -when asked to say a few introductory words about -Anderson and his work, I have again fallen under -the spell of Winesburg, Ohio, again responded to the -half-spoken desires, the flickers of longing that spot -its pages. Naturally, I now have some changes of -response: a few of the stories no longer haunt me -as once they did, but the long story "Godliness," -which years ago I considered a failure, I now see -as a quaintly effective account of the way religious -fanaticism and material acquisitiveness can become -intertwined in American experience. - - -Sherwood Anderson was born in Ohio in 1876. -His childhood and youth in Clyde, a town with per- -haps three thousand souls, were scarred by bouts of -poverty, but he also knew some of the pleasures -of pre-industrial American society. The country was -then experiencing what he would later call "a sud- -den and almost universal turning of men from the -old handicrafts towards our modern life of ma- -chines." There were still people in Clyde who re- -membered the frontier, and like America itself, the -town lived by a mixture of diluted Calvinism and a -strong belief in "progress," Young Sherwood, known -as "Jobby"--the boy always ready to work--showed -the kind of entrepreneurial spirit that Clyde re- -spected: folks expected him to become a "go-getter," -And for a time he did. Moving to Chicago in his -early twenties, he worked in an advertising agency -where he proved adept at turning out copy. "I create -nothing, I boost, I boost," he said about himself, -even as, on the side, he was trying to write short stories. - -In 1904 Anderson married and three years later -moved to Elyria, a town forty miles west of Cleve- -land, where he established a firm that sold paint. "I -was going to be a rich man.... Next year a bigger -house; and after that, presumably, a country estate." -Later he would say about his years in Elyria, "I was -a good deal of a Babbitt, but never completely one." -Something drove him to write, perhaps one of those -shapeless hungers--a need for self-expression? a -wish to find a more authentic kind of experience?-- -that would become a recurrent motif in his fiction. - -And then, in 1912, occurred the great turning -point in Anderson's life. Plainly put, he suffered a -nervous breakdown, though in his memoirs he -would elevate this into a moment of liberation in -which he abandoned the sterility of commerce and -turned to the rewards of literature. Nor was this, I -believe, merely a deception on Anderson's part, -since the breakdown painful as it surely was, did -help precipitate a basic change in his life. At the -age of 36, he left behind his business and moved to -Chicago, becoming one of the rebellious writers and -cultural bohemians in the group that has since come -to be called the "Chicago Renaissance." Anderson -soon adopted the posture of a free, liberated spirit, -and like many writers of the time, he presented him- -self as a sardonic critic of American provincialism -and materialism. It was in the freedom of the city, -in its readiness to put up with deviant styles of life, -that Anderson found the strength to settle accounts -with--but also to release his affection for--the world -of small-town America. The dream of an uncondi- -tional personal freedom, that hazy American version -of utopia, would remain central throughout Anderson's -life and work. It was an inspiration; it was a delusion. - -In 1916 and 1917 Anderson published two novels -mostly written in Elyria, Windy McPherson's Son and -Marching Men, both by now largely forgotten. They -show patches of talent but also a crudity of thought -and unsteadiness of language. No one reading these -novels was likely to suppose that its author could -soon produce anything as remarkable as Winesburg, -Ohio. Occasionally there occurs in a writer's career -a sudden, almost mysterious leap of talent, beyond -explanation, perhaps beyond any need for explanation. - -In 1915-16 Anderson had begun to write and in -1919 he published the stories that comprise Wines- -burg, Ohio, stories that form, in sum, a sort of loosely- -strung episodic novel. The book was an immediate -critical success, and soon Anderson was being -ranked as a significant literary figure. In 1921 the dis- -tinguished literary magazine The Dial awarded him its -first annual literary prize of $2,000, the significance -of which is perhaps best understood if one also -knows that the second recipient was T. S. Eliot. But -Anderson's moment of glory was brief, no more -than a decade, and sadly, the remaining years until -his death in 1940 were marked by a sharp decline -in his literary standing. Somehow, except for an oc- -casional story like the haunting "Death in the -Woods," he was unable to repeat or surpass his -early success. Still, about Winesburg, Ohio and a -small number of stories like "The Egg" and "The -Man Who Became a Woman" there has rarely been -any critical doubt. - - -No sooner did Winesburg, Ohio make its appear- -ance than a number of critical labels were fixed on it: -the revolt against the village, the espousal of sexual -freedom, the deepening of American realism. Such -tags may once have had their point, but by now -they seem dated and stale. The revolt against the -village (about which Anderson was always ambiva- -lent) has faded into history. The espousal of sexual -freedom would soon be exceeded in boldness by -other writers. And as for the effort to place Wines- -burg, Ohio in a tradition of American realism, that -now seems dubious. Only rarely is the object of An- -derson's stories social verisimilitude, or the "photo- -graphing" of familiar appearances, in the sense, say, -that one might use to describe a novel by Theodore -Dreiser or Sinclair Lewis. Only occasionally, and -then with a very light touch, does Anderson try to -fill out the social arrangements of his imaginary -town--although the fact that his stories are set in a -mid-American place like Winesburg does constitute -an important formative condition. You might even -say, with only slight overstatement, that what An- -derson is doing in Winesburg, Ohio could be de- -scribed as "antirealistic," fictions notable less for -precise locale and social detail than for a highly per- -sonal, even strange vision of American life. Narrow, -intense, almost claustrophobic, the result is a book -about extreme states of being, the collapse of men -and women who have lost their psychic bearings -and now hover, at best tolerated, at the edge of the -little community in which they live. It would be a -gross mistake, though not one likely to occur by -now, if we were to take Winesburg, Ohio as a social -photograph of "the typical small town" (whatever -that might be.) Anderson evokes a depressed land- -scape in which lost souls wander about; they make -their flitting appearances mostly in the darkness of -night, these stumps and shades of humanity. This -vision has its truth, and at its best it is a terrible if -narrow truth--but it is itself also grotesque, with the -tone of the authorial voice and the mode of composi- -tion forming muted signals of the book's content. -Figures like Dr. Parcival, Kate Swift, and Wash Wil- -liams are not, nor are they meant to be, "fully- -rounded" characters such as we can expect in realis- -tic fiction; they are the shards of life, glimpsed for -a moment, the debris of suffering and defeat. In -each story one of them emerges, shyly or with a -false assertiveness, trying to reach out to compan- -ionship and love, driven almost mad by the search -for human connection. In the economy of Winesburg -these grotesques matter less in their own right than -as agents or symptoms of that "indefinable hunger" -for meaning which is Anderson's preoccupation. - -Brushing against one another, passing one an- -other in the streets or the fields, they see bodies and -hear voices, but it does not really matter--they are -disconnected, psychically lost. Is this due to the par- -ticular circumstances of small-town America as An- -derson saw it at the turn of the century? Or does -he feel that he is sketching an inescapable human -condition which makes all of us bear the burden of -loneliness? Alice Hindman in the story "Adventure" -turns her face to the wall and tries "to force herself -to face the fact that many people must live and die -alone, even in Winesburg." Or especially in Wines- -burg? Such impressions have been put in more gen- -eral terms in Anderson's only successful novel, Poor -White: - - -All men lead their lives behind a wall of misun- - -derstanding they have themselves built, and - -most men die in silence and unnoticed behind - -the walls. Now and then a man, cut off from - -his fellows by the peculiarities of his nature, be- - -comes absorbed in doing something that is per- - -sonal, useful and beautiful. Word of his activities - -is carried over the walls. - - -These "walls" of misunderstanding are only sel- -dom due to physical deformities (Wing Biddlebaum -in "Hands") or oppressive social arrangements (Kate -Swift in "The Teacher.") Misunderstanding, loneli- -ness, the inability to articulate, are all seen by An- -derson as virtually a root condition, something -deeply set in our natures. Nor are these people, the -grotesques, simply to be pitied and dismissed; at -some point in their lives they have known desire, -have dreamt of ambition, have hoped for friendship. -In all of them there was once something sweet, "like -the twisted little apples that grow in the orchards in -Winesburg." Now, broken and adrift, they clutch at -some rigid notion or idea, a "truth" which turns -out to bear the stamp of monomania, leaving them -helplessly sputtering, desperate to speak out but un- -able to. Winesburg, Ohio registers the losses inescap- -able to life, and it does so with a deep fraternal -sadness, a sympathy casting a mild glow over the -entire book. "Words," as the American writer Paula -Fox has said, "are nets through which all truth es- -capes." Yet what do we have but words? - -They want, these Winesburg grotesques*, to unpack -their hearts, to release emotions buried and fes- -tering. Wash Williams tries to explain his eccentricity -but hardly can; Louise Bentley "tried to talk but -could say nothing"; Enoch Robinson retreats to a -fantasy world, inventing "his own people to whom -he could really talk and to whom he explained the -things he had been unable to explain to living -people." - -In his own somber way, Anderson has here -touched upon one of the great themes of American -literature, especially Midwestern literature, in the -late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries: the -struggle for speech as it entails a search for the self. -Perhaps the central Winesburg story, tracing the -basic movements of the book, is "Paper Pills," in -which the old Doctor Reefy sits "in his empty office -close by a window that was covered with cobwebs," -writes down some thoughts on slips of paper ("pyr- -amids of truth," he calls them) and then stuffs them -into his pockets where they "become round hard -balls" soon to be discarded. What Dr. Reefy's -"truths" may be we never know; Anderson simply -persuades us that to this lonely old man they are -utterly precious and thereby incommunicable, forming -a kind of blurred moral signature. - -After a time the attentive reader will notice in -these stories a recurrent pattern of theme and inci- -dent: the grotesques, gathering up a little courage, -venture out into the streets of Winesburg, often in -the dark, there to establish some initiatory relation- -ship with George Willard, the young reporter who -hasn't yet lived long enough to become a grotesque. -Hesitantly, fearfully, or with a sputtering incoherent -rage, they approach him, pleading that he listen to -their stories in the hope that perhaps they can find -some sort of renewal in his youthful voice. Upon -this sensitive and fragile boy they pour out their -desires and frustrations. Dr. Parcival hopes that -George Willard "will write the book I may never get -written," and for Enoch Robinson, the boy repre- -sents "the youthful sadness, young man's sadness, -the sadness of a growing boy in a village at the -year's end [which may open] the lips of the old -man." - -What the grotesques really need is each other, but -their estrangement is so extreme they cannot estab- -lish direct ties--they can only hope for connection -through George Willard. The burden this places on -the boy is more than he can bear. He listens to them -attentively, he is sympathetic to their complaints, -but finally he is too absorbed in his own dreams. -The grotesques turn to him because he seems "dif- -ferent"--younger, more open, not yet hardened-- -but it is precisely this "difference" that keeps him -from responding as warmly as they want. It is -hardly the boy's fault; it is simply in the nature of -things. For George Willard, the grotesques form a -moment in his education; for the grotesques, their -encounters with George Willard come to seem like -a stamp of hopelessness. - -The prose Anderson employs in telling these sto- -ries may seem at first glance to be simple: short sen- -tences, a sparse vocabulary, uncomplicated syntax. -In actuality, Anderson developed an artful style in -which, following Mark Twain and preceding Ernest -Hemingway, he tried to use American speech as the -base of a tensed rhythmic prose that has an econ- -omy and a shapeliness seldom found in ordinary -speech or even oral narration. What Anderson em- -ploys here is a stylized version of the American lan- -guage, sometimes rising to quite formal rhetorical -patterns and sometimes sinking to a self-conscious -mannerism. But at its best, Anderson's prose style -in Winesburg, Ohio is a supple instrument, yielding -that "low fine music" which he admired so much in -the stories of Turgenev. - -One of the worst fates that can befall a writer is -that of self-imitation: the effort later in life, often -desperate, to recapture the tones and themes of -youthful beginnings. Something of the sort hap- -pened with Anderson's later writings. Most critics -and readers grew impatient with the work he did -after, say, 1927 or 1928; they felt he was constantly -repeating his gestures of emotional "groping"-- -what he had called in Winesburg, Ohio the "indefin- -able hunger" that prods and torments people. It be- -came the critical fashion to see Anderson's -"gropings" as a sign of delayed adolescence, a fail- -ure to develop as a writer. Once he wrote a chilling -reply to those who dismissed him in this way: "I -don't think it matters much, all this calling a man a -muddler, a groper, etc.... The very man who -throws such words as these knows in his heart that -he is also facing a wall." This remark seems to me -both dignified and strong, yet it must be admitted -that there was some justice in the negative re- -sponses to his later work. For what characterized -it was not so much "groping" as the imitation of -"groping," the self-caricature of a writer who feels -driven back upon an earlier self that is, alas, no -longer available. - -But Winesburg, Ohio remains a vital work, fresh -and authentic. Most of its stories are composed in a -minor key, a tone of subdued pathos--pathos mark- -ing both the nature and limit of Anderson's talent. -(He spoke of himself as a "minor writer.") In a few -stories, however, he was able to reach beyond pa- -thos and to strike a tragic note. The single best story -in Winesburg, Ohio is, I think, "The Untold Lie," in -which the urgency of choice becomes an outer sign -of a tragic element in the human condition. And in -Anderson's single greatest story, "The Egg," which -appeared a few years after Winesburg, Ohio, he suc- -ceeded in bringing together a surface of farce with -an undertone of tragedy. "The Egg" is an American -masterpiece. - -Anderson's influence upon later American writ- -ers, especially those who wrote short stories, has -been enormous. Ernest Hemingway and William -Faulkner both praised him as a writer who brought -a new tremor of feeling, a new sense of introspec- -tiveness to the American short story. As Faulkner -put it, Anderson's "was the fumbling for exactitude, -the exact word and phrase within the limited scope -of a vocabulary controlled and even repressed by -what was in him almost a fetish of simplicity ... to -seek always to penetrate to thought's uttermost -end." And in many younger writers who may not -even be aware of the Anderson influence, you can -see touches of his approach, echoes of his voice. - -Writing about the Elizabethan playwright John -Ford, the poet Algernon Swinburne once said: "If -he touches you once he takes you, and what he -takes he keeps hold of; his work becomes part of -your thought and parcel of your spiritual furniture -forever." So it is, for me and many others, with -Sherwood Anderson. - - - - -To the memory of my mother, - -EMMA SMITH ANDERSON, - -whose keen observations on the life about -her first awoke in me the hunger to see -beneath the surface of lives, -this book is dedicated. - - - - -THE TALES -AND THE PERSONS - - - - -THE BOOK OF -THE GROTESQUE - - - - -THE WRITER, an old man with a white mustache, had -some difficulty in getting into bed. The windows of -the house in which he lived were high and he -wanted to look at the trees when he awoke in the -morning. A carpenter came to fix the bed so that it -would be on a level with the window. - -Quite a fuss was made about the matter. The car- -penter, who had been a soldier in the Civil War, -came into the writer's room and sat down to talk of -building a platform for the purpose of raising the -bed. The writer had cigars lying about and the car- -penter smoked. - -For a time the two men talked of the raising of -the bed and then they talked of other things. The -soldier got on the subject of the war. The writer, in -fact, led him to that subject. The carpenter had once -been a prisoner in Andersonville prison and had lost -a brother. The brother had died of starvation, and -whenever the carpenter got upon that subject he -cried. He, like the old writer, had a white mustache, -and when he cried he puckered up his lips and the -mustache bobbed up and down. The weeping old -man with the cigar in his mouth was ludicrous. The -plan the writer had for the raising of his bed was -forgotten and later the carpenter did it in his own -way and the writer, who was past sixty, had to help -himself with a chair when he went to bed at night. - -In his bed the writer rolled over on his side and -lay quite still. For years he had been beset with no- -tions concerning his heart. He was a hard smoker -and his heart fluttered. The idea had got into his -mind that he would some time die unexpectedly and -always when he got into bed he thought of that. It -did not alarm him. The effect in fact was quite a -special thing and not easily explained. It made him -more alive, there in bed, than at any other time. -Perfectly still he lay and his body was old and not -of much use any more, but something inside him -was altogether young. He was like a pregnant -woman, only that the thing inside him was not a baby -but a youth. No, it wasn't a youth, it was a woman, -young, and wearing a coat of mail like a knight. It -is absurd, you see, to try to tell what was inside the -old writer as he lay on his high bed and listened to -the fluttering of his heart. The thing to get at is what -the writer, or the young thing within the writer, was -thinking about. - -The old writer, like all of the people in the world, -had got, during his long fife, a great many notions -in his head. He had once been quite handsome and -a number of women had been in love with him. -And then, of course, he had known people, many -people, known them in a peculiarly intimate way -that was different from the way in which you and I -know people. At least that is what the writer -thought and the thought pleased him. Why quarrel -with an old man concerning his thoughts? - -In the bed the writer had a dream that was not a -dream. As he grew somewhat sleepy but was still -conscious, figures began to appear before his eyes. -He imagined the young indescribable thing within -himself was driving a long procession of figures be- -fore his eyes. - -You see the interest in all this lies in the figures -that went before the eyes of the writer. They were -all grotesques. All of the men and women the writer -had ever known had become grotesques. - -The grotesques were not all horrible. Some were -amusing, some almost beautiful, and one, a woman -all drawn out of shape, hurt the old man by her -grotesqueness. When she passed he made a noise -like a small dog whimpering. Had you come into -the room you might have supposed the old man had -unpleasant dreams or perhaps indigestion. - -For an hour the procession of grotesques passed -before the eyes of the old man, and then, although -it was a painful thing to do, he crept out of bed and -began to write. Some one of the grotesques had -made a deep impression on his mind and he wanted -to describe it. - -At his desk the writer worked for an hour. In the -end he wrote a book which he called "The Book of -the Grotesque." It was never published, but I saw -it once and it made an indelible impression on my -mind. The book had one central thought that is very -strange and has always remained with me. By re- -membering it I have been able to understand many -people and things that I was never able to under- -stand before. The thought was involved but a simple -statement of it would be something like this: - -That in the beginning when the world was young -there were a great many thoughts but no such thing -as a truth. Man made the truths himself and each -truth was a composite of a great many vague -thoughts. All about in the world were the truths and -they were all beautiful. - -The old man had listed hundreds of the truths in -his book. I will not try to tell you of all of them. -There was the truth of virginity and the truth of -passion, the truth of wealth and of poverty, of thrift -and of profligacy, of carelessness and abandon. -Hundreds and hundreds were the truths and they -were all beautiful. - -And then the people came along. Each as he ap- -peared snatched up one of the truths and some who -were quite strong snatched up a dozen of them. - -It was the truths that made the people grotesques. -The old man had quite an elaborate theory concern- -ing the matter. It was his notion that the moment one -of the people took one of the truths to himself, called -it his truth, and tried to live his life by it, he became -a grotesque and the truth he embraced became a -falsehood. - -You can see for yourself how the old man, who -had spent all of his life writing and was filled with -words, would write hundreds of pages concerning -this matter. The subject would become so big in his -mind that he himself would be in danger of becom- -ing a grotesque. He didn't, I suppose, for the same -reason that he never published the book. It was the -young thing inside him that saved the old man. - -Concerning the old carpenter who fixed the bed -for the writer, I only mentioned him because he, - - -THE BOOK OF THE GROTESQUE 7 - -like many of what are called very common people, -became the nearest thing to what is understandable -and lovable of all the grotesques in the writer's -book. - - - -HANDS - -UPON THE HALF decayed veranda of a small frame -house that stood near the edge of a ravine near the -town of Winesburg, Ohio, a fat little old man walked -nervously up and down. Across a long field that -had been seeded for clover but that had produced -only a dense crop of yellow mustard weeds, he -could see the public highway along which went a -wagon filled with berry pickers returning from the -fields. The berry pickers, youths and maidens, -laughed and shouted boisterously. A boy clad in a -blue shirt leaped from the wagon and attempted to -drag after him one of the maidens, who screamed -and protested shrilly. The feet of the boy in the road -kicked up a cloud of dust that floated across the face -of the departing sun. Over the long field came a -thin girlish voice. "Oh, you Wing Biddlebaum, comb -your hair, it's falling into your eyes," commanded -the voice to the man, who was bald and whose ner- -vous little hands fiddled about the bare white fore- -head as though arranging a mass of tangled locks. - -Wing Biddlebaum, forever frightened and beset by -a ghostly band of doubts, did not think of himself -as in any way a part of the life of the town where -he had lived for twenty years. Among all the people -of Winesburg but one had come close to him. With -George Willard, son of Tom Willard, the proprietor -of the New Willard House, he had formed some- -thing like a friendship. George Willard was the re- -porter on the Winesburg Eagle and sometimes in the -evenings he walked out along the highway to Wing -Biddlebaum's house. Now as the old man walked -up and down on the veranda, his hands moving -nervously about, he was hoping that George Willard -would come and spend the evening with him. After -the wagon containing the berry pickers had passed, -he went across the field through the tall mustard -weeds and climbing a rail fence peered anxiously -along the road to the town. For a moment he stood -thus, rubbing his hands together and looking up -and down the road, and then, fear overcoming him, -ran back to walk again upon the porch on his own -house. - -In the presence of George Willard, Wing Bid- -dlebaum, who for twenty years had been the town -mystery, lost something of his timidity, and his -shadowy personality, submerged in a sea of doubts, -came forth to look at the world. With the young -reporter at his side, he ventured in the light of day -into Main Street or strode up and down on the rick- -ety front porch of his own house, talking excitedly. -The voice that had been low and trembling became -shrill and loud. The bent figure straightened. With -a kind of wriggle, like a fish returned to the brook -by the fisherman, Biddlebaum the silent began to -talk, striving to put into words the ideas that had -been accumulated by his mind during long years of -silence. - -Wing Biddlebaum talked much with his hands. -The slender expressive fingers, forever active, for- -ever striving to conceal themselves in his pockets or -behind his back, came forth and became the piston -rods of his machinery of expression. - -The story of Wing Biddlebaum is a story of hands. -Their restless activity, like unto the beating of the -wings of an imprisoned bird, had given him his -name. Some obscure poet of the town had thought -of it. The hands alarmed their owner. He wanted to -keep them hidden away and looked with amaze- -ment at the quiet inexpressive hands of other men -who worked beside him in the fields, or passed, -driving sleepy teams on country roads. - -When he talked to George Willard, Wing Bid- -dlebaum closed his fists and beat with them upon a -table or on the walls of his house. The action made -him more comfortable. If the desire to talk came to -him when the two were walking in the fields, he -sought out a stump or the top board of a fence and -with his hands pounding busily talked with re- -newed ease. - -The story of Wing Biddlebaum's hands is worth a -book in itself. Sympathetically set forth it would tap -many strange, beautiful qualities in obscure men. It -is a job for a poet. In Winesburg the hands had -attracted attention merely because of their activity. -With them Wing Biddlebaum had picked as high as -a hundred and forty quarts of strawberries in a day. -They became his distinguishing feature, the source -of his fame. Also they made more grotesque an al- -ready grotesque and elusive individuality. Wines- -burg was proud of the hands of Wing Biddlebaum -in the same spirit in which it was proud of Banker -White's new stone house and Wesley Moyer's bay -stallion, Tony Tip, that had won the two-fifteen trot -at the fall races in Cleveland. - -As for George Willard, he had many times wanted -to ask about the hands. At times an almost over- -whelming curiosity had taken hold of him. He felt -that there must be a reason for their strange activity -and their inclination to keep hidden away and only -a growing respect for Wing Biddlebaum kept him -from blurting out the questions that were often in -his mind. - -Once he had been on the point of asking. The two -were walking in the fields on a summer afternoon -and had stopped to sit upon a grassy bank. All after- -noon Wing Biddlebaum had talked as one inspired. -By a fence he had stopped and beating like a giant -woodpecker upon the top board had shouted at -George Willard, condemning his tendency to be too -much influenced by the people about him, "You are -destroying yourself," he cried. "You have the incli- -nation to be alone and to dream and you are afraid -of dreams. You want to be like others in town here. -You hear them talk and you try to imitate them." - -On the grassy bank Wing Biddlebaum had tried -again to drive his point home. His voice became soft -and reminiscent, and with a sigh of contentment he -launched into a long rambling talk, speaking as one -lost in a dream. - -Out of the dream Wing Biddlebaum made a pic- -ture for George Willard. In the picture men lived -again in a kind of pastoral golden age. Across a -green open country came clean-limbed young men, -some afoot, some mounted upon horses. In crowds -the young men came to gather about the feet of an -old man who sat beneath a tree in a tiny garden and -who talked to them. - -Wing Biddlebaum became wholly inspired. For -once he forgot the hands. Slowly they stole forth -and lay upon George Willard's shoulders. Some- -thing new and bold came into the voice that talked. -"You must try to forget all you have learned," said -the old man. "You must begin to dream. From this -time on you must shut your ears to the roaring of -the voices." - -Pausing in his speech, Wing Biddlebaum looked -long and earnestly at George Willard. His eyes -glowed. Again he raised the hands to caress the boy -and then a look of horror swept over his face. - -With a convulsive movement of his body, Wing -Biddlebaum sprang to his feet and thrust his hands -deep into his trousers pockets. Tears came to his -eyes. "I must be getting along home. I can talk no -more with you," he said nervously. - -Without looking back, the old man had hurried -down the hillside and across a meadow, leaving -George Willard perplexed and frightened upon the -grassy slope. With a shiver of dread the boy arose -and went along the road toward town. "I'll not ask -him about his hands," he thought, touched by the -memory of the terror he had seen in the man's eyes. -"There's something wrong, but I don't want to -know what it is. His hands have something to do -with his fear of me and of everyone." - -And George Willard was right. Let us look briefly -into the story of the hands. Perhaps our talking of -them will arouse the poet who will tell the hidden -wonder story of the influence for which the hands -were but fluttering pennants of promise. - -In his youth Wing Biddlebaum had been a school -teacher in a town in Pennsylvania. He was not then -known as Wing Biddlebaum, but went by the less -euphonic name of Adolph Myers. As Adolph Myers -he was much loved by the boys of his school. - -Adolph Myers was meant by nature to be a -teacher of youth. He was one of those rare, little- -understood men who rule by a power so gentle that -it passes as a lovable weakness. In their feeling for -the boys under their charge such men are not unlike -the finer sort of women in their love of men. - -And yet that is but crudely stated. It needs the -poet there. With the boys of his school, Adolph -Myers had walked in the evening or had sat talking -until dusk upon the schoolhouse steps lost in a kind -of dream. Here and there went his hands, caressing -the shoulders of the boys, playing about the tousled -heads. As he talked his voice became soft and musi- -cal. There was a caress in that also. In a way the -voice and the hands, the stroking of the shoulders -and the touching of the hair were a part of the -schoolmaster's effort to carry a dream into the young -minds. By the caress that was in his fingers he ex- -pressed himself. He was one of those men in whom -the force that creates life is diffused, not centralized. -Under the caress of his hands doubt and disbelief -went out of the minds of the boys and they began -also to dream. - -And then the tragedy. A half-witted boy of the -school became enamored of the young master. In -his bed at night he imagined unspeakable things and -in the morning went forth to tell his dreams as facts. -Strange, hideous accusations fell from his loose- -hung lips. Through the Pennsylvania town went a -shiver. Hidden, shadowy doubts that had been in -men's minds concerning Adolph Myers were galva- -nized into beliefs. - -The tragedy did not linger. Trembling lads were -jerked out of bed and questioned. "He put his arms -about me," said one. "His fingers were always play- -ing in my hair," said another. - -One afternoon a man of the town, Henry Brad- -ford, who kept a saloon, came to the schoolhouse -door. Calling Adolph Myers into the school yard he -began to beat him with his fists. As his hard knuck- -les beat down into the frightened face of the school- -master, his wrath became more and more terrible. -Screaming with dismay, the children ran here and -there like disturbed insects. "I'll teach you to put -your hands on my boy, you beast," roared the sa- -loon keeper, who, tired of beating the master, had -begun to kick him about the yard. - -Adolph Myers was driven from the Pennsylvania -town in the night. With lanterns in their hands a -dozen men came to the door of the house where he -lived alone and commanded that he dress and come -forth. It was raining and one of the men had a rope -in his hands. They had intended to hang the school- -master, but something in his figure, so small, white, -and pitiful, touched their hearts and they let him -escape. As he ran away into the darkness they re- -pented of their weakness and ran after him, swear- -ing and throwing sticks and great balls of soft mud -at the figure that screamed and ran faster and faster -into the darkness. - -For twenty years Adolph Myers had lived alone -in Winesburg. He was but forty but looked sixty- -five. The name of Biddlebaum he got from a box of -goods seen at a freight station as he hurried through -an eastern Ohio town. He had an aunt in Wines- -burg, a black-toothed old woman who raised chick- -ens, and with her he lived until she died. He had -been ill for a year after the experience in Pennsylva- -nia, and after his recovery worked as a day laborer -in the fields, going timidly about and striving to con- -ceal his hands. Although he did not understand -what had happened he felt that the hands must be -to blame. Again and again the fathers of the boys -had talked of the hands. "Keep your hands to your- -self," the saloon keeper had roared, dancing, with -fury in the schoolhouse yard. - -Upon the veranda of his house by the ravine, -Wing Biddlebaum continued to walk up and down -until the sun had disappeared and the road beyond -the field was lost in the grey shadows. Going into -his house he cut slices of bread and spread honey -upon them. When the rumble of the evening train -that took away the express cars loaded with the -day's harvest of berries had passed and restored the -silence of the summer night, he went again to walk -upon the veranda. In the darkness he could not see -the hands and they became quiet. Although he still -hungered for the presence of the boy, who was the -medium through which he expressed his love of -man, the hunger became again a part of his loneli- -ness and his waiting. Lighting a lamp, Wing Bid- -dlebaum washed the few dishes soiled by his simple -meal and, setting up a folding cot by the screen door -that led to the porch, prepared to undress for the -night. A few stray white bread crumbs lay on the -cleanly washed floor by the table; putting the lamp -upon a low stool he began to pick up the crumbs, -carrying them to his mouth one by one with unbe- -lievable rapidity. In the dense blotch of light beneath -the table, the kneeling figure looked like a priest -engaged in some service of his church. The nervous -expressive fingers, flashing in and out of the light, -might well have been mistaken for the fingers of the -devotee going swiftly through decade after decade -of his rosary. - - - -PAPER PILLS - -HE WAS AN old man with a white beard and huge -nose and hands. Long before the time during which -we will know him, he was a doctor and drove a -jaded white horse from house to house through the -streets of Winesburg. Later he married a girl who -had money. She had been left a large fertile farm -when her father died. The girl was quiet, tall, and -dark, and to many people she seemed very beauti- -ful. Everyone in Winesburg wondered why she mar- -ried the doctor. Within a year after the marriage she -died. - -The knuckles of the doctor's hands were extraordi- -narily large. When the hands were closed they -looked like clusters of unpainted wooden balls as -large as walnuts fastened together by steel rods. He -smoked a cob pipe and after his wife's death sat all -day in his empty office close by a window that was -covered with cobwebs. He never opened the win- -dow. Once on a hot day in August he tried but -found it stuck fast and after that he forgot all about -it. - -Winesburg had forgotten the old man, but in Doc- -tor Reefy there were the seeds of something very -fine. Alone in his musty office in the Heffner Block -above the Paris Dry Goods Company's store, he -worked ceaselessly, building up something that he -himself destroyed. Little pyramids of truth he erected -and after erecting knocked them down again that he -might have the truths to erect other pyramids. - -Doctor Reefy was a tall man who had worn one -suit of clothes for ten years. It was frayed at the -sleeves and little holes had appeared at the knees -and elbows. In the office he wore also a linen duster -with huge pockets into which he continually stuffed -scraps of paper. After some weeks the scraps of -paper became little hard round balls, and when the -pockets were filled he dumped them out upon the -floor. For ten years he had but one friend, another -old man named John Spaniard who owned a tree -nursery. Sometimes, in a playful mood, old Doctor -Reefy took from his pockets a handful of the paper -balls and threw them at the nursery man. "That is -to confound you, you blathering old sentimentalist," -he cried, shaking with laughter. - -The story of Doctor Reefy and his courtship of the -tall dark girl who became his wife and left her -money to him is a very curious story. It is delicious, -like the twisted little apples that grow in the or- -chards of Winesburg. In the fall one walks in the -orchards and the ground is hard with frost under- -foot. The apples have been taken from the trees by -the pickers. They have been put in barrels and -shipped to the cities where they will be eaten in -apartments that are filled with books, magazines, -furniture, and people. On the trees are only a few -gnarled apples that the pickers have rejected. They -look like the knuckles of Doctor Reefy's hands. One -nibbles at them and they are delicious. Into a little -round place at the side of the apple has been gath- -ered all of its sweetness. One runs from tree to tree -over the frosted ground picking the gnarled, twisted -apples and filling his pockets with them. Only the -few know the sweetness of the twisted apples. - -The girl and Doctor Reefy began their courtship -on a summer afternoon. He was forty-five then and -already he had begun the practice of filling his pock- -ets with the scraps of paper that became hard balls -and were thrown away. The habit had been formed -as he sat in his buggy behind the jaded white horse -and went slowly along country roads. On the papers -were written thoughts, ends of thoughts, beginnings -of thoughts. - -One by one the mind of Doctor Reefy had made -the thoughts. Out of many of them he formed a -truth that arose gigantic in his mind. The truth -clouded the world. It became terrible and then faded -away and the little thoughts began again. - -The tall dark girl came to see Doctor Reefy because -she was in the family way and had become fright- -ened. She was in that condition because of a series -of circumstances also curious. - -The death of her father and mother and the rich -acres of land that had come down to her had set a -train of suitors on her heels. For two years she saw -suitors almost every evening. Except two they were -all alike. They talked to her of passion and there -was a strained eager quality in their voices and in -their eyes when they looked at her. The two who -were different were much unlike each other. One of -them, a slender young man with white hands, the -son of a jeweler in Winesburg, talked continually of -virginity. When he was with her he was never off -the subject. The other, a black-haired boy with large -ears, said nothing at all but always managed to get -her into the darkness, where he began to kiss her. - -For a time the tall dark girl thought she would -marry the jeweler's son. For hours she sat in silence -listening as he talked to her and then she began to -be afraid of something. Beneath his talk of virginity -she began to think there was a lust greater than in -all the others. At times it seemed to her that as he -talked he was holding her body in his hands. She -imagined him turning it slowly about in the white -hands and staring at it. At night she dreamed that -he had bitten into her body and that his jaws were -dripping. She had the dream three times, then she -became in the family way to the one who said noth- -ing at all but who in the moment of his passion -actually did bite her shoulder so that for days the -marks of his teeth showed. - -After the tall dark girl came to know Doctor Reefy -it seemed to her that she never wanted to leave him -again. She went into his office one morning and -without her saying anything he seemed to know -what had happened to her. - -In the office of the doctor there was a woman, the -wife of the man who kept the bookstore in Wines- -burg. Like all old-fashioned country practitioners, -Doctor Reefy pulled teeth, and the woman who -waited held a handkerchief to her teeth and groaned. -Her husband was with her and when the tooth was -taken out they both screamed and blood ran down -on the woman's white dress. The tall dark girl did -not pay any attention. When the woman and the -man had gone the doctor smiled. "I will take you -driving into the country with me," he said. - -For several weeks the tall dark girl and the doctor -were together almost every day. The condition that -had brought her to him passed in an illness, but she -was like one who has discovered the sweetness of -the twisted apples, she could not get her mind fixed -again upon the round perfect fruit that is eaten in -the city apartments. In the fall after the beginning -of her acquaintanceship with him she married Doc- -tor Reefy and in the following spring she died. Dur- -ing the winter he read to her all of the odds and -ends of thoughts he had scribbled on the bits of -paper. After he had read them he laughed and -stuffed them away in his pockets to become round -hard balls. - - - - -MOTHER - -ELIZABETH WILLARD, the mother of George Willard, -was tall and gaunt and her face was marked with -smallpox scars. Although she was but forty-five, -some obscure disease had taken the fire out of her -figure. Listlessly she went about the disorderly old -hotel looking at the faded wall-paper and the ragged -carpets and, when she was able to be about, doing -the work of a chambermaid among beds soiled by -the slumbers of fat traveling men. Her husband, -Tom Willard, a slender, graceful man with square -shoulders, a quick military step, and a black mus- -tache trained to turn sharply up at the ends, tried -to put the wife out of his mind. The presence of the -tall ghostly figure, moving slowly through the halls, -he took as a reproach to himself. When he thought -of her he grew angry and swore. The hotel was un- -profitable and forever on the edge of failure and he -wished himself out of it. He thought of the old -house and the woman who lived there with him as -things defeated and done for. The hotel in which he -had begun life so hopefully was now a mere ghost -of what a hotel should be. As he went spruce and -business-like through the streets of Winesburg, he -sometimes stopped and turned quickly about as -though fearing that the spirit of the hotel and of -the woman would follow him even into the streets. -"Damn such a life, damn it!" he sputtered aimlessly. - -Tom Willard had a passion for village politics and -for years had been the leading Democrat in a -strongly Republican community. Some day, he told -himself, the fide of things political will turn in my -favor and the years of ineffectual service count big -in the bestowal of rewards. He dreamed of going to -Congress and even of becoming governor. Once -when a younger member of the party arose at a -political conference and began to boast of his faithful -service, Tom Willard grew white with fury. "Shut -up, you," he roared, glaring about. "What do you -know of service? What are you but a boy? Look at -what I've done here! I was a Democrat here in -Winesburg when it was a crime to be a Democrat. -In the old days they fairly hunted us with guns." - -Between Elizabeth and her one son George there -was a deep unexpressed bond of sympathy, based -on a girlhood dream that had long ago died. In the -son's presence she was timid and reserved, but -sometimes while he hurried about town intent upon -his duties as a reporter, she went into his room and -closing the door knelt by a little desk, made of a -kitchen table, that sat near a window. In the room -by the desk she went through a ceremony that was -half a prayer, half a demand, addressed to the skies. -In the boyish figure she yearned to see something -half forgotten that had once been a part of herself re- -created. The prayer concerned that. "Even though I -die, I will in some way keep defeat from you," she -cried, and so deep was her determination that her -whole body shook. Her eyes glowed and she clenched -her fists. "If I am dead and see him becoming a -meaningless drab figure like myself, I will come -back," she declared. "I ask God now to give me that -privilege. I demand it. I will pay for it. God may -beat me with his fists. I will take any blow that may -befall if but this my boy be allowed to express some- -thing for us both." Pausing uncertainly, the woman -stared about the boy's room. "And do not let him -become smart and successful either," she added -vaguely. - -The communion between George Willard and his -mother was outwardly a formal thing without mean- -ing. When she was ill and sat by the window in her -room he sometimes went in the evening to make -her a visit. They sat by a window that looked over -the roof of a small frame building into Main Street. -By turning their heads they could see through an- -other window, along an alleyway that ran behind -the Main Street stores and into the back door of -Abner Groff's bakery. Sometimes as they sat thus a -picture of village life presented itself to them. At the -back door of his shop appeared Abner Groff with a -stick or an empty milk bottle in his hand. For a long -time there was a feud between the baker and a grey -cat that belonged to Sylvester West, the druggist. -The boy and his mother saw the cat creep into the -door of the bakery and presently emerge followed -by the baker, who swore and waved his arms about. -The baker's eyes were small and red and his black -hair and beard were filled with flour dust. Some- -times he was so angry that, although the cat had -disappeared, he hurled sticks, bits of broken glass, -and even some of the tools of his trade about. Once -he broke a window at the back of Sinning's Hard- -ware Store. In the alley the grey cat crouched behind -barrels filled with torn paper and broken bottles -above which flew a black swarm of flies. Once when -she was alone, and after watching a prolonged and -ineffectual outburst on the part of the baker, Eliza- -beth Willard put her head down on her long white -hands and wept. After that she did not look along -the alleyway any more, but tried to forget the con- -test between the bearded man and the cat. It seemed -like a rehearsal of her own life, terrible in its -vividness. - -In the evening when the son sat in the room with -his mother, the silence made them both feel awk- -ward. Darkness came on and the evening train came -in at the station. In the street below feet tramped -up and down upon a board sidewalk. In the station -yard, after the evening train had gone, there was a -heavy silence. Perhaps Skinner Leason, the express -agent, moved a truck the length of the station plat- -form. Over on Main Street sounded a man's voice, -laughing. The door of the express office banged. -George Willard arose and crossing the room fumbled -for the doorknob. Sometimes he knocked against a -chair, making it scrape along the floor. By the win- -dow sat the sick woman, perfectly still, listless. Her -long hands, white and bloodless, could be seen -drooping over the ends of the arms of the chair. "I -think you had better be out among the boys. You -are too much indoors," she said, striving to relieve -the embarrassment of the departure. "I thought I -would take a walk," replied George Willard, who -felt awkward and confused. - -One evening in July, when the transient guests -who made the New Willard House their temporary -home had become scarce, and the hallways, lighted -only by kerosene lamps turned low, were plunged -in gloom, Elizabeth Willard had an adventure. She -had been ill in bed for several days and her son had -not come to visit her. She was alarmed. The feeble -blaze of life that remained in her body was blown -into a flame by her anxiety and she crept out of bed, -dressed and hurried along the hallway toward her -son's room, shaking with exaggerated fears. As she -went along she steadied herself with her hand, -slipped along the papered walls of the hall and -breathed with difficulty. The air whistled through -her teeth. As she hurried forward she thought how -foolish she was. "He is concerned with boyish af- -fairs," she told herself. "Perhaps he has now begun -to walk about in the evening with girls." - -Elizabeth Willard had a dread of being seen by -guests in the hotel that had once belonged to her -father and the ownership of which still stood re- -corded in her name in the county courthouse. The -hotel was continually losing patronage because of its -shabbiness and she thought of herself as also shabby. -Her own room was in an obscure corner and when -she felt able to work she voluntarily worked among -the beds, preferring the labor that could be done -when the guests were abroad seeking trade among -the merchants of Winesburg. - -By the door of her son's room the mother knelt -upon the floor and listened for some sound from -within. When she heard the boy moving about and -talking in low tones a smile came to her lips. George -Willard had a habit of talking aloud to himself and -to hear him doing so had always given his mother -a peculiar pleasure. The habit in him, she felt, -strengthened the secret bond that existed between -them. A thousand times she had whispered to her- -self of the matter. "He is groping about, trying to -find himself," she thought. "He is not a dull clod, all -words and smartness. Within him there is a secret -something that is striving to grow. It is the thing I -let be killed in myself." - -In the darkness in the hallway by the door the -sick woman arose and started again toward her own -room. She was afraid that the door would open and -the boy come upon her. When she had reached a -safe distance and was about to turn a corner into a -second hallway she stopped and bracing herself -with her hands waited, thinking to shake off a -trembling fit of weakness that had come upon her. -The presence of the boy in the room had made her -happy. In her bed, during the long hours alone, the -little fears that had visited her had become giants. -Now they were all gone. "When I get back to my -room I shall sleep," she murmured gratefully. - -But Elizabeth Willard was not to return to her bed -and to sleep. As she stood trembling in the darkness -the door of her son's room opened and the boy's -father, Tom Willard, stepped out. In the light that -steamed out at the door he stood with the knob in -his hand and talked. What he said infuriated the -woman. - -Tom Willard was ambitious for his son. He had -always thought of himself as a successful man, al- -though nothing he had ever done had turned out -successfully. However, when he was out of sight of -the New Willard House and had no fear of coming -upon his wife, he swaggered and began to drama- -tize himself as one of the chief men of the town. He -wanted his son to succeed. He it was who had se- -cured for the boy the position on the Winesburg -Eagle. Now, with a ring of earnestness in his voice, -he was advising concerning some course of conduct. -"I tell you what, George, you've got to wake up," -he said sharply. "Will Henderson has spoken to me -three times concerning the matter. He says you go -along for hours not hearing when you are spoken -to and acting like a gawky girl. What ails you?" Tom -Willard laughed good-naturedly. "Well, I guess -you'll get over it," he said. "I told Will that. You're -not a fool and you're not a woman. You're Tom -Willard's son and you'll wake up. I'm not afraid. -What you say clears things up. If being a newspaper -man had put the notion of becoming a writer into -your mind that's all right. Only I guess you'll have -to wake up to do that too, eh?" - -Tom Willard went briskly along the hallway and -down a flight of stairs to the office. The woman in -the darkness could hear him laughing and talking -with a guest who was striving to wear away a dull -evening by dozing in a chair by the office door. She -returned to the door of her son's room. The weak- -ness had passed from her body as by a miracle and -she stepped boldly along. A thousand ideas raced -through her head. When she heard the scraping of -a chair and the sound of a pen scratching upon -paper, she again turned and went back along the -hallway to her own room. - -A definite determination had come into the mind -of the defeated wife of the Winesburg hotel keeper. -The determination was the result of long years of -quiet and rather ineffectual thinking. "Now," she -told herself, "I will act. There is something threaten- -ing my boy and I will ward it off." The fact that the -conversation between Tom Willard and his son had -been rather quiet and natural, as though an under- -standing existed between them, maddened her. Al- -though for years she had hated her husband, her -hatred had always before been a quite impersonal -thing. He had been merely a part of something else -that she hated. Now, and by the few words at the -door, he had become the thing personified. In the -darkness of her own room she clenched her fists -and glared about. Going to a cloth bag that hung on -a nail by the wall she took out a long pair of sewing -scissors and held them in her hand like a dagger. "I -will stab him," she said aloud. "He has chosen to -be the voice of evil and I will kill him. When I have -killed him something will snap within myself and I -will die also. It will be a release for all of us." - -In her girlhood and before her marriage with Tom -Willard, Elizabeth had borne a somewhat shaky rep- -utation in Winesburg. For years she had been what -is called "stage-struck" and had paraded through -the streets with traveling men guests at her father's -hotel, wearing loud clothes and urging them to tell -her of life in the cities out of which they had come. -Once she startled the town by putting on men's -clothes and riding a bicycle down Main Street. - -In her own mind the tall dark girl had been in -those days much confused. A great restlessness was -in her and it expressed itself in two ways. First there -was an uneasy desire for change, for some big defi- -nite movement to her life. It was this feeling that -had turned her mind to the stage. She dreamed of -joining some company and wandering over the -world, seeing always new faces and giving some- -thing out of herself to all people. Sometimes at night -she was quite beside herself with the thought, but -when she tried to talk of the matter to the members -of the theatrical companies that came to Winesburg -and stopped at her father's hotel, she got nowhere. -They did not seem to know what she meant, or if -she did get something of her passion expressed, -they only laughed. "It's not like that," they said. -"It's as dull and uninteresting as this here. Nothing -comes of it." - -With the traveling men when she walked about -with them, and later with Tom Willard, it was quite -different. Always they seemed to understand and -sympathize with her. On the side streets of the vil- -lage, in the darkness under the trees, they took hold -of her hand and she thought that something unex- -pressed in herself came forth and became a part of -an unexpressed something in them. - -And then there was the second expression of her -restlessness. When that came she felt for a time re- -leased and happy. She did not blame the men who -walked with her and later she did not blame Tom -Willard. It was always the same, beginning with -kisses and ending, after strange wild emotions, with -peace and then sobbing repentance. When she -sobbed she put her hand upon the face of the man -and had always the same thought. Even though he -were large and bearded she thought he had become -suddenly a little boy. She wondered why he did not -sob also. - -In her room, tucked away in a corner of the old -Willard House, Elizabeth Willard lighted a lamp and -put it on a dressing table that stood by the door. A -thought had come into her mind and she went to a -closet and brought out a small square box and set it -on the table. The box contained material for make- -up and had been left with other things by a theatrical -company that had once been stranded in Wines- -burg. Elizabeth Willard had decided that she would -be beautiful. Her hair was still black and there was -a great mass of it braided and coiled about her head. -The scene that was to take place in the office below -began to grow in her mind. No ghostly worn-out -figure should confront Tom Willard, but something -quite unexpected and startling. Tall and with dusky -cheeks and hair that fell in a mass from her shoul- -ders, a figure should come striding down the stair- -way before the startled loungers in the hotel office. -The figure would be silent--it would be swift and -terrible. As a tigress whose cub had been threatened -would she appear, coming out of the shadows, steal- -ing noiselessly along and holding the long wicked -scissors in her hand. - -With a little broken sob in her throat, Elizabeth -Willard blew out the light that stood upon the table -and stood weak and trembling in the darkness. The -strength that had been as a miracle in her body left -and she half reeled across the floor, clutching at the -back of the chair in which she had spent so many -long days staring out over the tin roofs into the main -street of Winesburg. In the hallway there was the -sound of footsteps and George Willard came in at -the door. Sitting in a chair beside his mother he -began to talk. "I'm going to get out of here," he -said. "I don't know where I shall go or what I shall -do but I am going away." - -The woman in the chair waited and trembled. An -impulse came to her. "I suppose you had better -wake up," she said. "You think that? You will go -to the city and make money, eh? It will be better for -you, you think, to be a business man, to be brisk -and smart and alive?" She waited and trembled. - -The son shook his head. "I suppose I can't make -you understand, but oh, I wish I could," he said -earnestly. "I can't even talk to father about it. I don't -try. There isn't any use. I don't know what I shall -do. I just want to go away and look at people and -think." - -Silence fell upon the room where the boy and -woman sat together. Again, as on the other eve- -nings, they were embarrassed. After a time the boy -tried again to talk. "I suppose it won't be for a year -or two but I've been thinking about it," he said, -rising and going toward the door. "Something father -said makes it sure that I shall have to go away." He -fumbled with the doorknob. In the room the silence -became unbearable to the woman. She wanted to -cry out with joy because of the words that had come -from the lips of her son, but the expression of joy -had become impossible to her. "I think you had bet- -ter go out among the boys. You are too much in- -doors," she said. "I thought I would go for a little -walk," replied the son stepping awkwardly out of -the room and closing the door. - - - - -THE PHILOSOPHER - -DOCTOR PARCIVAL was a large man with a drooping -mouth covered by a yellow mustache. He always -wore a dirty white waistcoat out of the pockets of -which protruded a number of the kind of black ci- -gars known as stogies. His teeth were black and -irregular and there was something strange about his -eyes. The lid of the left eye twitched; it fell down -and snapped up; it was exactly as though the lid of -the eye were a window shade and someone stood -inside the doctor's head playing with the cord. - -Doctor Parcival had a liking for the boy, George -Willard. It began when George had been working -for a year on the Winesburg Eagle and the acquain- -tanceship was entirely a matter of the doctor's own -making. - -In the late afternoon Will Henderson, owner and -editor of the Eagle, went over to Tom Willy's saloon. -Along an alleyway he went and slipping in at the -back door of the saloon began drinking a drink made -of a combination of sloe gin and soda water. Will -Henderson was a sensualist and had reached the -age of forty-five. He imagined the gin renewed the -youth in him. Like most sensualists he enjoyed talk- -ing of women, and for an hour he lingered about -gossiping with Tom Willy. The saloon keeper was a -short, broad-shouldered man with peculiarly marked -hands. That flaming kind of birthmark that some- -times paints with red the faces of men and women -had touched with red Tom Willy's fingers and the -backs of his hands. As he stood by the bar talking -to Will Henderson he rubbed the hands together. -As he grew more and more excited the red of his -fingers deepened. It was as though the hands had -been dipped in blood that had dried and faded. - -As Will Henderson stood at the bar looking at -the red hands and talking of women, his assistant, -George Willard, sat in the office of the Winesburg -Eagle and listened to the talk of Doctor Parcival. - -Doctor Parcival appeared immediately after Will -Henderson had disappeared. One might have sup- -posed that the doctor had been watching from his -office window and had seen the editor going along -the alleyway. Coming in at the front door and find- -ing himself a chair, he lighted one of the stogies and -crossing his legs began to talk. He seemed intent -upon convincing the boy of the advisability of adopt- -ing a line of conduct that he was himself unable to -define. - -"If you have your eyes open you will see that -although I call myself a doctor I have mighty few -patients," he began. "There is a reason for that. It -is not an accident and it is not because I do not -know as much of medicine as anyone here. I do not -want patients. The reason, you see, does not appear -on the surface. It lies in fact in my character, which -has, if you think about it, many strange turns. Why -I want to talk to you of the matter I don't know. I -might keep still and get more credit in your eyes. I -have a desire to make you admire me, that's a fact. -I don't know why. That's why I talk. It's very amus- -ing, eh?" - -Sometimes the doctor launched into long tales -concerning himself. To the boy the tales were very -real and full of meaning. He began to admire the fat -unclean-looking man and, in the afternoon when -Will Henderson had gone, looked forward with keen -interest to the doctor's coming. - -Doctor Parcival had been in Winesburg about five -years. He came from Chicago and when he arrived -was drunk and got into a fight with Albert Long- -worth, the baggageman. The fight concerned a trunk -and ended by the doctor's being escorted to the vil- -lage lockup. When he was released he rented a room -above a shoe-repairing shop at the lower end of -Main Street and put out the sign that announced -himself as a doctor. Although he had but few pa- -tients and these of the poorer sort who were unable -to pay, he seemed to have plenty of money for his -needs. He slept in the office that was unspeakably -dirty and dined at Biff Carter's lunch room in a small -frame building opposite the railroad station. In the -summer the lunch room was filled with flies and Biff -Carter's white apron was more dirty than his floor. -Doctor Parcival did not mind. Into the lunch room -he stalked and deposited twenty cents upon the -counter. "Feed me what you wish for that," he said -laughing. "Use up food that you wouldn't otherwise -sell. It makes no difference to me. I am a man of -distinction, you see. Why should I concern myself -with what I eat." - -The tales that Doctor Parcival told George Willard -began nowhere and ended nowhere. Sometimes the -boy thought they must all be inventions, a pack of -lies. And then again he was convinced that they -contained the very essence of truth. - -"I was a reporter like you here," Doctor Parcival -began. "It was in a town in Iowa--or was it in Illi- -nois? I don't remember and anyway it makes no -difference. Perhaps I am trying to conceal my iden- -tity and don't want to be very definite. Have you -ever thought it strange that I have money for my -needs although I do nothing? I may have stolen a -great sum of money or been involved in a murder -before I came here. There is food for thought in that, -eh? If you were a really smart newspaper reporter -you would look me up. In Chicago there was a Doc- -tor Cronin who was murdered. Have you heard of -that? Some men murdered him and put him in a -trunk. In the early morning they hauled the trunk -across the city. It sat on the back of an express -wagon and they were on the seat as unconcerned -as anything. Along they went through quiet streets -where everyone was asleep. The sun was just com- -ing up over the lake. Funny, eh--just to think of -them smoking pipes and chattering as they drove -along as unconcerned as I am now. Perhaps I was -one of those men. That would be a strange turn of -things, now wouldn't it, eh?" Again Doctor Parcival -began his tale: "Well, anyway there I was, a reporter -on a paper just as you are here, running about and -getting little items to print. My mother was poor. -She took in washing. Her dream was to make me a -Presbyterian minister and I was studying with that -end in view. - -"My father had been insane for a number of years. -He was in an asylum over at Dayton, Ohio. There -you see I have let it slip out! All of this took place -in Ohio, right here in Ohio. There is a clew if you -ever get the notion of looking me up. - -"I was going to tell you of my brother. That's the -object of all this. That's what I'm getting at. My -brother was a railroad painter and had a job on the -Big Four. You know that road runs through Ohio -here. With other men he lived in a box car and away -they went from town to town painting the railroad -property-switches, crossing gates, bridges, and -stations. - -"The Big Four paints its stations a nasty orange -color. How I hated that color! My brother was al- -ways covered with it. On pay days he used to get -drunk and come home wearing his paint-covered -clothes and bringing his money with him. He did -not give it to mother but laid it in a pile on our -kitchen table. - -"About the house he went in the clothes covered -with the nasty orange colored paint. I can see the -picture. My mother, who was small and had red, -sad-looking eyes, would come into the house from -a little shed at the back. That's where she spent her -time over the washtub scrubbing people's dirty -clothes. In she would come and stand by the table, -rubbing her eyes with her apron that was covered -with soap-suds. - -"'Don't touch it! Don't you dare touch that -money,' my brother roared, and then he himself -took five or ten dollars and went tramping off to the -saloons. When he had spent what he had taken he -came back for more. He never gave my mother any -money at all but stayed about until he had spent it -all, a little at a time. Then he went back to his job -with the painting crew on the railroad. After he had -gone things began to arrive at our house, groceries -and such things. Sometimes there would be a dress -for mother or a pair of shoes for me. - -"Strange, eh? My mother loved my brother much -more than she did me, although he never said a -kind word to either of us and always raved up and -down threatening us if we dared so much as touch -the money that sometimes lay on the table three -days. - -"We got along pretty well. I studied to be a minis- -ter and prayed. I was a regular ass about saying -prayers. You should have heard me. When my fa- -ther died I prayed all night, just as I did sometimes -when my brother was in town drinking and going -about buying the things for us. In the evening after -supper I knelt by the table where the money lay and -prayed for hours. When no one was looking I stole -a dollar or two and put it in my pocket. That makes -me laugh now but then it was terrible. It was on my -mind all the time. I got six dollars a week from my -job on the paper and always took it straight home -to mother. The few dollars I stole from my brother's -pile I spent on myself, you know, for trifles, candy -and cigarettes and such things. - -"When my father died at the asylum over at Day- -ton, I went over there. I borrowed some money from -the man for whom I worked and went on the train -at night. It was raining. In the asylum they treated -me as though I were a king. - -"The men who had jobs in the asylum had found -out I was a newspaper reporter. That made them -afraid. There had been some negligence, some care- -lessness, you see, when father was ill. They thought -perhaps I would write it up in the paper and make -a fuss. I never intended to do anything of the kind. - -"Anyway, in I went to the room where my father -lay dead and blessed the dead body. I wonder what -put that notion into my head. Wouldn't my brother, -the painter, have laughed, though. There I stood -over the dead body and spread out my hands. The -superintendent of the asylum and some of his help- -ers came in and stood about looking sheepish. It -was very amusing. I spread out my hands and said, -'Let peace brood over this carcass.' That's what I -said. " - -Jumping to his feet and breaking off the tale, Doc- -tor Parcival began to walk up and down in the office -of the Winesburg Eagle where George Willard sat lis- -tening. He was awkward and, as the office was -small, continually knocked against things. "What a -fool I am to be talking," he said. "That is not my -object in coming here and forcing my acquaintance- -ship upon you. I have something else in mind. You -are a reporter just as I was once and you have at- -tracted my attention. You may end by becoming just -such another fool. I want to warn you and keep on -warning you. That's why I seek you out." - -Doctor Parcival began talking of George Willard's -attitude toward men. It seemed to the boy that the -man had but one object in view, to make everyone -seem despicable. "I want to fill you with hatred and -contempt so that you will be a superior being," he -declared. "Look at my brother. There was a fellow, -eh? He despised everyone, you see. You have no -idea with what contempt he looked upon mother -and me. And was he not our superior? You know -he was. You have not seen him and yet I have made -you feel that. I have given you a sense of it. He is -dead. Once when he was drunk he lay down on the -tracks and the car in which he lived with the other -painters ran over him." - - -One day in August Doctor Parcival had an adven- -ture in Winesburg. For a month George Willard had -been going each morning to spend an hour in the -doctor's office. The visits came about through a de- -sire on the part of the doctor to read to the boy from -the pages of a book he was in the process of writing. -To write the book Doctor Parcival declared was the -object of his coming to Winesburg to live. - -On the morning in August before the coming of -the boy, an incident had happened in the doctor's -office. There had been an accident on Main Street. -A team of horses had been frightened by a train and -had run away. A little girl, the daughter of a farmer, -had been thrown from a buggy and killed. - -On Main Street everyone had become excited and -a cry for doctors had gone up. All three of the active -practitioners of the town had come quickly but had -found the child dead. From the crowd someone had -run to the office of Doctor Parcival who had bluntly -refused to go down out of his office to the dead -child. The useless cruelty of his refusal had passed -unnoticed. Indeed, the man who had come up the -stairway to summon him had hurried away without -hearing the refusal. - -All of this, Doctor Parcival did not know and -when George Willard came to his office he found -the man shaking with terror. "What I have done -will arouse the people of this town," he declared -excitedly. "Do I not know human nature? Do I not -know what will happen? Word of my refusal will be -whispered about. Presently men will get together in -groups and talk of it. They will come here. We will -quarrel and there will be talk of hanging. Then they -will come again bearing a rope in their hands." - -Doctor Parcival shook with fright. "I have a pre- -sentiment," he declared emphatically. "It may be -that what I am talking about will not occur this -morning. It may be put off until tonight but I will -be hanged. Everyone will get excited. I will be -hanged to a lamp-post on Main Street." - -Going to the door of his dirty office, Doctor Parci- -val looked timidly down the stairway leading to the -street. When he returned the fright that had been -in his eyes was beginning to be replaced by doubt. -Coming on tiptoe across the room he tapped George -Willard on the shoulder. "If not now, sometime," -he whispered, shaking his head. "In the end I will -be crucified, uselessly crucified." - -Doctor Parcival began to plead with George Wil- -lard. "You must pay attention to me," he urged. "If -something happens perhaps you will be able to -write the book that I may never get written. The -idea is very simple, so simple that if you are not -careful you will forget it. It is this--that everyone in -the world is Christ and they are all crucified. That's -what I want to say. Don't you forget that. Whatever -happens, don't you dare let yourself forget." - - - - -NOBODY KNOWS - -LOOKING CAUTIOUSLY ABOUT, George Willard arose -from his desk in the office of the Winesburg Eagle -and went hurriedly out at the back door. The night -was warm and cloudy and although it was not yet -eight o'clock, the alleyway back of the Eagle office -was pitch dark. A team of horses tied to a post -somewhere in the darkness stamped on the hard- -baked ground. A cat sprang from under George Wil- -lard's feet and ran away into the night. The young -man was nervous. All day he had gone about his -work like one dazed by a blow. In the alleyway he -trembled as though with fright. - -In the darkness George Willard walked along the -alleyway, going carefully and cautiously. The back -doors of the Winesburg stores were open and he -could see men sitting about under the store lamps. -In Myerbaum's Notion Store Mrs. Willy the saloon -keeper's wife stood by the counter with a basket on -her arm. Sid Green the clerk was waiting on her. -He leaned over the counter and talked earnestly. - -George Willard crouched and then jumped -through the path of light that came out at the door. -He began to run forward in the darkness. Behind -Ed Griffith's saloon old Jerry Bird the town drunkard -lay asleep on the ground. The runner stumbled over -the sprawling legs. He laughed brokenly. - -George Willard had set forth upon an adventure. -All day he had been trying to make up his mind to -go through with the adventure and now he was act- -ing. In the office of the Winesburg Eagle he had been -sitting since six o'clock trying to think. - -There had been no decision. He had just jumped -to his feet, hurried past Will Henderson who was -reading proof in the printshop and started to run -along the alleyway. - -Through street after street went George Willard, -avoiding the people who passed. He crossed and -recrossed the road. When he passed a street lamp -he pulled his hat down over his face. He did not -dare think. In his mind there was a fear but it was -a new kind of fear. He was afraid the adventure on -which he had set out would be spoiled, that he -would lose courage and turn back. - -George Willard found Louise Trunnion in the -kitchen of her father's house. She was washing -dishes by the light of a kerosene lamp. There she -stood behind the screen door in the little shedlike -kitchen at the back of the house. George Willard -stopped by a picket fence and tried to control the -shaking of his body. Only a narrow potato patch -separated him from the adventure. Five minutes -passed before he felt sure enough of himself to call -to her. "Louise! Oh, Louise!" he called. The cry -stuck in his throat. His voice became a hoarse -whisper. - -Louise Trunnion came out across the potato patch -holding the dish cloth in her hand. "How do you -know I want to go out with you," she said sulkily. -"What makes you so sure?" - -George Willard did not answer. In silence the two -stood in the darkness with the fence between them. -"You go on along," she said. "Pa's in there. I'll -come along. You wait by Williams' barn." - -The young newspaper reporter had received a let- -ter from Louise Trunnion. It had come that morning -to the office of the Winesburg Eagle. The letter was -brief. "I'm yours if you want me," it said. He -thought it annoying that in the darkness by the -fence she had pretended there was nothing between -them. "She has a nerve! Well, gracious sakes, she -has a nerve," he muttered as he went along the -street and passed a row of vacant lots where corn -grew. The corn was shoulder high and had been -planted right down to the sidewalk. - -When Louise Trunnion came out of the front door -of her house she still wore the gingham dress in -which she had been washing dishes. There was no -hat on her head. The boy could see her standing -with the doorknob in her hand talking to someone -within, no doubt to old Jake Trunnion, her father. -Old Jake was half deaf and she shouted. The door -closed and everything was dark and silent in the -little side street. George Willard trembled more vio- -lently than ever. - -In the shadows by Williams' barn George and -Louise stood, not daring to talk. She was not partic- -ularly comely and there was a black smudge on the -side of her nose. George thought she must have -rubbed her nose with her finger after she had been -handling some of the kitchen pots. - -The young man began to laugh nervously. "It's -warm," he said. He wanted to touch her with his -hand. "I'm not very bold," he thought. Just to touch -the folds of the soiled gingham dress would, he de- -cided, be an exquisite pleasure. She began to quib- -ble. "You think you're better than I am. Don't tell -me, I guess I know," she said drawing closer to him. - -A flood of words burst from George Willard. He -remembered the look that had lurked in the girl's -eyes when they had met on the streets and thought -of the note she had written. Doubt left him. The -whispered tales concerning her that had gone about -town gave him confidence. He became wholly the -male, bold and aggressive. In his heart there was no -sympathy for her. "Ah, come on, it'll be all right. -There won't be anyone know anything. How can -they know?" he urged. - -They began to walk along a narrow brick sidewalk -between the cracks of which tall weeds grew. Some -of the bricks were missing and the sidewalk was -rough and irregular. He took hold of her hand that -was also rough and thought it delightfully small. -"I can't go far," she said and her voice was quiet, -unperturbed. - -They crossed a bridge that ran over a tiny stream -and passed another vacant lot in which corn grew. -The street ended. In the path at the side of the road -they were compelled to walk one behind the other. -Will Overton's berry field lay beside the road and -there was a pile of boards. "Will is going to build a -shed to store berry crates here," said George and -they sat down upon the boards. - - -When George Willard got back into Main Street it -was past ten o'clock and had begun to rain. Three -times he walked up and down the length of Main -Street. Sylvester West's Drug Store was still open -and he went in and bought a cigar. When Shorty -Crandall the clerk came out at the door with him he -was pleased. For five minutes the two stood in the -shelter of the store awning and talked. George Wil- -lard felt satisfied. He had wanted more than any- -thing else to talk to some man. Around a corner -toward the New Willard House he went whistling -softly. - -On the sidewalk at the side of Winney's Dry -Goods Store where there was a high board fence -covered with circus pictures, he stopped whistling -and stood perfectly still in the darkness, attentive, -listening as though for a voice calling his name. -Then again he laughed nervously. "She hasn't got -anything on me. Nobody knows," he muttered dog- -gedly and went on his way. - - - - -GODLINESS - -A Tale in Four Parts - -THERE WERE ALWAYS three or four old people sitting -on the front porch of the house or puttering about -the garden of the Bentley farm. Three of the old -people were women and sisters to Jesse. They were -a colorless, soft voiced lot. Then there was a silent -old man with thin white hair who was Jesse's uncle. - -The farmhouse was built of wood, a board outer- -covering over a framework of logs. It was in reality -not one house but a cluster of houses joined to- -gether in a rather haphazard manner. Inside, the -place was full of surprises. One went up steps from -the living room into the dining room and there were -always steps to be ascended or descended in passing -from one room to another. At meal times the place -was like a beehive. At one moment all was quiet, -then doors began to open, feet clattered on stairs, a -murmur of soft voices arose and people appeared -from a dozen obscure corners. - -Besides the old people, already mentioned, many -others lived in the Bentley house. There were four -hired men, a woman named Aunt Callie Beebe, who -was in charge of the housekeeping, a dull-witted girl -named Eliza Stoughton, who made beds and helped -with the milking, a boy who worked in the stables, -and Jesse Bentley himself, the owner and overlord -of it all. - -By the time the American Civil War had been over -for twenty years, that part of Northern Ohio where -the Bentley farms lay had begun to emerge from -pioneer life. Jesse then owned machinery for har- -vesting grain. He had built modern barns and most -of his land was drained with carefully laid tile drain, -but in order to understand the man we will have to -go back to an earlier day. - -The Bentley family had been in Northern Ohio for -several generations before Jesse's time. They came -from New York State and took up land when the -country was new and land could be had at a low -price. For a long time they, in common with all the -other Middle Western people, were very poor. The -land they had settled upon was heavily wooded and -covered with fallen logs and underbrush. After the -long hard labor of clearing these away and cutting -the timber, there were still the stumps to be reck- -oned with. Plows run through the fields caught on -hidden roots, stones lay all about, on the low places -water gathered, and the young corn turned yellow, -sickened and died. - -When Jesse Bentley's father and brothers had -come into their ownership of the place, much of the -harder part of the work of clearing had been done, -but they clung to old traditions and worked like -driven animals. They lived as practically all of the -farming people of the time lived. In the spring and -through most of the winter the highways leading -into the town of Winesburg were a sea of mud. The -four young men of the family worked hard all day -in the fields, they ate heavily of coarse, greasy food, -and at night slept like tired beasts on beds of straw. -Into their lives came little that was not coarse and -brutal and outwardly they were themselves coarse -and brutal. On Saturday afternoons they hitched a -team of horses to a three-seated wagon and went -off to town. In town they stood about the stoves in -the stores talking to other farmers or to the store -keepers. They were dressed in overalls and in the -winter wore heavy coats that were flecked with -mud. Their hands as they stretched them out to the -heat of the stoves were cracked and red. It was dif- -ficult for them to talk and so they for the most part -kept silent. When they had bought meat, flour, -sugar, and salt, they went into one of the Winesburg -saloons and drank beer. Under the influence of -drink the naturally strong lusts of their natures, kept -suppressed by the heroic labor of breaking up new -ground, were released. A kind of crude and animal- -like poetic fervor took possession of them. On the -road home they stood up on the wagon seats and -shouted at the stars. Sometimes they fought long -and bitterly and at other times they broke forth into -songs. Once Enoch Bentley, the older one of the -boys, struck his father, old Tom Bentley, with the -butt of a teamster's whip, and the old man seemed -likely to die. For days Enoch lay hid in the straw in -the loft of the stable ready to flee if the result of his -momentary passion turned out to be murder. He -was kept alive with food brought by his mother, -who also kept him informed of the injured man's -condition. When all turned out well he emerged -from his hiding place and went back to the work of -clearing land as though nothing had happened. - - -The Civil War brought a sharp turn to the fortunes -of the Bentleys and was responsible for the rise of -the youngest son, Jesse. Enoch, Edward, Harry, and -Will Bentley all enlisted and before the long war -ended they were all killed. For a time after they -went away to the South, old Tom tried to run the -place, but he was not successful. When the last of -the four had been killed he sent word to Jesse that -he would have to come home. - -Then the mother, who had not been well for a -year, died suddenly, and the father became alto- -gether discouraged. He talked of selling the farm -and moving into town. All day he went about shak- -ing his head and muttering. The work in the fields -was neglected and weeds grew high in the corn. Old -Tim hired men but he did not use them intelligently. -When they had gone away to the fields in the morn- -ing he wandered into the woods and sat down on -a log. Sometimes he forgot to come home at night -and one of the daughters had to go in search of him. - -When Jesse Bentley came home to the farm and -began to take charge of things he was a slight, -sensitive-looking man of twenty-two. At eighteen -he had left home to go to school to become a scholar -and eventually to become a minister of the Presbyte- -rian Church. All through his boyhood he had been -what in our country was called an "odd sheep" and -had not got on with his brothers. Of all the family -only his mother had understood him and she was -now dead. When he came home to take charge of -the farm, that had at that time grown to more than -six hundred acres, everyone on the farms about and -in the nearby town of Winesburg smiled at the idea -of his trying to handle the work that had been done -by his four strong brothers. - -There was indeed good cause to smile. By the -standards of his day Jesse did not look like a man -at all. He was small and very slender and womanish -of body and, true to the traditions of young minis- -ters, wore a long black coat and a narrow black -string tie. The neighbors were amused when they -saw him, after the years away, and they were even -more amused when they saw the woman he had -married in the city. - -As a matter of fact, Jesse's wife did soon go under. -That was perhaps Jesse's fault. A farm in Northern -Ohio in the hard years after the Civil War was no -place for a delicate woman, and Katherine Bentley -was delicate. Jesse was hard with her as he was with -everybody about him in those days. She tried to do -such work as all the neighbor women about her did -and he let her go on without interference. She -helped to do the milking and did part of the house- -work; she made the beds for the men and prepared -their food. For a year she worked every day from -sunrise until late at night and then after giving birth -to a child she died. - -As for Jesse Bentley--although he was a delicately -built man there was something within him that -could not easily be killed. He had brown curly hair -and grey eyes that were at times hard and direct, at -times wavering and uncertain. Not only was he slen- -der but he was also short of stature. His mouth was -like the mouth of a sensitive and very determined -child. Jesse Bentley was a fanatic. He was a man -born out of his time and place and for this he suf- -fered and made others suffer. Never did he succeed -in getting what he wanted out of fife and he did not -know what he wanted. Within a very short time -after he came home to the Bentley farm he made -everyone there a little afraid of him, and his wife, -who should have been close to him as his mother -had been, was afraid also. At the end of two weeks -after his coming, old Tom Bentley made over to him -the entire ownership of the place and retired into -the background. Everyone retired into the back- -ground. In spite of his youth and inexperience, Jesse -had the trick of mastering the souls of his people. -He was so in earnest in everything he did and said -that no one understood him. He made everyone on -the farm work as they had never worked before and -yet there was no joy in the work. If things went well -they went well for Jesse and never for the people -who were his dependents. Like a thousand other -strong men who have come into the world here in -America in these later times, Jesse was but half -strong. He could master others but he could not -master himself. The running of the farm as it had -never been run before was easy for him. When he -came home from Cleveland where he had been in -school, he shut himself off from all of his people -and began to make plans. He thought about the -farm night and day and that made him successful. -Other men on the farms about him worked too hard -and were too fired to think, but to think of the farm -and to be everlastingly making plans for its success -was a relief to Jesse. It partially satisfied something -in his passionate nature. Immediately after he came -home he had a wing built on to the old house and -in a large room facing the west he had windows that -looked into the barnyard and other windows that -looked off across the fields. By the window he sat -down to think. Hour after hour and day after day -he sat and looked over the land and thought out his -new place in life. The passionate burning thing in -his nature flamed up and his eyes became hard. He -wanted to make the farm produce as no farm in his -state had ever produced before and then he wanted -something else. It was the indefinable hunger within -that made his eyes waver and that kept him always -more and more silent before people. He would have -given much to achieve peace and in him was a fear -that peace was the thing he could not achieve. - -All over his body Jesse Bentley was alive. In his -small frame was gathered the force of a long line of -strong men. He had always been extraordinarily -alive when he was a small boy on the farm and later -when he was a young man in school. In the school -he had studied and thought of God and the Bible -with his whole mind and heart. As time passed and -he grew to know people better, he began to think -of himself as an extraordinary man, one set apart -from his fellows. He wanted terribly to make his life -a thing of great importance, and as he looked about -at his fellow men and saw how like clods they lived -it seemed to him that he could not bear to become -also such a clod. Although in his absorption in him- -self and in his own destiny he was blind to the fact -that his young wife was doing a strong woman's -work even after she had become large with child -and that she was killing herself in his service, he -did not intend to be unkind to her. When his father, -who was old and twisted with toil, made over to -him the ownership of the farm and seemed content -to creep away to a corner and wait for death, he -shrugged his shoulders and dismissed the old man -from his mind. - -In the room by the window overlooking the land -that had come down to him sat Jesse thinking of his -own affairs. In the stables he could hear the tramp- -ing of his horses and the restless movement of his -cattle. Away in the fields he could see other cattle -wandering over green hills. The voices of men, his -men who worked for him, came in to him through -the window. From the milkhouse there was the -steady thump, thump of a churn being manipulated -by the half-witted girl, Eliza Stoughton. Jesse's mind -went back to the men of Old Testament days who -had also owned lands and herds. He remembered -how God had come down out of the skies and talked -to these men and he wanted God to notice and to -talk to him also. A kind of feverish boyish eagerness -to in some way achieve in his own life the flavor -of significance that had hung over these men took -possession of him. Being a prayerful man he spoke -of the matter aloud to God and the sound of his -own words strengthened and fed his eagerness. - -"I am a new kind of man come into possession of -these fields," he declared. "Look upon me, O God, -and look Thou also upon my neighbors and all the -men who have gone before me here! O God, create -in me another Jesse, like that one of old, to rule over -men and to be the father of sons who shall be rul- -ers!" Jesse grew excited as he talked aloud and -jumping to his feet walked up and down in the -room. In fancy he saw himself living in old times -and among old peoples. The land that lay stretched -out before him became of vast significance, a place -peopled by his fancy with a new race of men sprung -from himself. It seemed to him that in his day as in -those other and older days, kingdoms might be cre- -ated and new impulses given to the lives of men by -the power of God speaking through a chosen ser- -vant. He longed to be such a servant. "It is God's -work I have come to the land to do," he declared -in a loud voice and his short figure straightened and -he thought that something like a halo of Godly ap- -proval hung over him. - - -It will perhaps be somewhat difficult for the men -and women of a later day to understand Jesse Bent- -ley. In the last fifty years a vast change has taken -place in the lives of our people. A revolution has in -fact taken place. The coming of industrialism, at- -tended by all the roar and rattle of affairs, the shrill -cries of millions of new voices that have come -among us from overseas, the going and coming of -trains, the growth of cities, the building of the inter- -urban car lines that weave in and out of towns and -past farmhouses, and now in these later days the -coming of the automobiles has worked a tremen- -dous change in the lives and in the habits of thought -of our people of Mid-America. Books, badly imag- -ined and written though they may be in the hurry -of our times, are in every household, magazines cir- -culate by the millions of copies, newspapers are ev- -erywhere. In our day a farmer standing by the stove -in the store in his village has his mind filled to over- -flowing with the words of other men. The newspa- -pers and the magazines have pumped him full. -Much of the old brutal ignorance that had in it also -a kind of beautiful childlike innocence is gone for- -ever. The farmer by the stove is brother to the men -of the cities, and if you listen you will find him -talking as glibly and as senselessly as the best city -man of us all. - -In Jesse Bentley's time and in the country districts -of the whole Middle West in the years after the Civil -War it was not so. Men labored too hard and were -too tired to read. In them was no desire for words -printed upon paper. As they worked in the fields, -vague, half-formed thoughts took possession of -them. They believed in God and in God's power to -control their lives. In the little Protestant churches -they gathered on Sunday to hear of God and his -works. The churches were the center of the social -and intellectual life of the times. The figure of God -was big in the hearts of men. - -And so, having been born an imaginative child -and having within him a great intellectual eagerness, -Jesse Bentley had turned wholeheartedly toward -God. When the war took his brothers away, he saw -the hand of God in that. When his father became ill -and could no longer attend to the running of the -farm, he took that also as a sign from God. In the -city, when the word came to him, he walked about -at night through the streets thinking of the matter -and when he had come home and had got the work -on the farm well under way, he went again at night -to walk through the forests and over the low hills -and to think of God. - -As he walked the importance of his own figure in -some divine plan grew in his mind. He grew avari- -cious and was impatient that the farm contained -only six hundred acres. Kneeling in a fence corner -at the edge of some meadow, he sent his voice -abroad into the silence and looking up he saw the -stars shining down at him. - -One evening, some months after his father's -death, and when his wife Katherine was expecting -at any moment to be laid abed of childbirth, Jesse -left his house and went for a long walk. The Bentley -farm was situated in a tiny valley watered by Wine -Creek, and Jesse walked along the banks of the -stream to the end of his own land and on through -the fields of his neighbors. As he walked the valley -broadened and then narrowed again. Great open -stretches of field and wood lay before him. The -moon came out from behind clouds, and, climbing -a low hill, he sat down to think. - -Jesse thought that as the true servant of God the -entire stretch of country through which he had -walked should have come into his possession. He -thought of his dead brothers and blamed them that -they had not worked harder and achieved more. Be- -fore him in the moonlight the tiny stream ran down -over stones, and he began to think of the men of -old times who like himself had owned flocks and -lands. - -A fantastic impulse, half fear, half greediness, -took possession of Jesse Bentley. He remembered -how in the old Bible story the Lord had appeared -to that other Jesse and told him to send his son -David to where Saul and the men of Israel were -fighting the Philistines in the Valley of Elah. Into -Jesse's mind came the conviction that all of the Ohio -farmers who owned land in the valley of Wine Creek -were Philistines and enemies of God. "Suppose," -he whispered to himself, "there should come from -among them one who, like Goliath the Philistine of -Gath, could defeat me and take from me my posses- -sions." In fancy he felt the sickening dread that he -thought must have lain heavy on the heart of Saul -before the coming of David. Jumping to his feet, he -began to run through the night. As he ran he called -to God. His voice carried far over the low hills. -"Jehovah of Hosts," he cried, "send to me this night -out of the womb of Katherine, a son. Let Thy grace -alight upon me. Send me a son to be called David -who shall help me to pluck at last all of these lands -out of the hands of the Philistines and turn them to -Thy service and to the building of Thy kingdom on -earth." - - - -II - -DAVID HARDY OF Winesburg, Ohio, was the grand- -son of Jesse Bentley, the owner of Bentley farms. -When he was twelve years old he went to the old -Bentley place to live. His mother, Louise Bentley, -the girl who came into the world on that night when -Jesse ran through the fields crying to God that he -be given a son, had grown to womanhood on the -farm and had married young John Hardy of Wines- -burg, who became a banker. Louise and her hus- -band did not live happily together and everyone -agreed that she was to blame. She was a small -woman with sharp grey eyes and black hair. From -childhood she had been inclined to fits of temper -and when not angry she was often morose and si- -lent. In Winesburg it was said that she drank. Her -husband, the banker, who was a careful, shrewd -man, tried hard to make her happy. When he began -to make money he bought for her a large brick house -on Elm Street in Winesburg and he was the first -man in that town to keep a manservant to drive his -wife's carriage. - -But Louise could not be made happy. She flew -into half insane fits of temper during which she was -sometimes silent, sometimes noisy and quarrelsome. -She swore and cried out in her anger. She got a -knife from the kitchen and threatened her husband's -life. Once she deliberately set fire to the house, and -often she hid herself away for days in her own room -and would see no one. Her life, lived as a half re- -cluse, gave rise to all sorts of stories concerning her. -It was said that she took drugs and that she hid -herself away from people because she was often so -under the influence of drink that her condition could -not be concealed. Sometimes on summer afternoons -she came out of the house and got into her carriage. -Dismissing the driver she took the reins in her own -hands and drove off at top speed through the -streets. If a pedestrian got in her way she drove -straight ahead and the frightened citizen had to es- -cape as best he could. To the people of the town it -seemed as though she wanted to run them down. -When she had driven through several streets, tear- -ing around corners and beating the horses with the -whip, she drove off into the country. On the country -roads after she had gotten out of sight of the houses -she let the horses slow down to a walk and her wild, -reckless mood passed. She became thoughtful and -muttered words. Sometimes tears came into her -eyes. And then when she came back into town she -again drove furiously through the quiet streets. But -for the influence of her husband and the respect -he inspired in people's minds she would have been -arrested more than once by the town marshal. - -Young David Hardy grew up in the house with -this woman and as can well be imagined there was -not much joy in his childhood. He was too young -then to have opinions of his own about people, but -at times it was difficult for him not to have very -definite opinions about the woman who was his -mother. David was always a quiet, orderly boy and -for a long time was thought by the people of Wines- -burg to be something of a dullard. His eyes were -brown and as a child he had a habit of looking at -things and people a long time without appearing to -see what he was looking at. When he heard his -mother spoken of harshly or when he overheard her -berating his father, he was frightened and ran away -to hide. Sometimes he could not find a hiding place -and that confused him. Turning his face toward a -tree or if he was indoors toward the wall, he closed -his eyes and tried not to think of anything. He had -a habit of talking aloud to himself, and early in life -a spirit of quiet sadness often took possession of -him. - -On the occasions when David went to visit his -grandfather on the Bentley farm, he was altogether -contented and happy. Often he wished that he -would never have to go back to town and once -when he had come home from the farm after a long -visit, something happened that had a lasting effect -on his mind. - -David had come back into town with one of the -hired men. The man was in a hurry to go about his -own affairs and left the boy at the head of the street -in which the Hardy house stood. It was early dusk -of a fall evening and the sky was overcast with -clouds. Something happened to David. He could not -bear to go into the house where his mother and -father lived, and on an impulse he decided to run -away from home. He intended to go back to the -farm and to his grandfather, but lost his way and -for hours he wandered weeping and frightened on -country roads. It started to rain and lightning -flashed in the sky. The boy's imagination was ex- -cited and he fancied that he could see and hear -strange things in the darkness. Into his mind came -the conviction that he was walking and running in -some terrible void where no one had ever been be- -fore. The darkness about him seemed limitless. The -sound of the wind blowing in trees was terrifying. -When a team of horses approached along the road -in which he walked he was frightened and climbed -a fence. Through a field he ran until he came into -another road and getting upon his knees felt of the -soft ground with his fingers. But for the figure of -his grandfather, whom he was afraid he would -never find in the darkness, he thought the world -must be altogether empty. When his cries were -heard by a farmer who was walking home from -town and he was brought back to his father's house, -he was so tired and excited that he did not know -what was happening to him. - -By chance David's father knew that he had disap- -peared. On the street he had met the farm hand -from the Bentley place and knew of his son's return -to town. When the boy did not come home an alarm -was set up and John Hardy with several men of the -town went to search the country. The report that -David had been kidnapped ran about through the -streets of Winesburg. When he came home there -were no lights in the house, but his mother ap- -peared and clutched him eagerly in her arms. David -thought she had suddenly become another woman. -He could not believe that so delightful a thing had -happened. With her own hands Louise Hardy bathed -his tired young body and cooked him food. She -would not let him go to bed but, when he had put -on his nightgown, blew out the lights and sat down -in a chair to hold him in her arms. For an hour the -woman sat in the darkness and held her boy. All -the time she kept talking in a low voice. David could -not understand what had so changed her. Her habit- -ually dissatisfied face had become, he thought, the -most peaceful and lovely thing he had ever seen. -When he began to weep she held him more and -more tightly. On and on went her voice. It was not -harsh or shrill as when she talked to her husband, -but was like rain falling on trees. Presently men -began coming to the door to report that he had not -been found, but she made him hide and be silent -until she had sent them away. He thought it must -be a game his mother and the men of the town were -playing with him and laughed joyously. Into his -mind came the thought that his having been lost -and frightened in the darkness was an altogether -unimportant matter. He thought that he would have -been willing to go through the frightful experience -a thousand times to be sure of finding at the end of -the long black road a thing so lovely as his mother -had suddenly become. - - -During the last years of young David's boyhood -he saw his mother but seldom and she became for -him just a woman with whom he had once lived. -Still he could not get her figure out of his mind and -as he grew older it became more definite. When he -was twelve years old he went to the Bentley farm -to live. Old Jesse came into town and fairly de- -manded that he be given charge of the boy. The old -man was excited and determined on having his own -way. He talked to John Hardy in the office of the -Winesburg Savings Bank and then the two men -went to the house on Elm Street to talk with Louise. -They both expected her to make trouble but were -mistaken. She was very quiet and when Jesse had -explained his mission and had gone on at some -length about the advantages to come through having -the boy out of doors and in the quiet atmosphere of -the old farmhouse, she nodded her head in ap- -proval. "It is an atmosphere not corrupted by my -presence," she said sharply. Her shoulders shook -and she seemed about to fly into a fit of temper. "It -is a place for a man child, although it was never a -place for me," she went on. "You never wanted me -there and of course the air of your house did me no -good. It was like poison in my blood but it will be -different with him." - -Louise turned and went out of the room, leaving -the two men to sit in embarrassed silence. As very -often happened she later stayed in her room for -days. Even when the boy's clothes were packed and -he was taken away she did not appear. The loss of -her son made a sharp break in her life and she -seemed less inclined to quarrel with her husband. -John Hardy thought it had all turned out very well -indeed. - -And so young David went to live in the Bentley -farmhouse with Jesse. Two of the old farmer's sisters -were alive and still lived in the house. They were -afraid of Jesse and rarely spoke when he was about. -One of the women who had been noted for her -flaming red hair when she was younger was a born -mother and became the boy's caretaker. Every night -when he had gone to bed she went into his room -and sat on the floor until he fell asleep. When he -became drowsy she became bold and whispered -things that he later thought he must have dreamed. - -Her soft low voice called him endearing names -and he dreamed that his mother had come to him -and that she had changed so that she was always -as she had been that time after he ran away. He also -grew bold and reaching out his hand stroked the -face of the woman on the floor so that she was ec- -statically happy. Everyone in the old house became -happy after the boy went there. The hard insistent -thing in Jesse Bentley that had kept the people in -the house silent and timid and that had never been -dispelled by the presence of the girl Louise was ap- -parently swept away by the coming of the boy. It -was as though God had relented and sent a son to -the man. - -The man who had proclaimed himself the only -true servant of God in all the valley of Wine Creek, -and who had wanted God to send him a sign of -approval by way of a son out of the womb of Kather- -ine, began to think that at last his prayers had been -answered. Although he was at that time only fifty- -five years old he looked seventy and was worn out -with much thinking and scheming. The effort he -had made to extend his land holdings had been suc- -cessful and there were few farms in the valley that -did not belong to him, but until David came he was -a bitterly disappointed man. - -There were two influences at work in Jesse Bent- -ley and all his life his mind had been a battleground -for these influences. First there was the old thing in -him. He wanted to be a man of God and a leader -among men of God. His walking in the fields and -through the forests at night had brought him close -to nature and there were forces in the passionately -religious man that ran out to the forces in nature. -The disappointment that had come to him when a -daughter and not a son had been born to Katherine -had fallen upon him like a blow struck by some -unseen hand and the blow had somewhat softened -his egotism. He still believed that God might at any -moment make himself manifest out of the winds or -the clouds, but he no longer demanded such recog- -nition. Instead he prayed for it. Sometimes he was -altogether doubtful and thought God had deserted -the world. He regretted the fate that had not let -him live in a simpler and sweeter time when at the -beckoning of some strange cloud in the sky men -left their lands and houses and went forth into the -wilderness to create new races. While he worked -night and day to make his farms more productive -and to extend his holdings of land, he regretted that -he could not use his own restless energy in the -building of temples, the slaying of unbelievers and -in general in the work of glorifying God's name on -earth. - -That is what Jesse hungered for and then also he -hungered for something else. He had grown into -maturity in America in the years after the Civil War -and he, like all men of his time, had been touched -by the deep influences that were at work in the -country during those years when modem industrial- -ism was being born. He began to buy machines that -would permit him to do the work of the farms while -employing fewer men and he sometimes thought -that if he were a younger man he would give up -farming altogether and start a factory in Winesburg -for the making of machinery. Jesse formed the habit -of reading newspapers and magazines. He invented -a machine for the making of fence out of wire. -Faintly he realized that the atmosphere of old times -and places that he had always cultivated in his own -mind was strange and foreign to the thing that was -growing up in the minds of others. The beginning -of the most materialistic age in the history of the -world, when wars would be fought without patrio- -tism, when men would forget God and only pay -attention to moral standards, when the will to power -would replace the will to serve and beauty would -be well-nigh forgotten in the terrible headlong rush -of mankind toward the acquiring of possessions, -was telling its story to Jesse the man of God as it -was to the men about him. The greedy thing in him -wanted to make money faster than it could be made -by tilling the land. More than once he went into -Winesburg to talk with his son-in-law John Hardy -about it. "You are a banker and you will have -chances I never had," he said and his eyes shone. -"I am thinking about it all the time. Big things are -going to be done in the country and there will be -more money to be made than I ever dreamed of. -You get into it. I wish I were younger and had your -chance." Jesse Bentley walked up and down in the -bank office and grew more and more excited as he -talked. At one time in his life he had been threat- -ened with paralysis and his left side remained some- -what weakened. As he talked his left eyelid twitched. -Later when he drove back home and when night -came on and the stars came out it was harder to get -back the old feeling of a close and personal God -who lived in the sky overhead and who might at -any moment reach out his hand, touch him on the -shoulder, and appoint for him some heroic task to -be done. Jesse's mind was fixed upon the things -read in newspapers and magazines, on fortunes to -be made almost without effort by shrewd men who -bought and sold. For him the coming of the boy -David did much to bring back with renewed force -the old faith and it seemed to him that God had at -last looked with favor upon him. - -As for the boy on the farm, life began to reveal -itself to him in a thousand new and delightful ways. -The kindly attitude of all about him expanded his -quiet nature and he lost the half timid, hesitating -manner he had always had with his people. At night -when he went to bed after a long day of adventures -in the stables, in the fields, or driving about from -farm to farm with his grandfather, he wanted to -embrace everyone in the house. If Sherley Bentley, -the woman who came each night to sit on the floor -by his bedside, did not appear at once, he went to -the head of the stairs and shouted, his young voice -ringing through the narrow halls where for so long -there had been a tradition of silence. In the morning -when he awoke and lay still in bed, the sounds that -came in to him through the windows filled him with -delight. He thought with a shudder of the life in the -house in Winesburg and of his mother's angry voice -that had always made him tremble. There in the -country all sounds were pleasant sounds. When he -awoke at dawn the barnyard back of the house also -awoke. In the house people stirred about. Eliza -Stoughton the half-witted girl was poked in the ribs -by a farm hand and giggled noisily, in some distant -field a cow bawled and was answered by the cattle -in the stables, and one of the farm hands spoke -sharply to the horse he was grooming by the stable -door. David leaped out of bed and ran to a window. -All of the people stirring about excited his mind, -and he wondered what his mother was doing in the -house in town. - -From the windows of his own room he could not -see directly into the barnyard where the farm hands -had now all assembled to do the morning shores, -but he could hear the voices of the men and the -neighing of the horses. When one of the men -laughed, he laughed also. Leaning out at the open -window, he looked into an orchard where a fat sow -wandered about with a litter of tiny pigs at her -heels. Every morning he counted the pigs. "Four, -five, six, seven," he said slowly, wetting his finger -and making straight up and down marks on the -window ledge. David ran to put on his trousers and -shirt. A feverish desire to get out of doors took pos- -session of him. Every morning he made such a noise -coming down stairs that Aunt Callie, the house- -keeper, declared he was trying to tear the house -down. When he had run through the long old -house, shutting the doors behind him with a bang, -he came into the barnyard and looked about with -an amazed air of expectancy. It seemed to him that -in such a place tremendous things might have hap- -pened during the night. The farm hands looked at -him and laughed. Henry Strader, an old man who -had been on the farm since Jesse came into posses- -sion and who before David's time had never been -known to make a joke, made the same joke every -morning. It amused David so that he laughed and -clapped his hands. "See, come here and look," cried -the old man. "Grandfather Jesse's white mare has -tom the black stocking she wears on her foot." - -Day after day through the long summer, Jesse -Bentley drove from farm to farm up and down the -valley of Wine Creek, and his grandson went with -him. They rode in a comfortable old phaeton drawn -by the white horse. The old man scratched his thin -white beard and talked to himself of his plans for -increasing the productiveness of the fields they vis- -ited and of God's part in the plans all men made. -Sometimes he looked at David and smiled happily -and then for a long time he appeared to forget the -boy's existence. More and more every day now his -mind turned back again to the dreams that had filled -his mind when he had first come out of the city to -live on the land. One afternoon he startled David -by letting his dreams take entire possession of him. -With the boy as a witness, he went through a cere- -mony and brought about an accident that nearly de- -stroyed the companionship that was growing up -between them. - -Jesse and his grandson were driving in a distant -part of the valley some miles from home. A forest -came down to the road and through the forest Wine -Creek wriggled its way over stones toward a distant -river. All the afternoon Jesse had been in a medita- -tive mood and now he began to talk. His mind went -back to the night when he had been frightened by -thoughts of a giant that might come to rob and plun- -der him of his possessions, and again as on that -night when he had run through the fields crying for -a son, he became excited to the edge of insanity. -Stopping the horse he got out of the buggy and -asked David to get out also. The two climbed over -a fence and walked along the bank of the stream. -The boy paid no attention to the muttering of his -grandfather, but ran along beside him and won- -dered what was going to happen. When a rabbit -jumped up and ran away through the woods, he -clapped his hands and danced with delight. He -looked at the tall trees and was sorry that he was -not a little animal to climb high in the air without -being frightened. Stooping, he picked up a small -stone and threw it over the head of his grandfather -into a clump of bushes. "Wake up, little animal. Go -and climb to the top of the trees," he shouted in a -shrill voice. - -Jesse Bentley went along under the trees with his -head bowed and with his mind in a ferment. His -earnestness affected the boy, who presently became -silent and a little alarmed. Into the old man's mind -had come the notion that now he could bring from -God a word or a sign out of the sky, that the pres- -ence of the boy and man on their knees in some -lonely spot in the forest would make the miracle he -had been waiting for almost inevitable. "It was in -just such a place as this that other David tended the -sheep when his father came and told him to go -down unto Saul," he muttered. - -Taking the boy rather roughly by the shoulder, he -climbed over a fallen log and when he had come to -an open place among the trees he dropped upon his -knees and began to pray in a loud voice. - -A kind of terror he had never known before took -possession of David. Crouching beneath a tree he -watched the man on the ground before him and his -own knees began to tremble. It seemed to him that -he was in the presence not only of his grandfather -but of someone else, someone who might hurt him, -someone who was not kindly but dangerous and -brutal. He began to cry and reaching down picked -up a small stick, which he held tightly gripped in -his fingers. When Jesse Bentley, absorbed in his own -idea, suddenly arose and advanced toward him, his -terror grew until his whole body shook. In the -woods an intense silence seemed to lie over every- -thing and suddenly out of the silence came the old -man's harsh and insistent voice. Gripping the boy's -shoulders, Jesse turned his face to the sky and -shouted. The whole left side of his face twitched -and his hand on the boy's shoulder twitched also. -"Make a sign to me, God," he cried. "Here I stand -with the boy David. Come down to me out of the -sky and make Thy presence known to me." - -With a cry of fear, David turned and, shaking -himself loose from the hands that held him, ran -away through the forest. He did not believe that the -man who turned up his face and in a harsh voice -shouted at the sky was his grandfather at all. The -man did not look like his grandfather. The convic- -tion that something strange and terrible had hap- -pened, that by some miracle a new and dangerous -person had come into the body of the kindly old -man, took possession of him. On and on he ran -down the hillside, sobbing as he ran. When he fell -over the roots of a tree and in falling struck his head, -he arose and tried to run on again. His head hurt -so that presently he fell down and lay still, but it -was only after Jesse had carried him to the buggy -and he awoke to find the old man's hand stroking -his head tenderly that the terror left him. "Take me -away. There is a terrible man back there in the -woods," he declared firmly, while Jesse looked away -over the tops of the trees and again his lips cried -out to God. "What have I done that Thou dost not -approve of me," he whispered softly, saying the -words over and over as he drove rapidly along the -road with the boy's cut and bleeding head held ten- -derly against his shoulder. - - -III - -Surrender - -THE STORY OF Louise Bentley, who became Mrs. John -Hardy and lived with her husband in a brick house -on Elm Street in Winesburg, is a story of mis- -understanding. - -Before such women as Louise can be understood -and their lives made livable, much will have to be -done. Thoughtful books will have to be written and -thoughtful lives lived by people about them. - -Born of a delicate and overworked mother, and -an impulsive, hard, imaginative father, who did not -look with favor upon her coming into the world, -Louise was from childhood a neurotic, one of the -race of over-sensitive women that in later days in- -dustrialism was to bring in such great numbers into -the world. - -During her early years she lived on the Bentley -farm, a silent, moody child, wanting love more than -anything else in the world and not getting it. When -she was fifteen she went to live in Winesburg with -the family of Albert Hardy, who had a store for the -sale of buggies and wagons, and who was a member -of the town board of education. - -Louise went into town to be a student in the -Winesburg High School and she went to live at the -Hardys' because Albert Hardy and her father were -friends. - -Hardy, the vehicle merchant of Winesburg, like -thousands of other men of his times, was an enthu- -siast on the subject of education. He had made his -own way in the world without learning got from -books, but he was convinced that had he but known -books things would have gone better with him. To -everyone who came into his shop he talked of the -matter, and in his own household he drove his fam- -ily distracted by his constant harping on the subject. - -He had two daughters and one son, John Hardy, -and more than once the daughters threatened to -leave school altogether. As a matter of principle they -did just enough work in their classes to avoid pun- -ishment. "I hate books and I hate anyone who likes -books," Harriet, the younger of the two girls, de- -clared passionately. - -In Winesburg as on the farm Louise was not -happy. For years she had dreamed of the time when -she could go forth into the world, and she looked -upon the move into the Hardy household as a great -step in the direction of freedom. Always when she -had thought of the matter, it had seemed to her that -in town all must be gaiety and life, that there men -and women must live happily and freely, giving and -taking friendship and affection as one takes the feel -of a wind on the cheek. After the silence and the -cheerlessness of life in the Bentley house, she -dreamed of stepping forth into an atmosphere that -was warm and pulsating with life and reality. And -in the Hardy household Louise might have got -something of the thing for which she so hungered -but for a mistake she made when she had just come -to town. - -Louise won the disfavor of the two Hardy girls, -Mary and Harriet, by her application to her studies -in school. She did not come to the house until the -day when school was to begin and knew nothing of -the feeling they had in the matter. She was timid -and during the first month made no acquaintances. -Every Friday afternoon one of the hired men from -the farm drove into Winesburg and took her home -for the week-end, so that she did not spend the -Saturday holiday with the town people. Because she -was embarrassed and lonely she worked constantly -at her studies. To Mary and Harriet, it seemed as -though she tried to make trouble for them by her -proficiency. In her eagerness to appear well Louise -wanted to answer every question put to the class by -the teacher. She jumped up and down and her eyes -flashed. Then when she had answered some ques- -tion the others in the class had been unable to an- -swer, she smiled happily. "See, I have done it for -you," her eyes seemed to say. "You need not bother -about the matter. I will answer all questions. For the -whole class it will be easy while I am here." - -In the evening after supper in the Hardy house, -Albert Hardy began to praise Louise. One of the -teachers had spoken highly of her and he was de- -lighted. "Well, again I have heard of it," he began, -looking hard at his daughters and then turning to -smile at Louise. "Another of the teachers has told -me of the good work Louise is doing. Everyone in -Winesburg is telling me how smart she is. I am -ashamed that they do not speak so of my own -girls." Arising, the merchant marched about the -room and lighted his evening cigar. - -The two girls looked at each other and shook their -heads wearily. Seeing their indifference the father -became angry. "I tell you it is something for you -two to be thinking about," he cried, glaring at them. -"There is a big change coming here in America and -in learning is the only hope of the coming genera- -tions. Louise is the daughter of a rich man but she -is not ashamed to study. It should make you -ashamed to see what she does." - -The merchant took his hat from a rack by the door -and prepared to depart for the evening. At the door -he stopped and glared back. So fierce was his man- -ner that Louise was frightened and ran upstairs to -her own room. The daughters began to speak of -their own affairs. "Pay attention to me," roared the -merchant. "Your minds are lazy. Your indifference -to education is affecting your characters. You will -amount to nothing. Now mark what I say--Louise -will be so far ahead of you that you will never catch -up." - -The distracted man went out of the house and -into the street shaking with wrath. He went along -muttering words and swearing, but when he got -into Main Street his anger passed. He stopped to -talk of the weather or the crops with some other -merchant or with a farmer who had come into town -and forgot his daughters altogether or, if he thought -of them, only shrugged his shoulders. "Oh, well, -girls will be girls," he muttered philosophically. - -In the house when Louise came down into the -room where the two girls sat, they would have noth- -ing to do with her. One evening after she had been -there for more than six weeks and was heartbroken -because of the continued air of coldness with which -she was always greeted, she burst into tears. "Shut -up your crying and go back to your own room and -to your books," Mary Hardy said sharply. - - * * * - -The room occupied by Louise was on the second -floor of the Hardy house, and her window looked -out upon an orchard. There was a stove in the room -and every evening young John Hardy carried up an -armful of wood and put it in a box that stood by the -wall. During the second month after she came to -the house, Louise gave up all hope of getting on a -friendly footing with the Hardy girls and went to -her own room as soon as the evening meal was at -an end. - -Her mind began to play with thoughts of making -friends with John Hardy. When he came into the -room with the wood in his arms, she pretended to -be busy with her studies but watched him eagerly. -When he had put the wood in the box and turned -to go out, she put down her head and blushed. She -tried to make talk but could say nothing, and after -he had gone she was angry at herself for her -stupidity. - -The mind of the country girl became filled with -the idea of drawing close to the young man. She -thought that in him might be found the quality she -had all her life been seeking in people. It seemed to -her that between herself and all the other people in -the world, a wall had been built up and that she -was living just on the edge of some warm inner -circle of life that must be quite open and under- -standable to others. She became obsessed with the -thought that it wanted but a courageous act on her -part to make all of her association with people some- -thing quite different, and that it was possible by -such an act to pass into a new life as one opens a -door and goes into a room. Day and night she -thought of the matter, but although the thing she -wanted so earnestly was something very warm and -close it had as yet no conscious connection with sex. It -had not become that definite, and her mind had only -alighted upon the person of John Hardy because he -was at hand and unlike his sisters had not been un- -friendly to her. - -The Hardy sisters, Mary and Harriet, were both -older than Louise. In a certain kind of knowledge of -the world they were years older. They lived as all -of the young women of Middle Western towns -lived. In those days young women did not go out -of our towns to Eastern colleges and ideas in regard -to social classes had hardly begun to exist. A daugh- -ter of a laborer was in much the same social position -as a daughter of a farmer or a merchant, and there -were no leisure classes. A girl was "nice" or she was -"not nice." If a nice girl, she had a young man who -came to her house to see her on Sunday and on -Wednesday evenings. Sometimes she went with her -young man to a dance or a church social. At other -times she received him at the house and was given -the use of the parlor for that purpose. No one in- -truded upon her. For hours the two sat behind -closed doors. Sometimes the lights were turned low -and the young man and woman embraced. Cheeks -became hot and hair disarranged. After a year or -two, if the impulse within them became strong and -insistent enough, they married. - -One evening during her first winter in Winesburg, -Louise had an adventure that gave a new impulse -to her desire to break down the wall that she -thought stood between her and John Hardy. It was -Wednesday and immediately after the evening meal -Albert Hardy put on his hat and went away. Young -John brought the wood and put it in the box in -Louise's room. "You do work hard, don't you?" he -said awkwardly, and then before she could answer -he also went away. - -Louise heard him go out of the house and had a -mad desire to run after him. Opening her window -she leaned out and called softly, "John, dear John, -come back, don't go away." The night was cloudy -and she could not see far into the darkness, but as -she waited she fancied she could hear a soft little -noise as of someone going on tiptoes through the -trees in the orchard. She was frightened and closed -the window quickly. For an hour she moved about -the room trembling with excitement and when she -could not longer bear the waiting, she crept into the -hall and down the stairs into a closet-like room that -opened off the parlor. - -Louise had decided that she would perform the -courageous act that had for weeks been in her mind. -She was convinced that John Hardy had concealed -himself in the orchard beneath her window and she -was determined to find him and tell him that she -wanted him to come close to her, to hold her in his -arms, to tell her of his thoughts and dreams and to -listen while she told him her thoughts and dreams. -"In the darkness it will be easier to say things," she -whispered to herself, as she stood in the little room -groping for the door. - -And then suddenly Louise realized that she was -not alone in the house. In the parlor on the other -side of the door a man's voice spoke softly and the -door opened. Louise just had time to conceal herself -in a little opening beneath the stairway when Mary -Hardy, accompanied by her young man, came into -the little dark room. - -For an hour Louise sat on the floor in the darkness -and listened. Without words Mary Hardy, with the -aid of the man who had come to spend the evening -with her, brought to the country girl a knowledge -of men and women. Putting her head down until -she was curled into a little ball she lay perfectly still. -It seemed to her that by some strange impulse of -the gods, a great gift had been brought to Mary -Hardy and she could not understand the older wom- -an's determined protest. - -The young man took Mary Hardy into his arms -and kissed her. When she struggled and laughed, -he but held her the more tightly. For an hour the -contest between them went on and then they went -back into the parlor and Louise escaped up the -stairs. "I hope you were quiet out there. You must -not disturb the little mouse at her studies," she -heard Harriet saying to her sister as she stood by -her own door in the hallway above. - -Louise wrote a note to John Hardy and late that -night, when all in the house were asleep, she crept -downstairs and slipped it under his door. She was -afraid that if she did not do the thing at once her -courage would fail. In the note she tried to be quite -definite about what she wanted. "I want someone -to love me and I want to love someone," she wrote. -"If you are the one for me I want you to come into -the orchard at night and make a noise under my -window. It will be easy for me to crawl down over -the shed and come to you. I am thinking about it -all the time, so if you are to come at all you must -come soon." - -For a long time Louise did not know what would -be the outcome of her bold attempt to secure for -herself a lover. In a way she still did not know -whether or not she wanted him to come. Sometimes -it seemed to her that to be held tightly and kissed -was the whole secret of life, and then a new impulse -came and she was terribly afraid. The age-old wom- -an's desire to be possessed had taken possession of -her, but so vague was her notion of life that it -seemed to her just the touch of John Hardy's hand -upon her own hand would satisfy. She wondered if -he would understand that. At the table next day -while Albert Hardy talked and the two girls whis- -pered and laughed, she did not look at John but at -the table and as soon as possible escaped. In the -evening she went out of the house until she was -sure he had taken the wood to her room and gone -away. When after several evenings of intense lis- -tening she heard no call from the darkness in the -orchard, she was half beside herself with grief and -decided that for her there was no way to break -through the wall that had shut her off from the joy -of life. - -And then on a Monday evening two or three -weeks after the writing of the note, John Hardy -came for her. Louise had so entirely given up the -thought of his coming that for a long time she did -not hear the call that came up from the orchard. On -the Friday evening before, as she was being driven -back to the farm for the week-end by one of the -hired men, she had on an impulse done a thing that -had startled her, and as John Hardy stood in the -darkness below and called her name softly and insis- -tently, she walked about in her room and wondered -what new impulse had led her to commit so ridicu- -lous an act. - -The farm hand, a young fellow with black curly -hair, had come for her somewhat late on that Friday -evening and they drove home in the darkness. Lou- -ise, whose mind was filled with thoughts of John -Hardy, tried to make talk but the country boy was -embarrassed and would say nothing. Her mind -began to review the loneliness of her childhood and -she remembered with a pang the sharp new loneli- -ness that had just come to her. "I hate everyone," -she cried suddenly, and then broke forth into a ti- -rade that frightened her escort. "I hate father and -the old man Hardy, too," she declared vehemently. -"I get my lessons there in the school in town but I -hate that also." - -Louise frightened the farm hand still more by -turning and putting her cheek down upon his shoul- -der. Vaguely she hoped that he like that young man -who had stood in the darkness with Mary would -put his arms about her and kiss her, but the country -boy was only alarmed. He struck the horse with the -whip and began to whistle. "The road is rough, eh?" -he said loudly. Louise was so angry that reaching -up she snatched his hat from his head and threw it -into the road. When he jumped out of the buggy -and went to get it, she drove off and left him to -walk the rest of the way back to the farm. - -Louise Bentley took John Hardy to be her lover. -That was not what she wanted but it was so the -young man had interpreted her approach to him, -and so anxious was she to achieve something else -that she made no resistance. When after a few -months they were both afraid that she was about to -become a mother, they went one evening to the -county seat and were married. For a few months -they lived in the Hardy house and then took a house -of their own. All during the first year Louise tried -to make her husband understand the vague and in- -tangible hunger that had led to the writing of the -note and that was still unsatisfied. Again and again -she crept into his arms and tried to talk of it, but -always without success. Filled with his own notions -of love between men and women, he did not listen -but began to kiss her upon the lips. That confused -her so that in the end she did not want to be kissed. -She did not know what she wanted. - -When the alarm that had tricked them into mar- -riage proved to be groundless, she was angry and -said bitter, hurtful things. Later when her son David -was born, she could not nurse him and did not -know whether she wanted him or not. Sometimes -she stayed in the room with him all day, walking -about and occasionally creeping close to touch him -tenderly with her hands, and then other days came -when she did not want to see or be near the tiny -bit of humanity that had come into the house. When -John Hardy reproached her for her cruelty, she -laughed. "It is a man child and will get what it -wants anyway," she said sharply. "Had it been a -woman child there is nothing in the world I would -not have done for it." - - - -IV - -Terror - -WHEN DAVID HARDY was a tall boy of fifteen, he, -like his mother, had an adventure that changed the -whole current of his life and sent him out of his -quiet corner into the world. The shell of the circum- -stances of his life was broken and he was compelled -to start forth. He left Winesburg and no one there -ever saw him again. After his disappearance, his -mother and grandfather both died and his father be- -came very rich. He spent much money in trying to -locate his son, but that is no part of this story. - -It was in the late fall of an unusual year on the -Bentley farms. Everywhere the crops had been -heavy. That spring, Jesse had bought part of a long -strip of black swamp land that lay in the valley of -Wine Creek. He got the land at a low price but had -spent a large sum of money to improve it. Great -ditches had to be dug and thousands of tile laid. -Neighboring farmers shook their heads over the ex- -pense. Some of them laughed and hoped that Jesse -would lose heavily by the venture, but the old man -went silently on with the work and said nothing. - -When the land was drained he planted it to cab- -bages and onions, and again the neighbors laughed. -The crop was, however, enormous and brought high -prices. In the one year Jesse made enough money -to pay for all the cost of preparing the land and had -a surplus that enabled him to buy two more farms. -He was exultant and could not conceal his delight. -For the first time in all the history of his ownership -of the farms, he went among his men with a smiling -face. - -Jesse bought a great many new machines for cut- -ting down the cost of labor and all of the remaining -acres in the strip of black fertile swamp land. One -day he went into Winesburg and bought a bicycle -and a new suit of clothes for David and he gave his -two sisters money with which to go to a religious -convention at Cleveland, Ohio. - -In the fall of that year when the frost came and -the trees in the forests along Wine Creek were -golden brown, David spent every moment when he -did not have to attend school, out in the open. -Alone or with other boys he went every afternoon -into the woods to gather nuts. The other boys of the -countryside, most of them sons of laborers on the -Bentley farms, had guns with which they went -hunting rabbits and squirrels, but David did not go -with them. He made himself a sling with rubber -bands and a forked stick and went off by himself to -gather nuts. As he went about thoughts came to -him. He realized that he was almost a man and won- -dered what he would do in life, but before they -came to anything, the thoughts passed and he was -a boy again. One day he killed a squirrel that sat on -one of the lower branches of a tree and chattered at -him. Home he ran with the squirrel in his hand. -One of the Bentley sisters cooked the little animal -and he ate it with great gusto. The skin he tacked -on a board and suspended the board by a string -from his bedroom window. - -That gave his mind a new turn. After that he -never went into the woods without carrying the -sling in his pocket and he spent hours shooting at -imaginary animals concealed among the brown leaves -in the trees. Thoughts of his coming manhood -passed and he was content to be a boy with a boy's -impulses. - -One Saturday morning when he was about to set -off for the woods with the sling in his pocket and a -bag for nuts on his shoulder, his grandfather stopped -him. In the eyes of the old man was the strained -serious look that always a little frightened David. At -such times Jesse Bentley's eyes did not look straight -ahead but wavered and seemed to be looking at -nothing. Something like an invisible curtain ap- -peared to have come between the man and all the -rest of the world. "I want you to come with me," -he said briefly, and his eyes looked over the boy's -head into the sky. "We have something important -to do today. You may bring the bag for nuts if you -wish. It does not matter and anyway we will be -going into the woods." - -Jesse and David set out from the Bentley farm- -house in the old phaeton that was drawn by the -white horse. When they had gone along in silence -for a long way they stopped at the edge of a field -where a flock of sheep were grazing. Among the -sheep was a lamb that had been born out of season, -and this David and his grandfather caught and tied -so tightly that it looked like a little white ball. When -they drove on again Jesse let David hold the lamb -in his arms. "I saw it yesterday and it put me in -mind of what I have long wanted to do," he said, -and again he looked away over the head of the boy -with the wavering, uncertain stare in his eyes. - -After the feeling of exaltation that had come to -the farmer as a result of his successful year, another -mood had taken possession of him. For a long time -he had been going about feeling very humble and -prayerful. Again he walked alone at night thinking -of God and as he walked he again connected his -own figure with the figures of old days. Under the -stars he knelt on the wet grass and raised up his -voice in prayer. Now he had decided that like the -men whose stories filled the pages of the Bible, he -would make a sacrifice to God. "I have been given -these abundant crops and God has also sent me a -boy who is called David," he whispered to himself. -"Perhaps I should have done this thing long ago." -He was sorry the idea had not come into his mind -in the days before his daughter Louise had been -born and thought that surely now when he had -erected a pile of burning sticks in some lonely place -in the woods and had offered the body of a lamb as -a burnt offering, God would appear to him and give -him a message. - -More and more as he thought of the matter, he -thought also of David and his passionate self-love -was partially forgotten. "It is time for the boy to -begin thinking of going out into the world and the -message will be one concerning him," he decided. -"God will make a pathway for him. He will tell me -what place David is to take in life and when he shall -set out on his journey. It is right that the boy should -be there. If I am fortunate and an angel of God -should appear, David will see the beauty and glory -of God made manifest to man. It will make a true -man of God of him also." - -In silence Jesse and David drove along the road -until they came to that place where Jesse had once -before appealed to God and had frightened his -grandson. The morning had been bright and cheer- -ful, but a cold wind now began to blow and clouds -hid the sun. When David saw the place to which -they had come he began to tremble with fright, and -when they stopped by the bridge where the creek -came down from among the trees, he wanted to -spring out of the phaeton and run away. - -A dozen plans for escape ran through David's -head, but when Jesse stopped the horse and climbed -over the fence into the wood, he followed. "It is -foolish to be afraid. Nothing will happen," he told -himself as he went along with the lamb in his arms. -There was something in the helplessness of the little -animal held so tightly in his arms that gave him -courage. He could feel the rapid beating of the -beast's heart and that made his own heart beat less -rapidly. As he walked swiftly along behind his -grandfather, he untied the string with which the -four legs of the lamb were fastened together. "If -anything happens we will run away together," he -thought. - -In the woods, after they had gone a long way -from the road, Jesse stopped in an opening among -the trees where a clearing, overgrown with small -bushes, ran up from the creek. He was still silent -but began at once to erect a heap of dry sticks which -he presently set afire. The boy sat on the ground -with the lamb in his arms. His imagination began to -invest every movement of the old man with signifi- -cance and he became every moment more afraid. "I -must put the blood of the lamb on the head of the -boy," Jesse muttered when the sticks had begun to -blaze greedily, and taking a long knife from his -pocket he turned and walked rapidly across the -clearing toward David. - -Terror seized upon the soul of the boy. He was -sick with it. For a moment he sat perfectly still and -then his body stiffened and he sprang to his feet. -His face became as white as the fleece of the lamb -that, now finding itself suddenly released, ran down -the hill. David ran also. Fear made his feet fly. Over -the low bushes and logs he leaped frantically. As he -ran he put his hand into his pocket and took out -the branched stick from which the sling for shooting -squirrels was suspended. When he came to the -creek that was shallow and splashed down over the -stones, he dashed into the water and turned to look -back, and when he saw his grandfather still running -toward him with the long knife held tightly in his -hand he did not hesitate, but reaching down, se- -lected a stone and put it in the sling. With all his -strength he drew back the heavy rubber bands and -the stone whistled through the air. It hit Jesse, who -had entirely forgotten the boy and was pursuing the -lamb, squarely in the head. With a groan he pitched -forward and fell almost at the boy's feet. When -David saw that he lay still and that he was appar- -ently dead, his fright increased immeasurably. It be- -came an insane panic. - -With a cry he turned and ran off through the -woods weeping convulsively. "I don't care--I killed -him, but I don't care," he sobbed. As he ran on and -on he decided suddenly that he would never go -back again to the Bentley farms or to the town of -Winesburg. "I have killed the man of God and now -I will myself be a man and go into the world," he -said stoutly as he stopped running and walked rap- -idly down a road that followed the windings of -Wine Creek as it ran through fields and forests into -the west. - -On the ground by the creek Jesse Bentley moved -uneasily about. He groaned and opened his eyes. -For a long time he lay perfectly still and looked at -the sky. When at last he got to his feet, his mind -was confused and he was not surprised by the boy's -disappearance. By the roadside he sat down on a -log and began to talk about God. That is all they -ever got out of him. Whenever David's name was -mentioned he looked vaguely at the sky and said -that a messenger from God had taken the boy. "It -happened because I was too greedy for glory," he -declared, and would have no more to say in the -matter. - - - - -A MAN OF IDEAS - -HE LIVED WITH his mother, a grey, silent woman -with a peculiar ashy complexion. The house in -which they lived stood in a little grove of trees be- -yond where the main street of Winesburg crossed -Wine Creek. His name was Joe Welling, and his fa- -ther had been a man of some dignity in the commu- -nity, a lawyer, and a member of the state legislature -at Columbus. Joe himself was small of body and in -his character unlike anyone else in town. He was -like a tiny little volcano that lies silent for days and -then suddenly spouts fire. No, he wasn't like that-- -he was like a man who is subject to fits, one who -walks among his fellow men inspiring fear because -a fit may come upon him suddenly and blow him -away into a strange uncanny physical state in which -his eyes roll and his legs and arms jerk. He was like -that, only that the visitation that descended upon -Joe Welling was a mental and not a physical thing. -He was beset by ideas and in the throes of one of his -ideas was uncontrollable. Words rolled and tumbled -from his mouth. A peculiar smile came upon his -lips. The edges of his teeth that were tipped with -gold glistened in the light. Pouncing upon a by- -stander he began to talk. For the bystander there -was no escape. The excited man breathed into his -face, peered into his eyes, pounded upon his chest -with a shaking forefinger, demanded, compelled -attention. - -In those days the Standard Oil Company did not -deliver oil to the consumer in big wagons and motor -trucks as it does now, but delivered instead to retail -grocers, hardware stores, and the like. Joe was the -Standard Oil agent in Winesburg and in several -towns up and down the railroad that went through -Winesburg. He collected bills, booked orders, and -did other things. His father, the legislator, had se- -cured the job for him. - -In and out of the stores of Winesburg went Joe -Welling--silent, excessively polite, intent upon his -business. Men watched him with eyes in which -lurked amusement tempered by alarm. They were -waiting for him to break forth, preparing to flee. -Although the seizures that came upon him were -harmless enough, they could not be laughed away. -They were overwhelming. Astride an idea, Joe was -overmastering. His personality became gigantic. It -overrode the man to whom he talked, swept him -away, swept all away, all who stood within sound -of his voice. - -In Sylvester West's Drug Store stood four men -who were talking of horse racing. Wesley Moyer's -stallion, Tony Tip, was to race at the June meeting -at Tiffin, Ohio, and there was a rumor that he would -meet the stiffest competition of his career. It was -said that Pop Geers, the great racing driver, would -himself be there. A doubt of the success of Tony Tip -hung heavy in the air of Winesburg. - -Into the drug store came Joe Welling, brushing -the screen door violently aside. With a strange ab- -sorbed light in his eyes he pounced upon Ed -Thomas, he who knew Pop Geers and whose opin- -ion of Tony Tip's chances was worth considering. - -"The water is up in Wine Creek," cried Joe Wel- -ling with the air of Pheidippides bringing news of -the victory of the Greeks in the struggle at Mara- -thon. His finger beat a tattoo upon Ed Thomas's -broad chest. "By Trunion bridge it is within eleven -and a half inches of the flooring," he went on, the -words coming quickly and with a little whistling -noise from between his teeth. An expression of help- -less annoyance crept over the faces of the four. - -"I have my facts correct. Depend upon that. I -went to Sinnings' Hardware Store and got a rule. -Then I went back and measured. I could hardly be- -lieve my own eyes. It hasn't rained you see for ten -days. At first I didn't know what to think. Thoughts -rushed through my head. I thought of subterranean -passages and springs. Down under the ground went -my mind, delving about. I sat on the floor of the -bridge and rubbed my head. There wasn't a cloud -in the sky, not one. Come out into the street and -you'll see. There wasn't a cloud. There isn't a cloud -now. Yes, there was a cloud. I don't want to keep -back any facts. There was a cloud in the west down -near the horizon, a cloud no bigger than a man's -hand. - -"Not that I think that has anything to do with it. -There it is, you see. You understand how puzzled I -was. - -"Then an idea came to me. I laughed. You'll -laugh, too. Of course it rained over in Medina -County. That's interesting, eh? If we had no trains, -no mails, no telegraph, we would know that it -rained over in Medina County. That's where Wine -Creek comes from. Everyone knows that. Little old -Wine Creek brought us the news. That's interesting. -I laughed. I thought I'd tell you--it's interesting, -eh?" - -Joe Welling turned and went out at the door. Tak- -ing a book from his pocket, he stopped and ran a -finger down one of the pages. Again he was ab- -sorbed in his duties as agent of the Standard Oil -Company. "Hern's Grocery will be getting low on -coal oil. I'll see them," he muttered, hurrying along -the street, and bowing politely to the right and left -at the people walking past. - -When George Willard went to work for the Wines- -burg Eagle he was besieged by Joe Welling. Joe en- -vied the boy. It seemed to him that he was meant -by Nature to be a reporter on a newspaper. "It is -what I should be doing, there is no doubt of that," -he declared, stopping George Willard on the side- -walk before Daugherty's Feed Store. His eyes began -to glisten and his forefinger to tremble. "Of course -I make more money with the Standard Oil Company -and I'm only telling you," he added. "I've got noth- -ing against you but I should have your place. I could -do the work at odd moments. Here and there I -would run finding out things you'll never see." - -Becoming more excited Joe Welling crowded the -young reporter against the front of the feed store. -He appeared to be lost in thought, rolling his eyes -about and running a thin nervous hand through his -hair. A smile spread over his face and his gold teeth -glittered. "You get out your note book," he com- -manded. "You carry a little pad of paper in your -pocket, don't you? I knew you did. Well, you set -this down. I thought of it the other day. Let's take -decay. Now what is decay? It's fire. It burns up -wood and other things. You never thought of that? -Of course not. This sidewalk here and this feed -store, the trees down the street there--they're all on -fire. They're burning up. Decay you see is always -going on. It doesn't stop. Water and paint can't stop -it. If a thing is iron, then what? It rusts, you see. -That's fire, too. The world is on fire. Start your -pieces in the paper that way. Just say in big letters -'The World Is On Fire.' That will make 'em look up. -They'll say you're a smart one. I don't care. I don't -envy you. I just snatched that idea out of the air. I -would make a newspaper hum. You got to admit -that."' - -Turning quickly, Joe Welling walked rapidly away. -When he had taken several steps he stopped and -looked back. "I'm going to stick to you," he said. -"I'm going to make you a regular hummer. I should -start a newspaper myself, that's what I should do. -I'd be a marvel. Everybody knows that." - -When George Willard had been for a year on the -Winesburg Eagle, four things happened to Joe Wel- -ling. His mother died, he came to live at the New -Willard House, he became involved in a love affair, -and he organized the Winesburg Baseball Club. - -Joe organized the baseball club because he wanted -to be a coach and in that position he began to win -the respect of his townsmen. "He is a wonder," they -declared after Joe's team had whipped the team -from Medina County. "He gets everybody working -together. You just watch him." - -Upon the baseball field Joe Welling stood by first -base, his whole body quivering with excitement. In -spite of themselves all the players watched him -closely. The opposing pitcher became confused. - -"Now! Now! Now! Now!" shouted the excited -man. "Watch me! Watch me! Watch my fingers! -Watch my hands! Watch my feet! Watch my eyes! -Let's work together here! Watch me! In me you see -all the movements of the game! Work with me! -Work with me! Watch me! Watch me! Watch me!" - -With runners of the Winesburg team on bases, Joe -Welling became as one inspired. Before they knew -what had come over them, the base runners were -watching the man, edging off the bases, advancing, -retreating, held as by an invisible cord. The players -of the opposing team also watched Joe. They were -fascinated. For a moment they watched and then, -as though to break a spell that hung over them, they -began hurling the ball wildly about, and amid a se- -ries of fierce animal-like cries from the coach, the -runners of the Winesburg team scampered home. - -Joe Welling's love affair set the town of Winesburg -on edge. When it began everyone whispered and -shook his head. When people tried to laugh, the -laughter was forced and unnatural. Joe fell in love -with Sarah King, a lean, sad-looking woman who -lived with her father and brother in a brick house -that stood opposite the gate leading to the Wines- -burg Cemetery. - -The two Kings, Edward the father, and Tom the -son, were not popular in Winesburg. They were -called proud and dangerous. They had come to -Winesburg from some place in the South and ran a -cider mill on the Trunion Pike. Tom King was re- -ported to have killed a man before he came to -Winesburg. He was twenty-seven years old and -rode about town on a grey pony. Also he had a long -yellow mustache that dropped down over his teeth, -and always carried a heavy, wicked-looking walking -stick in his hand. Once he killed a dog with the -stick. The dog belonged to Win Pawsey, the shoe -merchant, and stood on the sidewalk wagging its -tail. Tom King killed it with one blow. He was ar- -rested and paid a fine of ten dollars. - -Old Edward King was small of stature and when -he passed people in the street laughed a queer un- -mirthful laugh. When he laughed he scratched his -left elbow with his right hand. The sleeve of his -coat was almost worn through from the habit. As he -walked along the street, looking nervously about -and laughing, he seemed more dangerous than his -silent, fierce-looking son. - -When Sarah King began walking out in the eve- -ning with Joe Welling, people shook their heads in -alarm. She was tall and pale and had dark rings -under her eyes. The couple looked ridiculous to- -gether. Under the trees they walked and Joe talked. -His passionate eager protestations of love, heard -coming out of the darkness by the cemetery wall, or -from the deep shadows of the trees on the hill that -ran up to the Fair Grounds from Waterworks Pond, -were repeated in the stores. Men stood by the bar -in the New Willard House laughing and talking of -Joe's courtship. After the laughter came the silence. -The Winesburg baseball team, under his manage- -ment, was winning game after game, and the town -had begun to respect him. Sensing a tragedy, they -waited, laughing nervously. - -Late on a Saturday afternoon the meeting between -Joe Welling and the two Kings, the anticipation of -which had set the town on edge, took place in Joe -Welling's room in the New Willard House. George -Willard was a witness to the meeting. It came about -in this way: - -When the young reporter went to his room after -the evening meal he saw Tom King and his father -sitting in the half darkness in Joe's room. The son -had the heavy walking stick in his hand and sat near -the door. Old Edward King walked nervously about, -scratching his left elbow with his right hand. The -hallways were empty and silent. - -George Willard went to his own room and sat -down at his desk. He tried to write but his hand -trembled so that he could not hold the pen. He also -walked nervously up and down. Like the rest of the -town of Winesburg he was perplexed and knew not -what to do. - -It was seven-thirty and fast growing dark when -Joe Welling came along the station platform toward -the New Willard House. In his arms he held a bun- -dle of weeds and grasses. In spite of the terror that -made his body shake, George Willard was amused -at the sight of the small spry figure holding the -grasses and half running along the platform. - -Shaking with fright and anxiety, the young re- -porter lurked in the hallway outside the door of the -room in which Joe Welling talked to the two Kings. -There had been an oath, the nervous giggle of old -Edward King, and then silence. Now the voice of -Joe Welling, sharp and clear, broke forth. George -Willard began to laugh. He understood. As he had -swept all men before him, so now Joe Welling was -carrying the two men in the room off their feet with -a tidal wave of words. The listener in the hall -walked up and down, lost in amazement. - -Inside the room Joe Welling had paid no attention -to the grumbled threat of Tom King. Absorbed in -an idea he closed the door and, lighting a lamp, -spread the handful of weeds and grasses upon the -floor. "I've got something here," he announced sol- -emnly. "I was going to tell George Willard about it, -let him make a piece out of it for the paper. I'm glad -you're here. I wish Sarah were here also. I've been -going to come to your house and tell you of some -of my ideas. They're interesting. Sarah wouldn't let -me. She said we'd quarrel. That's foolish." - -Running up and down before the two perplexed -men, Joe Welling began to explain. "Don't you make -a mistake now," he cried. "This is something big." -His voice was shrill with excitement. "You just fol- -low me, you'll be interested. I know you will. Sup- -pose this--suppose all of the wheat, the corn, the -oats, the peas, the potatoes, were all by some mira- -cle swept away. Now here we are, you see, in this -county. There is a high fence built all around us. -We'll suppose that. No one can get over the fence -and all the fruits of the earth are destroyed, nothing -left but these wild things, these grasses. Would we -be done for? I ask you that. Would we be done for?" -Again Tom King growled and for a moment there -was silence in the room. Then again Joe plunged -into the exposition of his idea. "Things would go -hard for a time. I admit that. I've got to admit that. -No getting around it. We'd be hard put to it. More -than one fat stomach would cave in. But they -couldn't down us. I should say not." - -Tom King laughed good naturedly and the shiv- -ery, nervous laugh of Edward King rang through -the house. Joe Welling hurried on. "We'd begin, you -see, to breed up new vegetables and fruits. Soon -we'd regain all we had lost. Mind, I don't say the -new things would be the same as the old. They -wouldn't. Maybe they'd be better, maybe not so -good. That's interesting, eh? You can think about -that. It starts your mind working, now don't it?" - -In the room there was silence and then again old -Edward King laughed nervously. "Say, I wish Sarah -was here," cried Joe Welling. "Let's go up to your -house. I want to tell her of this." - -There was a scraping of chairs in the room. It was -then that George Willard retreated to his own room. -Leaning out at the window he saw Joe Welling going -along the street with the two Kings. Tom King was -forced to take extraordinary long strides to keep -pace with the little man. As he strode along, he -leaned over, listening--absorbed, fascinated. Joe -Welling again talked excitedly. "Take milkweed -now," he cried. "A lot might be done with milk- -weed, eh? It's almost unbelievable. I want you to -think about it. I want you two to think about it. -There would be a new vegetable kingdom you see. -It's interesting, eh? It's an idea. Wait till you see -Sarah, she'll get the idea. She'll be interested. Sarah -is always interested in ideas. You can't be too smart -for Sarah, now can you? Of course you can't. You -know that." - - - - -ADVENTURE - -ALICE HINDMAN, a woman of twenty-seven when -George Willard was a mere boy, had lived in Wines- -burg all her life. She clerked in Winney's Dry Goods -Store and lived with her mother, who had married -a second husband. - -Alice's step-father was a carriage painter, and -given to drink. His story is an odd one. It will be -worth telling some day. - -At twenty-seven Alice was tall and somewhat -slight. Her head was large and overshadowed her -body. Her shoulders were a little stooped and her hair -and eyes brown. She was very quiet but beneath a -placid exterior a continual ferment went on. - -When she was a girl of sixteen and before she -began to work in the store, Alice had an affair with -a young man. The young man, named Ned Currie, -was older than Alice. He, like George Willard, was -employed on the Winesburg Eagle and for a long time -he went to see Alice almost every evening. Together -the two walked under the trees through the streets -of the town and talked of what they would do with -their lives. Alice was then a very pretty girl and Ned -Currie took her into his arms and kissed her. He -became excited and said things he did not intend to -say and Alice, betrayed by her desire to have some- -thing beautiful come into her rather narrow life, also -grew excited. She also talked. The outer crust of her -life, all of her natural diffidence and reserve, was -tom away and she gave herself over to the emotions -of love. When, late in the fall of her sixteenth year, -Ned Currie went away to Cleveland where he hoped -to get a place on a city newspaper and rise in the -world, she wanted to go with him. With a trembling -voice she told him what was in her mind. "I will -work and you can work," she said. "I do not want -to harness you to a needless expense that will pre- -vent your making progress. Don't marry me now. -We will get along without that and we can be to- -gether. Even though we live in the same house no -one will say anything. In the city we will be un- -known and people will pay no attention to us." - -Ned Currie was puzzled by the determination and -abandon of his sweetheart and was also deeply -touched. He had wanted the girl to become his mis- -tress but changed his mind. He wanted to protect -and care for her. "You don't know what you're talk- -ing about," he said sharply; "you may be sure I'll -let you do no such thing. As soon as I get a good -job I'll come back. For the present you'll have to -stay here. It's the only thing we can do." - -On the evening before he left Winesburg to take -up his new life in the city, Ned Currie went to call -on Alice. They walked about through the streets for -an hour and then got a rig from Wesley Moyer's -livery and went for a drive in the country. The moon -came up and they found themselves unable to talk. -In his sadness the young man forgot the resolutions -he had made regarding his conduct with the girl. - -They got out of the buggy at a place where a long -meadow ran down to the bank of Wine Creek and -there in the dim light became lovers. When at mid- -night they returned to town they were both glad. It -did not seem to them that anything that could hap- -pen in the future could blot out the wonder and -beauty of the thing that had happened. "Now we -will have to stick to each other, whatever happens -we will have to do that," Ned Currie said as he left -the girl at her father's door. - -The young newspaper man did not succeed in get- -ting a place on a Cleveland paper and went west to -Chicago. For a time he was lonely and wrote to Alice -almost every day. Then he was caught up by the -life of the city; he began to make friends and found -new interests in life. In Chicago he boarded at a -house where there were several women. One of -them attracted his attention and he forgot Alice in -Winesburg. At the end of a year he had stopped -writing letters, and only once in a long time, when -he was lonely or when he went into one of the city -parks and saw the moon shining on the grass as it -had shone that night on the meadow by Wine -Creek, did he think of her at all. - -In Winesburg the girl who had been loved grew -to be a woman. When she was twenty-two years old -her father, who owned a harness repair shop, died -suddenly. The harness maker was an old soldier, -and after a few months his wife received a widow's -pension. She used the first money she got to buy a -loom and became a weaver of carpets, and Alice got -a place in Winney's store. For a number of years -nothing could have induced her to believe that Ned -Currie would not in the end return to her. - -She was glad to be employed because the daily -round of toil in the store made the time of waiting -seem less long and uninteresting. She began to save -money, thinking that when she had saved two or -three hundred dollars she would follow her lover to -the city and try if her presence would not win back -his affections. - -Alice did not blame Ned Currie for what had hap- -pened in the moonlight in the field, but felt that she -could never marry another man. To her the thought -of giving to another what she still felt could belong -only to Ned seemed monstrous. When other young -men tried to attract her attention she would have -nothing to do with them. "I am his wife and shall -remain his wife whether he comes back or not," she -whispered to herself, and for all of her willingness -to support herself could not have understood the -growing modern idea of a woman's owning herself -and giving and taking for her own ends in life. - -Alice worked in the dry goods store from eight in -the morning until six at night and on three evenings -a week went back to the store to stay from seven -until nine. As time passed and she became more -and more lonely she began to practice the devices -common to lonely people. When at night she went -upstairs into her own room she knelt on the floor -to pray and in her prayers whispered things she -wanted to say to her lover. She became attached to -inanimate objects, and because it was her own, -could not bare to have anyone touch the furniture -of her room. The trick of saving money, begun for -a purpose, was carried on after the scheme of going -to the city to find Ned Currie had been given up. It -became a fixed habit, and when she needed new -clothes she did not get them. Sometimes on rainy -afternoons in the store she got out her bank book -and, letting it lie open before her, spent hours -dreaming impossible dreams of saving money enough -so that the interest would support both herself and -her future husband. - -"Ned always liked to travel about," she thought. -"I'll give him the chance. Some day when we are -married and I can save both his money and my own, -we will be rich. Then we can travel together all over -the world." - -In the dry goods store weeks ran into months and -months into years as Alice waited and dreamed of -her lover's return. Her employer, a grey old man -with false teeth and a thin grey mustache that -drooped down over his mouth, was not given to -conversation, and sometimes, on rainy days and in -the winter when a storm raged in Main Street, long -hours passed when no customers came in. Alice ar- -ranged and rearranged the stock. She stood near the -front window where she could look down the de- -serted street and thought of the evenings when she -had walked with Ned Currie and of what he had -said. "We will have to stick to each other now." The -words echoed and re-echoed through the mind of -the maturing woman. Tears came into her eyes. -Sometimes when her employer had gone out and -she was alone in the store she put her head on the -counter and wept. "Oh, Ned, I am waiting," she -whispered over and over, and all the time the creep- -ing fear that he would never come back grew -stronger within her. - -In the spring when the rains have passed and be- -fore the long hot days of summer have come, the -country about Winesburg is delightful. The town lies -in the midst of open fields, but beyond the fields -are pleasant patches of woodlands. In the wooded -places are many little cloistered nooks, quiet places -where lovers go to sit on Sunday afternoons. Through -the trees they look out across the fields and see -farmers at work about the barns or people driving -up and down on the roads. In the town bells ring -and occasionally a train passes, looking like a toy -thing in the distance. - -For several years after Ned Currie went away -Alice did not go into the wood with the other young -people on Sunday, but one day after he had been -gone for two or three years and when her loneliness -seemed unbearable, she put on her best dress and -set out. Finding a little sheltered place from which -she could see the town and a long stretch of the -fields, she sat down. Fear of age and ineffectuality -took possession of her. She could not sit still, and -arose. As she stood looking out over the land some- -thing, perhaps the thought of never ceasing life as -it expresses itself in the flow of the seasons, fixed -her mind on the passing years. With a shiver of -dread, she realized that for her the beauty and fresh- -ness of youth had passed. For the first time she felt -that she had been cheated. She did not blame Ned -Currie and did not know what to blame. Sadness -swept over her. Dropping to her knees, she tried to -pray, but instead of prayers words of protest came -to her lips. "It is not going to come to me. I will -never find happiness. Why do I tell myself lies?" -she cried, and an odd sense of relief came with this, -her first bold attempt to face the fear that had be- -come a part of her everyday life. - -In the year when Alice Hindman became twenty- -five two things happened to disturb the dull un- -eventfulness of her days. Her mother married Bush -Milton, the carriage painter of Winesburg, and she -herself became a member of the Winesburg Method- -ist Church. Alice joined the church because she had -become frightened by the loneliness of her position -in life. Her mother's second marriage had empha- -sized her isolation. "I am becoming old and queer. -If Ned comes he will not want me. In the city where -he is living men are perpetually young. There is so -much going on that they do not have time to grow -old," she told herself with a grim little smile, and -went resolutely about the business of becoming ac- -quainted with people. Every Thursday evening when -the store had closed she went to a prayer meeting in -the basement of the church and on Sunday evening -attended a meeting of an organization called The -Epworth League. - -When Will Hurley, a middle-aged man who clerked -in a drug store and who also belonged to the church, -offered to walk home with her she did not protest. -"Of course I will not let him make a practice of being -with me, but if he comes to see me once in a long -time there can be no harm in that," she told herself, -still determined in her loyalty to Ned Currie. - -Without realizing what was happening, Alice was -trying feebly at first, but with growing determina- -tion, to get a new hold upon life. Beside the drug -clerk she walked in silence, but sometimes in the -darkness as they went stolidly along she put out her -hand and touched softly the folds of his coat. When -he left her at the gate before her mother's house she -did not go indoors, but stood for a moment by the -door. She wanted to call to the drug clerk, to ask -him to sit with her in the darkness on the porch -before the house, but was afraid he would not un- -derstand. "It is not him that I want," she told her- -self; "I want to avoid being so much alone. If I am -not careful I will grow unaccustomed to being with -people." - - -During the early fall of her twenty-seventh year a -passionate restlessness took possession of Alice. She -could not bear to be in the company of the drug -clerk, and when, in the evening, he came to walk -with her she sent him away. Her mind became in- -tensely active and when, weary from the long hours -of standing behind the counter in the store, she -went home and crawled into bed, she could not -sleep. With staring eyes she looked into the dark- -ness. Her imagination, like a child awakened from -long sleep, played about the room. Deep within her -there was something that would not be cheated by -phantasies and that demanded some definite answer -from life. - -Alice took a pillow into her arms and held it -tightly against her breasts. Getting out of bed, she -arranged a blanket so that in the darkness it looked -like a form lying between the sheets and, kneeling -beside the bed, she caressed it, whispering words -over and over, like a refrain. "Why doesn't some- -thing happen? Why am I left here alone?" she mut- -tered. Although she sometimes thought of Ned -Currie, she no longer depended on him. Her desire -had grown vague. She did not want Ned Currie or -any other man. She wanted to be loved, to have -something answer the call that was growing louder -and louder within her. - -And then one night when it rained Alice had an -adventure. It frightened and confused her. She had -come home from the store at nine and found the -house empty. Bush Milton had gone off to town and -her mother to the house of a neighbor. Alice went -upstairs to her room and undressed in the darkness. -For a moment she stood by the window hearing the -rain beat against the glass and then a strange desire -took possession of her. Without stopping to think -of what she intended to do, she ran downstairs -through the dark house and out into the rain. As -she stood on the little grass plot before the house -and felt the cold rain on her body a mad desire to -run naked through the streets took possession of -her. - -She thought that the rain would have some cre- -ative and wonderful effect on her body. Not for -years had she felt so full of youth and courage. She -wanted to leap and run, to cry out, to find some -other lonely human and embrace him. On the brick -sidewalk before the house a man stumbled home- -ward. Alice started to run. A wild, desperate mood -took possession of her. "What do I care who it is. -He is alone, and I will go to him," she thought; and -then without stopping to consider the possible result -of her madness, called softly. "Wait!" she cried. -"Don't go away. Whoever you are, you must wait." - -The man on the sidewalk stopped and stood lis- -tening. He was an old man and somewhat deaf. -Putting his hand to his mouth, he shouted. "What? -What say?" he called. - -Alice dropped to the ground and lay trembling. -She was so frightened at the thought of what she -had done that when the man had gone on his way -she did not dare get to her feet, but crawled on -hands and knees through the grass to the house. -When she got to her own room she bolted the door -and drew her dressing table across the doorway. -Her body shook as with a chill and her hands trem- -bled so that she had difficulty getting into her night- -dress. When she got into bed she buried her face in -the pillow and wept brokenheartedly. "What is the -matter with me? I will do something dreadful if I -am not careful," she thought, and turning her face -to the wall, began trying to force herself to face -bravely the fact that many people must live and die -alone, even in Winesburg. - - - - -RESPECTABILITY - -IF YOU HAVE lived in cities and have walked in the -park on a summer afternoon, you have perhaps -seen, blinking in a corner of his iron cage, a huge, -grotesque kind of monkey, a creature with ugly, sag- -ging, hairless skin below his eyes and a bright pur- -ple underbody. This monkey is a true monster. In -the completeness of his ugliness he achieved a kind -of perverted beauty. Children stopping before the -cage are fascinated, men turn away with an air of -disgust, and women linger for a moment, trying per- -haps to remember which one of their male acquain- -tances the thing in some faint way resembles. - -Had you been in the earlier years of your life a -citizen of the village of Winesburg, Ohio, there -would have been for you no mystery in regard to -the beast in his cage. "It is like Wash Williams," you -would have said. "As he sits in the corner there, the -beast is exactly like old Wash sitting on the grass in -the station yard on a summer evening after he has -closed his office for the night." - -Wash Williams, the telegraph operator of Wines- -burg, was the ugliest thing in town. His girth was -immense, his neck thin, his legs feeble. He was -dirty. Everything about him was unclean. Even the -whites of his eyes looked soiled. - -I go too fast. Not everything about Wash was un- -clean. He took care of his hands. His fingers were -fat, but there was something sensitive and shapely -in the hand that lay on the table by the instrument -in the telegraph office. In his youth Wash Williams -had been called the best telegraph operator in the -state, and in spite of his degradement to the obscure -office at Winesburg, he was still proud of his ability. - -Wash Williams did not associate with the men of -the town in which he lived. "I'll have nothing to do -with them," he said, looking with bleary eyes at the -men who walked along the station platform past the -telegraph office. Up along Main Street he went in -the evening to Ed Griffith's saloon, and after drink- -ing unbelievable quantities of beer staggered off to -his room in the New Willard House and to his bed -for the night. - -Wash Williams was a man of courage. A thing -had happened to him that made him hate life, and -he hated it wholeheartedly, with the abandon of a -poet. First of all, he hated women. "Bitches," he -called them. His feeling toward men was somewhat -different. He pitied them. "Does not every man let -his life be managed for him by some bitch or an- -other?" he asked. - -In Winesburg no attention was paid to Wash Wil- -liams and his hatred of his fellows. Once Mrs. -White, the banker's wife, complained to the tele- -graph company, saying that the office in Winesburg -was dirty and smelled abominably, but nothing -came of her complaint. Here and there a man re- -spected the operator. Instinctively the man felt in -him a glowing resentment of something he had not -the courage to resent. When Wash walked through -the streets such a one had an instinct to pay him -homage, to raise his hat or to bow before him. The -superintendent who had supervision over the tele- -graph operators on the railroad that went through -Winesburg felt that way. He had put Wash into the -obscure office at Winesburg to avoid discharging -him, and he meant to keep him there. When he -received the letter of complaint from the banker's -wife, he tore it up and laughed unpleasantly. For -some reason he thought of his own wife as he tore -up the letter. - -Wash Williams once had a wife. When he was still -a young man he married a woman at Dayton, Ohio. -The woman was tall and slender and had blue eyes -and yellow hair. Wash was himself a comely youth. -He loved the woman with a love as absorbing as the -hatred he later felt for all women. - -In all of Winesburg there was but one person who -knew the story of the thing that had made ugly the -person and the character of Wash Williams. He once -told the story to George Willard and the telling of -the tale came about in this way: - -George Willard went one evening to walk with -Belle Carpenter, a trimmer of women's hats who -worked in a millinery shop kept by Mrs. Kate -McHugh. The young man was not in love with the -woman, who, in fact, had a suitor who worked as -bartender in Ed Griffith's saloon, but as they walked -about under the trees they occasionally embraced. -The night and their own thoughts had aroused -something in them. As they were returning to Main -Street they passed the little lawn beside the railroad -station and saw Wash Williams apparently asleep on -the grass beneath a tree. On the next evening the -operator and George Willard walked out together. -Down the railroad they went and sat on a pile of -decaying railroad ties beside the tracks. It was then -that the operator told the young reporter his story -of hate. - -Perhaps a dozen times George Willard and the -strange, shapeless man who lived at his father's -hotel had been on the point of talking. The young -man looked at the hideous, leering face staring -about the hotel dining room and was consumed -with curiosity. Something he saw lurking in the star- -ing eyes told him that the man who had nothing to -say to others had nevertheless something to say to -him. On the pile of railroad ties on the summer eve- -ning, he waited expectantly. When the operator re- -mained silent and seemed to have changed his mind -about talking, he tried to make conversation. "Were -you ever married, Mr. Williams?" he began. "I sup- -pose you were and your wife is dead, is that it?" - -Wash Williams spat forth a succession of vile -oaths. "Yes, she is dead," he agreed. "She is dead -as all women are dead. She is a living-dead thing, -walking in the sight of men and making the earth -foul by her presence." Staring into the boy's eyes, -the man became purple with rage. "Don't have fool -notions in your head," he commanded. "My wife, -she is dead; yes, surely. I tell you, all women are -dead, my mother, your mother, that tall dark -woman who works in the millinery store and with -whom I saw you walking about yesterday--all of -them, they are all dead. I tell you there is something -rotten about them. I was married, sure. My wife was -dead before she married me, she was a foul thing -come out a woman more foul. She was a thing sent -to make life unbearable to me. I was a fool, do you -see, as you are now, and so I married this woman. -I would like to see men a little begin to understand -women. They are sent to prevent men making the -world worth while. It is a trick in Nature. Ugh! They -are creeping, crawling, squirming things, they with -their soft hands and their blue eyes. The sight of a -woman sickens me. Why I don't kill every woman -I see I don't know." - -Half frightened and yet fascinated by the light -burning in the eyes of the hideous old man, George -Willard listened, afire with curiosity. Darkness came -on and he leaned forward trying to see the face of -the man who talked. When, in the gathering dark- -ness, he could no longer see the purple, bloated face -and the burning eyes, a curious fancy came to him. -Wash Williams talked in low even tones that made -his words seem the more terrible. In the darkness -the young reporter found himself imagining that he -sat on the railroad ties beside a comely young man -with black hair and black shining eyes. There was -something almost beautiful in the voice of Wash Wil- -liams, the hideous, telling his story of hate. - -The telegraph operator of Winesburg, sitting in -the darkness on the railroad ties, had become a poet. -Hatred had raised him to that elevation. "It is because -I saw you kissing the lips of that Belle Carpenter -that I tell you my story," he said. "What happened -to me may next happen to you. I want to put you -on your guard. Already you may be having dreams -in your head. I want to destroy them." - -Wash Williams began telling the story of his mar- -ried life with the tall blonde girl with the blue eyes -whom he had met when he was a young operator -at Dayton, Ohio. Here and there his story was -touched with moments of beauty intermingled with -strings of vile curses. The operator had married the -daughter of a dentist who was the youngest of three -sisters. On his marriage day, because of his ability, -he was promoted to a position as dispatcher at an -increased salary and sent to an office at Columbus, -Ohio. There he settled down with his young wife -and began buying a house on the installment plan. - -The young telegraph operator was madly in love. -With a kind of religious fervor he had managed to -go through the pitfalls of his youth and to remain -virginal until after his marriage. He made for George -Willard a picture of his life in the house at Colum- -bus, Ohio, with the young wife. "in the garden back -of our house we planted vegetables," he said, "you -know, peas and corn and such things. We went to -Columbus in early March and as soon as the days -became warm I went to work in the garden. With a -spade I turned up the black ground while she ran -about laughing and pretending to be afraid of the -worms I uncovered. Late in April came the planting. -In the little paths among the seed beds she stood -holding a paper bag in her hand. The bag was filled -with seeds. A few at a time she handed me the -seeds that I might thrust them into the warm, soft -ground." - -For a moment there was a catch in the voice of -the man talking in the darkness. "I loved her," he -said. "I don't claim not to be a fool. I love her yet. -There in the dusk in the spring evening I crawled -along the black ground to her feet and groveled be- -fore her. I kissed her shoes and the ankles above -her shoes. When the hem of her garment touched -my face I trembled. When after two years of that life -I found she had managed to acquire three other lov- -ers who came regularly to our house when I was -away at work, I didn't want to touch them or her. -I just sent her home to her mother and said nothing. -There was nothing to say. I had four hundred dol- -lars in the bank and I gave her that. I didn't ask her -reasons. I didn't say anything. When she had gone -I cried like a silly boy. Pretty soon I had a chance -to sell the house and I sent that money to her." - -Wash Williams and George Willard arose from the -pile of railroad ties and walked along the tracks -toward town. The operator finished his tale quickly, -breathlessly. - -"Her mother sent for me," he said. "She wrote -me a letter and asked me to come to their house at -Dayton. When I got there it was evening about this -time." - -Wash Williams' voice rose to a half scream. "I sat -in the parlor of that house two hours. Her mother -took me in there and left me. Their house was styl- -ish. They were what is called respectable people. -There were plush chairs and a couch in the room. I -was trembling all over. I hated the men I thought -had wronged her. I was sick of living alone and -wanted her back. The longer I waited the more raw -and tender I became. I thought that if she came in -and just touched me with her hand I would perhaps -faint away. I ached to forgive and forget." - -Wash Williams stopped and stood staring at George -Willard. The boy's body shook as from a chill. Again -the man's voice became soft and low. "She came -into the room naked," he went on. "Her mother did -that. While I sat there she was taking the girl's -clothes off, perhaps coaxing her to do it. First I -heard voices at the door that led into a little hallway -and then it opened softly. The girl was ashamed and -stood perfectly still staring at the floor. The mother -didn't come into the room. When she had pushed -the girl in through the door she stood in the hallway -waiting, hoping we would--well, you see-- -waiting." - -George Willard and the telegraph operator came -into the main street of Winesburg. The lights from -the store windows lay bright and shining on the -sidewalks. People moved about laughing and talk- -ing. The young reporter felt ill and weak. In imagi- -nation, he also became old and shapeless. "I didn't -get the mother killed," said Wash Williams, staring -up and down the street. "I struck her once with a -chair and then the neighbors came in and took it -away. She screamed so loud you see. I won't ever -have a chance to kill her now. She died of a fever a -month after that happened." - - - - -THE THINKER - -THE HOUSE in which Seth Richmond of Winesburg -lived with his mother had been at one time the show -place of the town, but when young Seth lived there -its glory had become somewhat dimmed. The huge -brick house which Banker White had built on Buck- -eye Street had overshadowed it. The Richmond -place was in a little valley far out at the end of Main -Street. Farmers coming into town by a dusty road -from the south passed by a grove of walnut trees, -skirted the Fair Ground with its high board fence -covered with advertisements, and trotted their horses -down through the valley past the Richmond place -into town. As much of the country north and south -of Winesburg was devoted to fruit and berry raising, -Seth saw wagon-loads of berry pickers--boys, girls, -and women--going to the fields in the morning and -returning covered with dust in the evening. The -chattering crowd, with their rude jokes cried out -from wagon to wagon, sometimes irritated him -sharply. He regretted that he also could not laugh -boisterously, shout meaningless jokes and make of -himself a figure in the endless stream of moving, -giggling activity that went up and down the road. - -The Richmond house was built of limestone, and, -although it was said in the village to have become -run down, had in reality grown more beautiful with -every passing year. Already time had begun a little -to color the stone, lending a golden richness to its -surface and in the evening or on dark days touching -the shaded places beneath the eaves with wavering -patches of browns and blacks. - -The house had been built by Seth's grandfather, -a stone quarryman, and it, together with the stone -quarries on Lake Erie eighteen miles to the north, -had been left to his son, Clarence Richmond, Seth's -father. Clarence Richmond, a quiet passionate man -extraordinarily admired by his neighbors, had been -killed in a street fight with the editor of a newspaper -in Toledo, Ohio. The fight concerned the publication -of Clarence Richmond's name coupled with that of -a woman school teacher, and as the dead man had -begun the row by firing upon the editor, the effort -to punish the slayer was unsuccessful. After the -quarryman's death it was found that much of the -money left to him had been squandered in specula- -tion and in insecure investments made through the -influence of friends. - -Left with but a small income, Virginia Richmond -had settled down to a retired life in the village and -to the raising of her son. Although she had been -deeply moved by the death of the husband and fa- -ther, she did not at all believe the stories concerning -him that ran about after his death. To her mind, -the sensitive, boyish man whom all had instinctively -loved, was but an unfortunate, a being too fine for -everyday life. "You'll be hearing all sorts of stories, -but you are not to believe what you hear," she said -to her son. "He was a good man, full of tenderness -for everyone, and should not have tried to be a man -of affairs. No matter how much I were to plan and -dream of your future, I could not imagine anything -better for you than that you turn out as good a man -as your father." - -Several years after the death of her husband, Vir- -ginia Richmond had become alarmed at the growing -demands upon her income and had set herself to -the task of increasing it. She had learned stenogra- -phy and through the influence of her husband's -friends got the position of court stenographer at the -county seat. There she went by train each morning -during the sessions of the court, and when no court -sat, spent her days working among the rosebushes -in her garden. She was a tall, straight figure of a -woman with a plain face and a great mass of brown -hair. - -In the relationship between Seth Richmond and -his mother, there was a quality that even at eighteen -had begun to color all of his traffic with men. An -almost unhealthy respect for the youth kept the -mother for the most part silent in his presence. -When she did speak sharply to him he had only to -look steadily into her eyes to see dawning there the -puzzled look he had already noticed in the eyes of -others when he looked at them. - -The truth was that the son thought with remark- -able clearness and the mother did not. She expected -from all people certain conventional reactions to life. -A boy was your son, you scolded him and he trem- -bled and looked at the floor. When you had scolded -enough he wept and all was forgiven. After the -weeping and when he had gone to bed, you crept -into his room and kissed him. - -Virginia Richmond could not understand why her -son did not do these things. After the severest repri- -mand, he did not tremble and look at the floor but -instead looked steadily at her, causing uneasy doubts -to invade her mind. As for creeping into his room-- -after Seth had passed his fifteenth year, she would -have been half afraid to do anything of the kind. - -Once when he was a boy of sixteen, Seth in com- -pany with two other boys ran away from home. The -three boys climbed into the open door of an empty -freight car and rode some forty miles to a town -where a fair was being held. One of the boys had -a bottle filled with a combination of whiskey and -blackberry wine, and the three sat with legs dan- -gling out of the car door drinking from the bottle. -Seth's two companions sang and waved their hands -to idlers about the stations of the towns through -which the train passed. They planned raids upon -the baskets of farmers who had come with their fam- -ilies to the fair. "We will five like kings and won't -have to spend a penny to see the fair and horse -races," they declared boastfully. - -After the disappearance of Seth, Virginia Rich- -mond walked up and down the floor of her home -filled with vague alarms. Although on the next day -she discovered, through an inquiry made by the -town marshal, on what adventure the boys had -gone, she could not quiet herself. All through the -night she lay awake hearing the clock tick and telling -herself that Seth, like his father, would come to a -sudden and violent end. So determined was she that -the boy should this time feel the weight of her wrath -that, although she would not allow the marshal to -interfere with his adventure, she got out a pencil -and paper and wrote down a series of sharp, sting- -ing reproofs she intended to pour out upon him. -The reproofs she committed to memory, going about -the garden and saying them aloud like an actor -memorizing his part. - -And when, at the end of the week, Seth returned, -a little weary and with coal soot in his ears and -about his eyes, she again found herself unable to -reprove him. Walking into the house he hung his -cap on a nail by the kitchen door and stood looking -steadily at her. "I wanted to turn back within an -hour after we had started," he explained. "I didn't -know what to do. I knew you would be bothered, -but I knew also that if I didn't go on I would be -ashamed of myself. I went through with the thing -for my own good. It was uncomfortable, sleeping -on wet straw, and two drunken Negroes came and -slept with us. When I stole a lunch basket out of a -farmer's wagon I couldn't help thinking of his chil- -dren going all day without food. I was sick of the -whole affair, but I was determined to stick it out -until the other boys were ready to come back." - -"I'm glad you did stick it out," replied the mother, -half resentfully, and kissing him upon the forehead -pretended to busy herself with the work about the -house. - -On a summer evening Seth Richmond went to -the New Willard House to visit his friend, George -Willard. It had rained during the afternoon, but as -he walked through Main Street, the sky had partially -cleared and a golden glow lit up the west. Going -around a corner, he turned in at the door of the -hotel and began to climb the stairway leading up to -his friend's room. In the hotel office the proprietor -and two traveling men were engaged in a discussion -of politics. - -On the stairway Seth stopped and listened to the -voices of the men below. They were excited and -talked rapidly. Tom Willard was berating the travel- -ing men. "I am a Democrat but your talk makes -me sick," he said. "You don't understand McKinley. -McKinley and Mark Hanna are friends. It is impossi- -ble perhaps for your mind to grasp that. If anyone -tells you that a friendship can be deeper and bigger -and more worth while than dollars and cents, or -even more worth while than state politics, you -snicker and laugh." - -The landlord was interrupted by one of the -guests, a tall, grey-mustached man who worked for -a wholesale grocery house. "Do you think that I've -lived in Cleveland all these years without knowing -Mark Hanna?" he demanded. "Your talk is piffle. -Hanna is after money and nothing else. This McKin- -ley is his tool. He has McKinley bluffed and don't -you forget it." - -The young man on the stairs did not linger to -hear the rest of the discussion, but went on up the -stairway and into the little dark hall. Something in -the voices of the men talking in the hotel office -started a chain of thoughts in his mind. He was -lonely and had begun to think that loneliness was a -part of his character, something that would always -stay with him. Stepping into a side hall he stood by -a window that looked into an alleyway. At the back -of his shop stood Abner Groff, the town baker. His -tiny bloodshot eyes looked up and down the alley- -way. In his shop someone called the baker, who -pretended not to hear. The baker had an empty milk -bottle in his hand and an angry sullen look in his -eyes. - -In Winesburg, Seth Richmond was called the -"deep one." "He's like his father," men said as he -went through the streets. "He'll break out some of -these days. You wait and see." - -The talk of the town and the respect with which -men and boys instinctively greeted him, as all men -greet silent people, had affected Seth Richmond's -outlook on life and on himself. He, like most boys, -was deeper than boys are given credit for being, but -he was not what the men of the town, and even -his mother, thought him to be. No great underlying -purpose lay back of his habitual silence, and he had -no definite plan for his life. When the boys with -whom he associated were noisy and quarrelsome, -he stood quietly at one side. With calm eyes he -watched the gesticulating lively figures of his com- -panions. He wasn't particularly interested in what -was going on, and sometimes wondered if he would -ever be particularly interested in anything. Now, as -he stood in the half-darkness by the window watch- -ing the baker, he wished that he himself might be- -come thoroughly stirred by something, even by the -fits of sullen anger for which Baker Groff was noted. -"It would be better for me if I could become excited -and wrangle about politics like windy old Tom Wil- -lard," he thought, as he left the window and went -again along the hallway to the room occupied by his -friend, George Willard. - -George Willard was older than Seth Richmond, -but in the rather odd friendship between the two, it -was he who was forever courting and the younger -boy who was being courted. The paper on which -George worked had one policy. It strove to mention -by name in each issue, as many as possible of the -inhabitants of the village. Like an excited dog, -George Willard ran here and there, noting on his -pad of paper who had gone on business to the -county seat or had returned from a visit to a neigh- -boring village. All day he wrote little facts upon the -pad. "A. P. Wringlet had received a shipment of -straw hats. Ed Byerbaum and Tom Marshall were in -Cleveland Friday. Uncle Tom Sinnings is building a -new barn on his place on the Valley Road." - -The idea that George Willard would some day be- -come a writer had given him a place of distinction -in Winesburg, and to Seth Richmond he talked con- -tinually of the matter, "It's the easiest of all lives to -live," he declared, becoming excited and boastful. -"Here and there you go and there is no one to boss -you. Though you are in India or in the South Seas -in a boat, you have but to write and there you are. -Wait till I get my name up and then see what fun I -shall have." - -In George Willard's room, which had a window -looking down into an alleyway and one that looked -across railroad tracks to Biff Carter's Lunch Room -facing the railroad station, Seth Richmond sat in a -chair and looked at the floor. George Willard, who -had been sitting for an hour idly playing with a lead -pencil, greeted him effusively. "I've been trying to -write a love story," he explained, laughing ner- -vously. Lighting a pipe he began walking up and -down the room. "I know what I'm going to do. I'm -going to fall in love. I've been sitting here and think- -ing it over and I'm going to do it." - -As though embarrassed by his declaration, George -went to a window and turning his back to his friend -leaned out. "I know who I'm going to fall in love -with," he said sharply. "It's Helen White. She is the -only girl in town with any 'get-up' to her." - -Struck with a new idea, young Willard turned and -walked toward his visitor. "Look here," he said. -"You know Helen White better than I do. I want -you to tell her what I said. You just get to talking -to her and say that I'm in love with her. See what -she says to that. See how she takes it, and then you -come and tell me." - -Seth Richmond arose and went toward the door. -The words of his comrade irritated him unbearably. -"Well, good-bye," he said briefly. - -George was amazed. Running forward he stood -in the darkness trying to look into Seth's face. -"What's the matter? What are you going to do? You -stay here and let's talk," he urged. - -A wave of resentment directed against his friend, -the men of the town who were, he thought, perpet- -ually talking of nothing, and most of all, against his -own habit of silence, made Seth half desperate. -"Aw, speak to her yourself," he burst forth and -then, going quickly through the door, slammed it -sharply in his friend's face. "I'm going to find Helen -White and talk to her, but not about him," he -muttered. - -Seth went down the stairway and out at the front -door of the hotel muttering with wrath. Crossing a -little dusty street and climbing a low iron railing, he -went to sit upon the grass in the station yard. -George Willard he thought a profound fool, and he -wished that he had said so more vigorously. Al- -though his acquaintanceship with Helen White, the -banker's daughter, was outwardly but casual, she -was often the subject of his thoughts and he felt that -she was something private and personal to himself. -"The busy fool with his love stories," he muttered, -staring back over his shoulder at George Willard's -room, "why does he never tire of his eternal -talking." - -It was berry harvest time in Winesburg and upon -the station platform men and boys loaded the boxes -of red, fragrant berries into two express cars that -stood upon the siding. A June moon was in the sky, -although in the west a storm threatened, and no -street lamps were lighted. In the dim light the fig- -ures of the men standing upon the express truck -and pitching the boxes in at the doors of the cars -were but dimly discernible. Upon the iron railing -that protected the station lawn sat other men. Pipes -were lighted. Village jokes went back and forth. -Away in the distance a train whistled and the men -loading the boxes into the cars worked with re- -newed activity. - -Seth arose from his place on the grass and went -silently past the men perched upon the railing and -into Main Street. He had come to a resolution. "I'll -get out of here," he told himself. "What good am I -here? I'm going to some city and go to work. I'll tell -mother about it tomorrow." - -Seth Richmond went slowly along Main Street, -past Wacker's Cigar Store and the Town Hall, and -into Buckeye Street. He was depressed by the -thought that he was not a part of the life in his own -town, but the depression did not cut deeply as he -did not think of himself as at fault. In the heavy -shadows of a big tree before Doctor Welling's house, -he stopped and stood watching half-witted Turk -Smollet, who was pushing a wheelbarrow in the -road. The old man with his absurdly boyish mind -had a dozen long boards on the wheelbarrow, and, -as he hurried along the road, balanced the load with -extreme nicety. "Easy there, Turk! Steady now, old -boy!" the old man shouted to himself, and laughed -so that the load of boards rocked dangerously. - -Seth knew Turk Smollet, the half dangerous old -wood chopper whose peculiarities added so much -of color to the life of the village. He knew that when -Turk got into Main Street he would become the cen- -ter of a whirlwind of cries and comments, that in -truth the old man was going far out of his way in -order to pass through Main Street and exhibit his -skill in wheeling the boards. "If George Willard were -here, he'd have something to say," thought Seth. -"George belongs to this town. He'd shout at Turk -and Turk would shout at him. They'd both be se- -cretly pleased by what they had said. It's different -with me. I don't belong. I'll not make a fuss about -it, but I'm going to get out of here." - -Seth stumbled forward through the half-darkness, -feeling himself an outcast in his own town. He -began to pity himself, but a sense of the absurdity -of his thoughts made him smile. In the end he de- -cided that he was simply old beyond his years and -not at all a subject for self-pity. "I'm made to go to -work. I may be able to make a place for myself by -steady working, and I might as well be at it," he -decided. - -Seth went to the house of Banker White and stood -in the darkness by the front door. On the door hung -a heavy brass knocker, an innovation introduced -into the village by Helen White's mother, who had -also organized a women's club for the study of po- -etry. Seth raised the knocker and let it fall. Its heavy -clatter sounded like a report from distant guns. -"How awkward and foolish I am," he thought. "If -Mrs. White comes to the door, I won't know what -to say." - -It was Helen White who came to the door and -found Seth standing at the edge of the porch. Blush- -ing with pleasure, she stepped forward, closing the -door softly. "I'm going to get out of town. I don't -know what I'll do, but I'm going to get out of here -and go to work. I think I'll go to Columbus," he -said. "Perhaps I'll get into the State University down -there. Anyway, I'm going. I'll tell mother tonight." -He hesitated and looked doubtfully about. "Perhaps -you wouldn't mind coming to walk with me?" - -Seth and Helen walked through the streets be- -neath the trees. Heavy clouds had drifted across the -face of the moon, and before them in the deep twi- -light went a man with a short ladder upon his shoul- -der. Hurrying forward, the man stopped at the -street crossing and, putting the ladder against the -wooden lamp-post, lighted the village lights so that -their way was half lighted, half darkened, by the -lamps and by the deepening shadows cast by the -low-branched trees. In the tops of the trees the wind -began to play, disturbing the sleeping birds so that -they flew about calling plaintively. In the lighted -space before one of the lamps, two bats wheeled -and circled, pursuing the gathering swarm of night -flies. - -Since Seth had been a boy in knee trousers there -had been a half expressed intimacy between him -and the maiden who now for the first time walked -beside him. For a time she had been beset with a -madness for writing notes which she addressed to -Seth. He had found them concealed in his books at -school and one had been given him by a child met -in the street, while several had been delivered -through the village post office. - -The notes had been written in a round, boyish -hand and had reflected a mind inflamed by novel -reading. Seth had not answered them, although he -had been moved and flattered by some of the sen- -tences scrawled in pencil upon the stationery of the -banker's wife. Putting them into the pocket of his -coat, he went through the street or stood by the -fence in the school yard with something burning at -his side. He thought it fine that he should be thus -selected as the favorite of the richest and most at- -tractive girl in town. - -Helen and Seth stopped by a fence near where a -low dark building faced the street. The building had -once been a factory for the making of barrel staves -but was now vacant. Across the street upon the -porch of a house a man and woman talked of their -childhood, their voices coming dearly across to the -half-embarrassed youth and maiden. There was the -sound of scraping chairs and the man and woman -came down the gravel path to a wooden gate. Stand- -ing outside the gate, the man leaned over and kissed -the woman. "For old times' sake," he said and, -turning, walked rapidly away along the sidewalk. - -"That's Belle Turner," whispered Helen, and put -her hand boldly into Seth's hand. "I didn't know -she had a fellow. I thought she was too old for -that." Seth laughed uneasily. The hand of the girl -was warm and a strange, dizzy feeling crept over -him. Into his mind came a desire to tell her some- -thing he had been determined not to tell. "George -Willard's in love with you," he said, and in spite of -his agitation his voice was low and quiet. "He's writ- -ing a story, and he wants to be in love. He wants -to know how it feels. He wanted me to tell you and -see what you said." - -Again Helen and Seth walked in silence. They -came to the garden surrounding the old Richmond -place and going through a gap in the hedge sat on -a wooden bench beneath a bush. - -On the street as he walked beside the girl new -and daring thoughts had come into Seth Richmond's -mind. He began to regret his decision to get out of -town. "It would be something new and altogether -delightful to remain and walk often through the -streets with Helen White," he thought. In imagina- -tion he saw himself putting his arm about her waist -and feeling her arms clasped tightly about his neck. -One of those odd combinations of events and places -made him connect the idea of love-making with this -girl and a spot he had visited some days before. He -had gone on an errand to the house of a farmer who -lived on a hillside beyond the Fair Ground and had -returned by a path through a field. At the foot of -the hill below the farmer's house Seth had stopped -beneath a sycamore tree and looked about him. A -soft humming noise had greeted his ears. For a mo- -ment he had thought the tree must be the home of -a swarm of bees. - -And then, looking down, Seth had seen the bees -everywhere all about him in the long grass. He -stood in a mass of weeds that grew waist-high in -the field that ran away from the hillside. The weeds -were abloom with tiny purple blossoms and gave -forth an overpowering fragrance. Upon the weeds -the bees were gathered in armies, singing as they -worked. - -Seth imagined himself lying on a summer eve- -ning, buried deep among the weeds beneath the -tree. Beside him, in the scene built in his fancy, lay -Helen White, her hand lying in his hand. A peculiar -reluctance kept him from kissing her lips, but he felt -he might have done that if he wished. Instead, he -lay perfectly still, looking at her and listening to the -army of bees that sang the sustained masterful song -of labor above his head. - -On the bench in the garden Seth stirred uneasily. -Releasing the hand of the girl, he thrust his hands -into his trouser pockets. A desire to impress the -mind of his companion with the importance of the -resolution he had made came over him and he nod- -ded his head toward the house. "Mother'll make a -fuss, I suppose," he whispered. "She hasn't thought -at all about what I'm going to do in life. She thinks -I'm going to stay on here forever just being a boy." - -Seth's voice became charged with boyish earnest- -ness. "You see, I've got to strike out. I've got to get -to work. It's what I'm good for." - -Helen White was impressed. She nodded her -head and a feeling of admiration swept over her. -"This is as it should be," she thought. "This boy is -not a boy at all, but a strong, purposeful man." Cer- -tain vague desires that had been invading her body -were swept away and she sat up very straight on -the bench. The thunder continued to rumble and -flashes of heat lightning lit up the eastern sky. The -garden that had been so mysterious and vast, a -place that with Seth beside her might have become -the background for strange and wonderful adven- -tures, now seemed no more than an ordinary Wines- -burg back yard, quite definite and limited in its -outlines. - -"What will you do up there?" she whispered. - -Seth turned half around on the bench, striving to -see her face in the darkness. He thought her infi- -nitely more sensible and straightforward than George -Willard, and was glad he had come away from his -friend. A feeling of impatience with the town that -had been in his mind returned, and he tried to tell -her of it. "Everyone talks and talks," he began. "I'm -sick of it. I'll do something, get into some kind of -work where talk don't count. Maybe I'll just be a -mechanic in a shop. I don't know. I guess I don't -care much. I just want to work and keep quiet. -That's all I've got in my mind." - -Seth arose from the bench and put out his hand. -He did not want to bring the meeting to an end but -could not think of anything more to say. "It's the -last time we'll see each other," he whispered. - -A wave of sentiment swept over Helen. Putting -her hand upon Seth's shoulder, she started to draw -his face down toward her own upturned face. The -act was one of pure affection and cutting regret that -some vague adventure that had been present in the -spirit of the night would now never be realized. "I -think I'd better be going along," she said, letting her -hand fall heavily to her side. A thought came to her. -"Don't you go with me; I want to be alone," she -said. "You go and talk with your mother. You'd -better do that now." - -Seth hesitated and, as he stood waiting, the girl -turned and ran away through the hedge. A desire -to run after her came to him, but he only stood -staring, perplexed and puzzled by her action as he -had been perplexed and puzzled by all of the life of -the town out of which she had come. Walking -slowly toward the house, he stopped in the shadow -of a large tree and looked at his mother sitting by a -lighted window busily sewing. The feeling of loneli- -ness that had visited him earlier in the evening re- -turned and colored his thoughts of the adventure -through which he had just passed. "Huh!" he ex- -claimed, turning and staring in the direction taken -by Helen White. "That's how things'll turn out. -She'll be like the rest. I suppose she'll begin now to -look at me in a funny way." He looked at the -ground and pondered this thought. "She'll be em- -barrassed and feel strange when I'm around," he -whispered to himself. "That's how it'll be. That's -how everything'll turn out. When it comes to loving -someone, it won't never be me. It'll be someone -else--some fool--someone who talks a lot--some- -one like that George Willard." - - - - -TANDY - -UNTIL SHE WAS seven years old she lived in an old -unpainted house on an unused road that led off -Trunion Pike. Her father gave her but little attention -and her mother was dead. The father spent his time -talking and thinking of religion. He proclaimed him- -self an agnostic and was so absorbed in destroying -the ideas of God that had crept into the minds of -his neighbors that he never saw God manifesting -himself in the little child that, half forgotten, lived -here and there on the bounty of her dead mother's -relatives. - -A stranger came to Winesburg and saw in the -child what the father did not see. He was a tall, red- -haired young man who was almost always drunk. -Sometimes he sat in a chair before the New Willard -House with Tom Hard, the father. As Tom talked, -declaring there could be no God, the stranger smiled -and winked at the bystanders. He and Tom became -friends and were much together. - -The stranger was the son of a rich merchant of -Cleveland and had come to Winesburg on a mission. -He wanted to cure himself of the habit of drink, and -thought that by escaping from his city associates and -living in a rural community he would have a better -chance in the struggle with the appetite that was -destroying him. - -His sojourn in Winesburg was not a success. The -dullness of the passing hours led to his drinking -harder than ever. But he did succeed in doing some- -thing. He gave a name rich with meaning to Tom -Hard's daughter. - -One evening when he was recovering from a long -debauch the stranger came reeling along the main -street of the town. Tom Hard sat in a chair before -the New Willard House with his daughter, then a -child of five, on his knees. Beside him on the board -sidewalk sat young George Willard. The stranger -dropped into a chair beside them. His body shook -and when he tried to talk his voice trembled. - -It was late evening and darkness lay over the -town and over the railroad that ran along the foot -of a little incline before the hotel. Somewhere in the -distance, off to the west, there was a prolonged blast -from the whistle of a passenger engine. A dog that -had been sleeping in the roadway arose and barked. -The stranger began to babble and made a prophecy -concerning the child that lay in the arms of the -agnostic. - -"I came here to quit drinking," he said, and tears -began to run down his cheeks. He did not look at -Tom Hard, but leaned forward and stared into the -darkness as though seeing a vision. "I ran away to -the country to be cured, but I am not cured. There -is a reason." He turned to look at the child who sat -up very straight on her father's knee and returned -the look. - -The stranger touched Tom Hard on the arm. -"Drink is not the only thing to which I am ad- -dicted," he said. "There is something else. I am a -lover and have not found my thing to love. That is -a big point if you know enough to realize what I -mean. It makes my destruction inevitable, you see. -There are few who understand that." - -The stranger became silent and seemed overcome -with sadness, but another blast from the whistle of -the passenger engine aroused him. "I have not lost -faith. I proclaim that. I have only been brought to -the place where I know my faith will not be real- -ized," he declared hoarsely. He looked hard at the -child and began to address her, paying no more at- -tention to the father. "There is a woman coming," -he said, and his voice was now sharp and earnest. -"I have missed her, you see. She did not come in -my time. You may be the woman. It would be like -fate to let me stand in her presence once, on such -an evening as this, when I have destroyed myself -with drink and she is as yet only a child." - -The shoulders of the stranger shook violently, and -when he tried to roll a cigarette the paper fell from -his trembling fingers. He grew angry and scolded. -"They think it's easy to be a woman, to be loved, -but I know better," he declared. Again he turned to -the child. "I understand," he cried. "Perhaps of all -men I alone understand." - -His glance again wandered away to the darkened -street. "I know about her, although she has never -crossed my path," he said softly. "I know about her -struggles and her defeats. It is because of her defeats -that she is to me the lovely one. Out of her defeats -has been born a new quality in woman. I have a -name for it. I call it Tandy. I made up the name -when I was a true dreamer and before my body -became vile. It is the quality of being strong to be -loved. It is something men need from women and -that they do not get. " - -The stranger arose and stood before Tom Hard. -His body rocked back and forth and he seemed -about to fall, but instead he dropped to his knees -on the sidewalk and raised the hands of the little -girl to his drunken lips. He kissed them ecstatically. -"Be Tandy, little one," he pleaded. "Dare to be -strong and courageous. That is the road. Venture -anything. Be brave enough to dare to be loved. Be -something more than man or woman. Be Tandy." - -The stranger arose and staggered off down the -street. A day or two later he got aboard a train and -returned to his home in Cleveland. On the summer -evening, after the talk before the hotel, Tom Hard -took the girl child to the house of a relative where -she had been invited to spend the night. As he went -along in the darkness under the trees he forgot the -babbling voice of the stranger and his mind returned -to the making of arguments by which he might de- -stroy men's faith in God. He spoke his daughter's -name and she began to weep. - -"I don't want to be called that," she declared. "I -want to be called Tandy--Tandy Hard." The child -wept so bitterly that Tom Hard was touched and -tried to comfort her. He stopped beneath a tree and, -taking her into his arms, began to caress her. "Be -good, now," he said sharply; but she would not be -quieted. With childish abandon she gave herself -over to grief, her voice breaking the evening stillness -of the street. "I want to be Tandy. I want to be -Tandy. I want to be Tandy Hard," she cried, shak- -ing her head and sobbing as though her young -strength were not enough to bear the vision the -words of the drunkard had brought to her. - - - - -THE STRENGTH OF GOD - -THE REVEREND Curtis Hartman was pastor of the -Presbyterian Church of Winesburg, and had been in -that position ten years. He was forty years old, and -by his nature very silent and reticent. To preach, -standing in the pulpit before the people, was always -a hardship for him and from Wednesday morning -until Saturday evening he thought of nothing but -the two sermons that must be preached on Sunday. -Early on Sunday morning he went into a little room -called a study in the bell tower of the church and -prayed. In his prayers there was one note that al- -ways predominated. "Give me strength and courage -for Thy work, O Lord!" he pleaded, kneeling on the -bare floor and bowing his head in the presence of -the task that lay before him. - -The Reverend Hartman was a tall man with a -brown beard. His wife, a stout, nervous woman, -was the daughter of a manufacturer of underwear -at Cleveland, Ohio. The minister himself was rather -a favorite in the town. The elders of the church liked -him because he was quiet and unpretentious and -Mrs. White, the banker's wife, thought him schol- -arly and refined. - -The Presbyterian Church held itself somewhat -aloof from the other churches of Winesburg. It was -larger and more imposing and its minister was better -paid. He even had a carriage of his own and on -summer evenings sometimes drove about town with -his wife. Through Main Street and up and down -Buckeye Street he went, bowing gravely to the peo- -ple, while his wife, afire with secret pride, looked -at him out of the corners of her eyes and worried -lest the horse become frightened and run away. - -For a good many years after he came to Wines- -burg things went well with Curtis Hartman. He was -not one to arouse keen enthusiasm among the wor- -shippers in his church but on the other hand he -made no enemies. In reality he was much in earnest -and sometimes suffered prolonged periods of re- -morse because he could not go crying the word of -God in the highways and byways of the town. He -wondered if the flame of the spirit really burned in -him and dreamed of a day when a strong sweet new -current of power would come like a great wind into -his voice and his soul and the people would tremble -before the spirit of God made manifest in him. "I -am a poor stick and that will never really happen to -me," he mused dejectedly, and then a patient smile -lit up his features. "Oh well, I suppose I'm doing -well enough," he added philosophically. - -The room in the bell tower of the church, where -on Sunday mornings the minister prayed for an in- -crease in him of the power of God, had but one -window. It was long and narrow and swung out- -ward on a hinge like a door. On the window, made -of little leaded panes, was a design showing the -Christ laying his hand upon the head of a child. -One Sunday morning in the summer as he sat by -his desk in the room with a large Bible opened be- -fore him, and the sheets of his sermon scattered -about, the minister was shocked to see, in the upper -room of the house next door, a woman lying in her -bed and smoking a cigarette while she read a book. -Curtis Hartman went on tiptoe to the window and -closed it softly. He was horror stricken at the -thought of a woman smoking and trembled also to -think that his eyes, just raised from the pages of the -book of God, had looked upon the bare shoulders -and white throat of a woman. With his brain in a -whirl he went down into the pulpit and preached a -long sermon without once thinking of his gestures -or his voice. The sermon attracted unusual attention -because of its power and clearness. "I wonder if she -is listening, if my voice is carrying a message into -her soul," he thought and began to hope that on -future Sunday mornings he might be able to say -words that would touch and awaken the woman -apparently far gone in secret sin. - -The house next door to the Presbyterian Church, -through the windows of which the minister had seen -the sight that had so upset him, was occupied by -two women. Aunt Elizabeth Swift, a grey competent- -looking widow with money in the Winesburg Na- -tional Bank, lived there with her daughter Kate -Swift, a school teacher. The school teacher was -thirty years old and had a neat trim-looking figure. -She had few friends and bore a reputation of having -a sharp tongue. When he began to think about her, -Curtis Hartman remembered that she had been to -Europe and had lived for two years in New York -City. "Perhaps after all her smoking means noth- -ing," he thought. He began to remember that when -he was a student in college and occasionally read -novels, good although somewhat worldly women, -had smoked through the pages of a book that had -once fallen into his hands. With a rush of new deter- -mination he worked on his sermons all through the -week and forgot, in his zeal to reach the ears and the -soul of this new listener, both his embarrassment in -the pulpit and the necessity of prayer in the study -on Sunday mornings. - -Reverend Hartman's experience with women had -been somewhat limited. He was the son of a wagon -maker from Muncie, Indiana, and had worked his -way through college. The daughter of the under- -wear manufacturer had boarded in a house where -he lived during his school days and he had married -her after a formal and prolonged courtship, carried -on for the most part by the girl herself. On his mar- -riage day the underwear manufacturer had given his -daughter five thousand dollars and he promised to -leave her at least twice that amount in his will. The -minister had thought himself fortunate in marriage -and had never permitted himself to think of other -women. He did not want to think of other women. -What he wanted was to do the work of God quietly -and earnestly. - -In the soul of the minister a struggle awoke. From -wanting to reach the ears of Kate Swift, and through -his sermons to delve into her soul, he began to want -also to look again at the figure lying white and quiet -in the bed. On a Sunday morning when he could -not sleep because of his thoughts he arose and went -to walk in the streets. When he had gone along -Main Street almost to the old Richmond place he -stopped and picking up a stone rushed off to the -room in the bell tower. With the stone he broke out -a corner of the window and then locked the door -and sat down at the desk before the open Bible to -wait. When the shade of the window to Kate Swift's -room was raised he could see, through the hole, -directly into her bed, but she was not there. She -also had arisen and had gone for a walk and the -hand that raised the shade was the hand of Aunt -Elizabeth Swift. - -The minister almost wept with joy at this deliver- -ance from the carnal desire to "peep" and went back -to his own house praising God. In an ill moment he -forgot, however, to stop the hole in the window. -The piece of glass broken out at the corner of the -window just nipped off the bare heel of the boy -standing motionless and looking with rapt eyes into -the face of the Christ. - -Curtis Hartman forgot his sermon on that Sunday -morning. He talked to his congregation and in his -talk said that it was a mistake for people to think of -their minister as a man set aside and intended by -nature to lead a blameless life. "Out of my own -experience I know that we, who are the ministers of -God's word, are beset by the same temptations that -assail you," he declared. "I have been tempted and -have surrendered to temptation. It is only the hand -of God, placed beneath my head, that has raised me -up. As he has raised me so also will he raise you. -Do not despair. In your hour of sin raise your eyes -to the skies and you will be again and again saved." - -Resolutely the minister put the thoughts of the -woman in the bed out of his mind and began to be -something like a lover in the presence of his wife. -One evening when they drove out together he -turned the horse out of Buckeye Street and in the -darkness on Gospel Hill, above Waterworks Pond, -put his arm about Sarah Hartman's waist. When he -had eaten breakfast in the morning and was ready -to retire to his study at the back of his house he -went around the table and kissed his wife on the -cheek. When thoughts of Kate Swift came into his -head, he smiled and raised his eyes to the skies. -"Intercede for me, Master," he muttered, "keep me -in the narrow path intent on Thy work." - -And now began the real struggle in the soul of -the brown-bearded minister. By chance he discov- -ered that Kate Swift was in the habit of lying in her -bed in the evenings and reading a book. A lamp -stood on a table by the side of the bed and the light -streamed down upon her white shoulders and bare -throat. On the evening when he made the discovery -the minister sat at the desk in the dusty room from -nine until after eleven and when her light was put -out stumbled out of the church to spend two more -hours walking and praying in the streets. He did -not want to kiss the shoulders and the throat of Kate -Swift and had not allowed his mind to dwell on -such thoughts. He did not know what he wanted. -"I am God's child and he must save me from my- -self," he cried, in the darkness under the trees as -he wandered in the streets. By a tree he stood and -looked at the sky that was covered with hurrying -clouds. He began to talk to God intimately and -closely. "Please, Father, do not forget me. Give me -power to go tomorrow and repair the hole in the -window. Lift my eyes again to the skies. Stay with -me, Thy servant, in his hour of need." - -Up and down through the silent streets walked -the minister and for days and weeks his soul was -troubled. He could not understand the temptation -that had come to him nor could he fathom the rea- -son for its coming. In a way he began to blame God, -saying to himself that he had tried to keep his feet -in the true path and had not run about seeking sin. -"Through my days as a young man and all through -my life here I have gone quietly about my work," -he declared. "Why now should I be tempted? What -have I done that this burden should be laid on me?" - -Three times during the early fall and winter of -that year Curtis Hartman crept out of his house to -the room in the bell tower to sit in the darkness -looking at the figure of Kate Swift lying in her bed -and later went to walk and pray in the streets. He -could not understand himself. For weeks he would -go along scarcely thinking of the school teacher and -telling himself that he had conquered the carnal de- -sire to look at her body. And then something would -happen. As he sat in the study of his own house, -hard at work on a sermon, he would become ner- -vous and begin to walk up and down the room. "I -will go out into the streets," he told himself and -even as he let himself in at the church door he per- -sistently denied to himself the cause of his being -there. "I will not repair the hole in the window and -I will train myself to come here at night and sit in -the presence of this woman without raising my eyes. -I will not be defeated in this thing. The Lord has -devised this temptation as a test of my soul and I -will grope my way out of darkness into the light of -righteousness." - -One night in January when it was bitter cold and -snow lay deep on the streets of Winesburg Curtis -Hartman paid his last visit to the room in the bell -tower of the church. It was past nine o'clock when -he left his own house and he set out so hurriedly -that he forgot to put on his overshoes. In Main -Street no one was abroad but Hop Higgins the night -watchman and in the whole town no one was awake -but the watchman and young George Willard, who -sat in the office of the Winesburg Eagle trying to write -a story. Along the street to the church went the -minister, plowing through the drifts and thinking -that this time he would utterly give way to sin. "I -want to look at the woman and to think of kissing -her shoulders and I am going to let myself think -what I choose," he declared bitterly and tears came -into his eyes. He began to think that he would get -out of the ministry and try some other way of life. -"I shall go to some city and get into business," he -declared. "If my nature is such that I cannot resist -sin, I shall give myself over to sin. At least I shall -not be a hypocrite, preaching the word of God with -my mind thinking of the shoulders and neck of a -woman who does not belong to me." - -It was cold in the room of the bell tower of the -church on that January night and almost as soon as -he came into the room Curtis Hartman knew that if -he stayed he would be ill. His feet were wet from -tramping in the snow and there was no fire. In the -room in the house next door Kate Swift had not -yet appeared. With grim determination the man sat -down to wait. Sitting in the chair and gripping the -edge of the desk on which lay the Bible he stared -into the darkness thinking the blackest thoughts of -his life. He thought of his wife and for the moment -almost hated her. "She has always been ashamed of -passion and has cheated me," he thought. "Man has -a right to expect living passion and beauty in a -woman. He has no right to forget that he is an ani- -mal and in me there is something that is Greek. I -will throw off the woman of my bosom and seek -other women. I will besiege this school teacher. I -will fly in the face of all men and if I am a creature -of carnal lusts I will live then for my lusts." - -The distracted man trembled from head to foot, -partly from cold, partly from the struggle in which -he was engaged. Hours passed and a fever assailed -his body. His throat began to hurt and his teeth -chattered. His feet on the study floor felt like two -cakes of ice. Still he would not give up. "I will see -this woman and will think the thoughts I have never -dared to think," he told himself, gripping the edge -of the desk and waiting. - -Curtis Hartman came near dying from the effects -of that night of waiting in the church, and also he -found in the thing that happened what he took to -be the way of life for him. On other evenings when -he had waited he had not been able to see, through -the little hole in the glass, any part of the school -teacher's room except that occupied by her bed. In -the darkness he had waited until the woman sud- -denly appeared sitting in the bed in her white night- -robe. When the light was turned up she propped -herself up among the' pillows and read a book. -Sometimes she smoked one of the cigarettes. Only -her bare shoulders and throat were visible. - -On the January night, after he had come near -dying with cold and after his mind had two or three -times actually slipped away into an odd land of fan- -tasy so that he had by an exercise of will power -to force himself back into consciousness, Kate Swift -appeared. In the room next door a lamp was lighted -and the waiting man stared into an empty bed. Then -upon the bed before his eyes a naked woman threw -herself. Lying face downward she wept and beat -with her fists upon the pillow. With a final outburst -of weeping she half arose, and in the presence of -the man who had waited to look and not to think -thoughts the woman of sin began to pray. In the -lamplight her figure, slim and strong, looked like -the figure of the boy in the presence of the Christ -on the leaded window. - -Curtis Hartman never remembered how he got -out of the church. With a cry he arose, dragging the -heavy desk along the floor. The Bible fell, making a -great clatter in the silence. When the light in the -house next door went out he stumbled down the -stairway and into the street. Along the street he -went and ran in at the door of the Winesburg Eagle. -To George Willard, who was tramping up and down -in the office undergoing a struggle of his own, he -began to talk half incoherently. "The ways of God -are beyond human understanding," he cried, run- -ning in quickly and closing the door. He began to -advance upon the young man, his eyes glowing and -his voice ringing with fervor. "I have found the -light," he cried. "After ten years in this town, God -has manifested himself to me in the body of a -woman." His voice dropped and he began to whis- -per. "I did not understand," he said. "What I took -to be a trial of my soul was only a preparation for -a new and more beautiful fervor of the spirit. God -has appeared to me in the person of Kate Swift, the -school teacher, kneeling naked on a bed. Do you -know Kate Swift? Although she may not be aware -of it, she is an instrument of God, bearing the mes- -sage of truth." - -Reverend Curtis Hartman turned and ran out of -the office. At the door he stopped, and after looking -up and down the deserted street, turned again to -George Willard. "I am delivered. Have no fear." He -held up a bleeding fist for the young man to see. "I -smashed the glass of the window," he cried. "Now -it will have to be wholly replaced. The strength of -God was in me and I broke it with my fist." - - - - -THE TEACHER - -SNOW LAY DEEP in the streets of Winesburg. It had -begun to snow about ten o'clock in the morning and -a wind sprang up and blew the snow in clouds -along Main Street. The frozen mud roads that led -into town were fairly smooth and in places ice cov- -ered the mud. "There will be good sleighing," said -Will Henderson, standing by the bar in Ed Griffith's -saloon. Out of the saloon he went and met Sylvester -West the druggist stumbling along in the kind of -heavy overshoes called arctics. "Snow will bring the -people into town on Saturday," said the druggist. -The two men stopped and discussed their affairs. -Will Henderson, who had on a light overcoat and -no overshoes, kicked the heel of his left foot with -the toe of the right. "Snow will be good for the -wheat," observed the druggist sagely. - -Young George Willard, who had nothing to do, -was glad because he did not feel like working that -day. The weekly paper had been printed and taken -to the post office Wednesday evening and the snow -began to fall on Thursday. At eight o'clock, after the -morning train had passed, he put a pair of skates in -his pocket and went up to Waterworks Pond but did -not go skating. Past the pond and along a path that -followed Wine Creek he went until he came to a -grove of beech trees. There he built a fire against -the side of a log and sat down at the end of the log -to think. When the snow began to fall and the wind -to blow he hurried about getting fuel for the fire. - -The young reporter was thinking of Kate Swift, -who had once been his school teacher. On the eve- -ning before he had gone to her house to get a book -she wanted him to read and had been alone with -her for an hour. For the fourth or fifth time the -woman had talked to him with great earnestness -and he could not make out what she meant by her -talk. He began to believe she must be in love with -him and the thought was both pleasing and annoying. - -Up from the log he sprang and began to pile sticks -on the fire. Looking about to be sure he was alone -he talked aloud pretending he was in the presence -of the woman, "Oh,, you're just letting on, you -know you are," he declared. "I am going to find out -about you. You wait and see." - -The young man got up and went back along the -path toward town leaving the fire blazing in the -wood. As he went through the streets the skates -clanked in his pocket. In his own room in the New -Willard House he built a fire in the stove and lay -down on top of the bed. He began to have lustful -thoughts and pulling down the shade of the window -closed his eyes and turned his face to the wall. He -took a pillow into his arms and embraced it thinking -first of the school teacher, who by her words had -stirred something within him, and later of Helen -White, the slim daughter of the town banker, with -whom he had been for a long time half in love. - -By nine o'clock of that evening snow lay deep in -the streets and the weather had become bitter cold. -It was difficult to walk about. The stores were dark -and the people had crawled away to their houses. -The evening train from Cleveland was very late but -nobody was interested in its arrival. By ten o'clock -all but four of the eighteen hundred citizens of the -town were in bed. - -Hop Higgins, the night watchman, was partially -awake. He was lame and carried a heavy stick. On -dark nights he carried a lantern. Between nine and -ten o'clock he went his rounds. Up and down Main -Street he stumbled through the drifts trying the -doors of the stores. Then he went into alleyways -and tried the back doors. Finding all tight he hurried -around the corner to the New Willard House and -beat on the door. Through the rest of the night he -intended to stay by the stove. "You go to bed. I'll -keep the stove going," he said to the boy who slept -on a cot in the hotel office. - -Hop Higgins sat down by the stove and took off -his shoes. When the boy had gone to sleep he began -to think of his own affairs. He intended to paint his -house in the spring and sat by the stove calculating -the cost of paint and labor. That led him into other -calculations. The night watchman was sixty years -old and wanted to retire. He had been a soldier in -the Civil War and drew a small pension. He hoped -to find some new method of making a living and -aspired to become a professional breeder of ferrets. -Already he had four of the strangely shaped savage -little creatures, that are used by sportsmen in the -pursuit of rabbits, in the cellar of his house. "Now -I have one male and three females," he mused. "If -I am lucky by spring I shall have twelve or fifteen. -In another year I shall be able to begin advertising -ferrets for sale in the sporting papers." - -The nightwatchman settled into his chair and his -mind became a blank. He did not sleep. By years of -practice he had trained himself to sit for hours -through the long nights neither asleep nor awake. -In the morning he was almost as refreshed as -though he had slept. - -With Hop Higgins safely stowed away in the chair -behind the stove only three people were awake in -Winesburg. George Willard was in the office of the -Eagle pretending to be at work on the writing of a -story but in reality continuing the mood of the -morning by the fire in the wood. In the bell tower -of the Presbyterian Church the Reverend Curtis -Hartman was sitting in the darkness preparing him- -self for a revelation from God, and Kate Swift, the -school teacher, was leaving her house for a walk in -the storm. - -It was past ten o'clock when Kate Swift set out -and the walk was unpremeditated. It was as though -the man and the boy, by thinking of her, had driven -her forth into the wintry streets. Aunt Elizabeth -Swift had gone to the county seat concerning some -business in connection with mortgages in which she -had money invested and would not be back until -the next day. By a huge stove, called a base burner, -in the living room of the house sat the daughter -reading a book. Suddenly she sprang to her feet -and, snatching a cloak from a rack by the front door, -ran out of the house. - -At the age of thirty Kate Swift was not known in -Winesburg as a pretty woman. Her complexion was -not good and her face was covered with blotches -that indicated ill health. Alone in the night in the -winter streets she was lovely. Her back was straight, -her shoulders square, and her features were as the -features of a tiny goddess on a pedestal in a garden -in the dim light of a summer evening. - -During the afternoon the school teacher had been -to see Doctor Welling concerning her health. The -doctor had scolded her and had declared she was in -danger of losing her hearing. It was foolish for Kate -Swift to be abroad in the storm, foolish and perhaps -dangerous. - -The woman in the streets did not remember the -words of the doctor and would not have turned back -had she remembered. She was very cold but after -walking for five minutes no longer minded the cold. -First she went to the end of her own street and then -across a pair of hay scales set in the ground before -a feed barn and into Trunion Pike. Along Trunion -Pike she went to Ned Winters' barn and turning east -followed a street of low frame houses that led over -Gospel Hill and into Sucker Road that ran down -a shallow valley past Ike Smead's chicken farm to -Waterworks Pond. As she went along, the bold, ex- -cited mood that had driven her out of doors passed -and then returned again. - -There was something biting and forbidding in the -character of Kate Swift. Everyone felt it. In the -schoolroom she was silent, cold, and stern, and yet -in an odd way very close to her pupils. Once in a -long while something seemed to have come over -her and she was happy. All of the children in the -schoolroom felt the effect of her happiness. For a -time they did not work but sat back in their chairs -and looked at her. - -With hands clasped behind her back the school -teacher walked up and down in the schoolroom and -talked very rapidly. It did not seem to matter what -subject came into her mind. Once she talked to the -children of Charles Lamb and made up strange, inti- -mate little stories concerning the life of the dead -writer. The stories were told with the air of one who -had lived in a house with Charles Lamb and knew -all the secrets of his private life. The children were -somewhat confused, thinking Charles Lamb must be -someone who had once lived in Winesburg. - -On another occasion the teacher talked to the chil- -dren of Benvenuto Cellini. That time they laughed. -What a bragging, blustering, brave, lovable fellow -she made of the old artist! Concerning him also she -invented anecdotes. There was one of a German -music teacher who had a room above Cellini's lodg- -ings in the city of Milan that made the boys guffaw. -Sugars McNutts, a fat boy with red cheeks, laughed -so hard that he became dizzy and fell off his seat -and Kate Swift laughed with him. Then suddenly -she became again cold and stern. - -On the winter night when she walked through -the deserted snow-covered streets, a crisis had come -into the life of the school teacher. Although no one -in Winesburg would have suspected it, her life had -been very adventurous. It was still adventurous. -Day by day as she worked in the schoolroom or -walked in the streets, grief, hope, and desire fought -within her. Behind a cold exterior the most extraor- -dinary events transpired in her mind. The people of -the town thought of her as a confirmed old maid -and because she spoke sharply and went her own -way thought her lacking in all the human feeling -that did so much to make and mar their own lives. -In reality she was the most eagerly passionate soul -among them, and more than once, in the five years -since she had come back from her travels to settle in -Winesburg and become a school teacher, had been -compelled to go out of the house and walk half -through the night fighting out some battle raging -within. Once on a night when it rained she had -stayed out six hours and when she came home had -a quarrel with Aunt Elizabeth Swift. "I am glad -you're not a man," said the mother sharply. "More -than once I've waited for your father to come home, -not knowing what new mess he had got into. I've -had my share of uncertainty and you cannot blame -me if I do not want to see the worst side of him -reproduced in you." - - -Kate Swift's mind was ablaze with thoughts of -George Willard. In something he had written as a -school boy she thought she had recognized the -spark of genius and wanted to blow on the spark. -One day in the summer she had gone to the Eagle -office and finding the boy unoccupied had taken -him out Main Street to the Fair Ground, where the -two sat on a grassy bank and talked. The school -teacher tried to bring home to the mind of the boy -some conception of the difficulties he would have to -face as a writer. "You will have to know life," she -declared, and her voice trembled with earnestness. -She took hold of George Willard's shoulders and -turned him about so that she could look into his -eyes. A passer-by might have thought them about -to embrace. "If you are to become a writer you'll -have to stop fooling with words," she explained. "It -would be better to give up the notion of writing -until you are better prepared. Now it's time to be -living. I don't want to frighten you, but I would like -to make you understand the import of what you -think of attempting. You must not become a mere -peddler of words. The thing to learn is to know -what people are thinking about, not what they say." - -On the evening before that stormy Thursday night -when the Reverend Curtis Hartman sat in the bell -tower of the church waiting to look at her body, -young Willard had gone to visit the teacher and to -borrow a book. It was then the thing happened that -confused and puzzled the boy. He had the book -under his arm and was preparing to depart. Again -Kate Swift talked with great earnestness. Night was -coming on and the light in the room grew dim. As -he turned to go she spoke his name softly and with -an impulsive movement took hold of his hand. Be- -cause the reporter was rapidly becoming a man -something of his man's appeal, combined with the -winsomeness of the boy, stirred the heart of the -lonely woman. A passionate desire to have him un- -derstand the import of life, to learn to interpret it -truly and honestly, swept over her. Leaning for- -ward, her lips brushed his cheek. At the same mo- -ment he for the first time became aware of the -marked beauty of her features. They were both em- -barrassed, and to relieve her feeling she became -harsh and domineering. "What's the use? It will be -ten years before you begin to understand what I -mean when I talk to you," she cried passionately. - - -On the night of the storm and while the minister -sat in the church waiting for her, Kate Swift went to -the office of the Winesburg Eagle, intending to have -another talk with the boy. After the long walk in the -snow she was cold, lonely, and tired. As she came -through Main Street she saw the fight from the -printshop window shining on the snow and on an -impulse opened the door and went in. For an hour -she sat by the stove in the office talking of life. She -talked with passionate earnestness. The impulse that -had driven her out into the snow poured itself out -into talk. She became inspired as she sometimes did -in the presence of the children in school. A great -eagerness to open the door of life to the boy, who -had been her pupil and who she thought might pos- -sess a talent for the understanding of life, had pos- -session of her. So strong was her passion that it -became something physical. Again her hands took -hold of his shoulders and she turned him about. In -the dim light her eyes blazed. She arose and -laughed, not sharply as was customary with her, but -in a queer, hesitating way. "I must be going," she -said. "In a moment, if I stay, I'll be wanting to kiss -you." - -In the newspaper office a confusion arose. Kate -Swift turned and walked to the door. She was a -teacher but she was also a woman. As she looked -at George Willard, the passionate desire to be loved -by a man, that had a thousand times before swept -like a storm over her body, took possession of her. -In the lamplight George Willard looked no longer a -boy, but a man ready to play the part of a man. - -The school teacher let George Willard take her into -his arms. In the warm little office the air became -suddenly heavy and the strength went out of her -body. Leaning against a low counter by the door she -waited. When he came and put a hand on her shoul- -der she turned and let her body fall heavily against -him. For George Willard the confusion was immedi- -ately increased. For a moment he held the body of -the woman tightly against his body and then it stiff- -ened. Two sharp little fists began to beat on his face. -When the school teacher had run away and left him -alone, he walked up and down the office swearing -furiously. - -It was into this confusion that the Reverend Curtis -Hartman protruded himself. When he came in -George Willard thought the town had gone mad. -Shaking a bleeding fist in the air, the minister pro- -claimed the woman George had only a moment be- -fore held in his arms an instrument of God bearing -a message of truth. - - -George blew out the lamp by the window and -locking the door of the printshop went home. -Through the hotel office, past Hop Higgins lost in -his dream of the raising of ferrets, he went and up -into his own room. The fire in the stove had gone -out and he undressed in the cold. When he got into -bed the sheets were like blankets of dry snow. - -George Willard rolled about in the bed on which -had lain in the afternoon hugging the pillow and -thinking thoughts of Kate Swift. The words of the -minister, who he thought had gone suddenly in- -sane, rang in his ears. His eyes stared about the -room. The resentment, natural to the baffled male, -passed and he tried to understand what had hap- -pened. He could not make it out. Over and over he -turned the matter in his mind. Hours passed and he -began to think it must be time for another day to -come. At four o'clock he pulled the covers up about -his neck and tried to sleep. When he became drowsy -and closed his eyes, he raised a hand and with it -groped about in the darkness. "I have missed some- -thing. I have missed something Kate Swift was try- -ing to tell me," he muttered sleepily. Then he slept -and in all Winesburg he was the last soul on that -winter night to go to sleep. - - - - -LONELINESS - -HE WAS THE son of Mrs. Al Robinson who once -owned a farm on a side road leading off Trunion -Pike, east of Winesburg and two miles beyond the -town limits. The farmhouse was painted brown and -the blinds to all of the windows facing the road were -kept closed. In the road before the house a flock of -chickens, accompanied by two guinea hens, lay in -the deep dust. Enoch lived in the house with his -mother in those days and when he was a young boy -went to school at the Winesburg High School. Old -citizens remembered him as a quiet, smiling youth -inclined to silence. He walked in the middle of the -road when he came into town and sometimes read -a book. Drivers of teams had to shout and swear to -make him realize where he was so that he would -turn out of the beaten track and let them pass. - -When he was twenty-one years old Enoch went -to New York City and was a city man for fifteen -years. He studied French and went to an art school, -hoping to develop a faculty he had for drawing. In -his own mind he planned to go to Paris and to finish -his art education among the masters there, but that -never turned out. - -Nothing ever turned out for Enoch Robinson. He -could draw well enough and he had many odd deli- -cate thoughts hidden away in his brain that might -have expressed themselves through the brush of a -painter, but he was always a child and that was a -handicap to his worldly development. He never -grew up and of course he couldn't understand peo- -ple and he couldn't make people understand him. -The child in him kept bumping against things, -against actualities like money and sex and opinions. -Once he was hit by a street car and thrown against -an iron post. That made him lame. It was one of the -many things that kept things from turning out for -Enoch Robinson - -In New York City, when he first went there to live -and before he became confused and disconcerted by -the facts of life, Enoch went about a good deal with -young men. He got into a group of other young -artists, both men and women, and in the evenings -they sometimes came to visit him in his room. Once -he got drunk and was taken to a police station -where a police magistrate frightened him horribly, -and once he tried to have an affair with a woman -of the town met on the sidewalk before his lodging -house. The woman and Enoch walked together -three blocks and then the young man grew afraid -and ran away. The woman had been drinking and -the incident amused her. She leaned against the wall -of a building and laughed so heartily that another -man stopped and laughed with her. The two went -away together, still laughing, and Enoch crept off to -his room trembling and vexed. - -The room in which young Robinson lived in New -York faced Washington Square and was long and -narrow like a hallway. It is important to get that -fixed in your mind. The story of Enoch is in fact the -story of a room almost more than it is the story of -a man. - -And so into the room in the evening came young -Enoch's friends. There was nothing particularly -striking about them except that they were artists of -the kind that talk. Everyone knows of the talking -artists. Throughout all of the known history of the -world they have gathered in rooms and talked. They -talk of art and are passionately, almost feverishly, -in earnest about it. They think it matters much more -than it does. - -And so these people gathered and smoked ciga- -rettes and talked and Enoch Robinson, the boy from -the farm near Winesburg, was there. He stayed in -a corner and for the most part said nothing. How -his big blue childlike eyes stared about! On the walls -were pictures he had made, crude things, half fin- -ished. His friends talked of these. Leaning back in -their chairs, they talked and talked with their heads -rocking from side to side. Words were said about -line and values and composition, lots of words, such -as are always being said. - -Enoch wanted to talk too but he didn't know how. -He was too excited to talk coherently. When he tried -he sputtered and stammered and his voice sounded -strange and squeaky to him. That made him stop -talking. He knew what he wanted to say, but he -knew also that he could never by any possibility -say it. When a picture he had painted was under -discussion, he wanted to burst out with something -like this: "You don't get the point," he wanted to -explain; "the picture you see doesn't consist of the -things you see and say words about. There is some- -thing else, something you don't see at all, something -you aren't intended to see. Look at this one over -here, by the door here, where the light from the -window falls on it. The dark spot by the road that -you might not notice at all is, you see, the beginning -of everything. There is a clump of elders there such -as used to grow beside the road before our house -back in Winesburg, Ohio, and in among the elders -there is something hidden. It is a woman, that's -what it is. She has been thrown from a horse and -the horse has run away out of sight. Do you not see -how the old man who drives a cart looks anxiously -about? That is Thad Grayback who has a farm up -the road. He is taking corn to Winesburg to be -ground into meal at Comstock's mill. He knows -there is something in the elders, something hidden -away, and yet he doesn't quite know. - -"It's a woman you see, that's what it is! It's a -woman and, oh, she is lovely! She is hurt and is -suffering but she makes no sound. Don't you see -how it is? She lies quite still, white and still, and -the beauty comes out from her and spreads over -everything. It is in the sky back there and all around -everywhere. I didn't try to paint the woman, of -course. She is too beautiful to be painted. How dull -to talk of composition and such things! Why do you -not look at the sky and then run away as I used -to do when I was a boy back there in Winesburg, -Ohio?" - -That is the kind of thing young Enoch Robinson -trembled to say to the guests who came into his -room when he was a young fellow in New York -City, but he always ended by saying nothing. Then -he began to doubt his own mind. He was afraid -the things he felt were not getting expressed in the -pictures he painted. In a half indignant mood he -stopped inviting people into his room and presently -got into the habit of locking the door. He began to -think that enough people had visited him, that he -did not need people any more. With quick imagina- -tion he began to invent his own people to whom he -could really talk and to whom he explained the -things he had been unable to explain to living peo- -ple. His room began to be inhabited by the spirits -of men and women among whom he went, in his -turn saying words. It was as though everyone Enoch -Robinson had ever seen had left with him some es- -sence of himself, something he could mould and -change to suit his own fancy, something that under- -stood all about such things as the wounded woman -behind the elders in the pictures. - -The mild, blue-eyed young Ohio boy was a com- -plete egotist, as all children are egotists. He did not -want friends for the quite simple reason that no -child wants friends. He wanted most of all the peo- -ple of his own mind, people with whom he could -really talk, people he could harangue and scold by -the hour, servants, you see, to his fancy. Among -these people he was always self-confident and bold. -They might talk, to be sure, and even have opinions -of their own, but always he talked last and best. He -was like a writer busy among the figures of his -brain, a kind of tiny blue-eyed king he was, in a six- -dollar room facing Washington Square in the city of -New York. - -Then Enoch Robinson got married. He began to -get lonely and to want to touch actual flesh-and- -bone people with his hands. Days passed when his -room seemed empty. Lust visited his body and de- -sire grew in his mind. At night strange fevers, burn- -ing within, kept him awake. He married a girl who -sat in a chair next to his own in the art school and -went to live in an apartment house in Brooklyn. Two -children were born to the woman he married, and -Enoch got a job in a place where illustrations are -made for advertisements. - -That began another phase of Enoch's life. He -began to play at a new game. For a while he was -very proud of himself in the role of producing citi- -zen of the world. He dismissed the essence of things -and played with realities. In the fall he voted at an -election and he had a newspaper thrown on his -porch each morning. When in the evening he came -home from work he got off a streetcar and walked -sedately along behind some business man, striving -to look very substantial and important. As a payer -of taxes he thought he should post himself on how -things are run. "I'm getting to be of some moment, -a real part of things, of the state and the city and -all that," he told himself with an amusing miniature -air of dignity. Once, coming home from Philadel- -phia, he had a discussion with a man met on a train. -Enoch talked about the advisability of the govern- -ment's owning and operating the railroads and the -man gave him a cigar. It was Enoch's notion that -such a move on the part of the government would -be a good thing, and he grew quite excited as he -talked. Later he remembered his own words with -pleasure. "I gave him something to think about, that -fellow," he muttered to himself as he climbed the -stairs to his Brooklyn apartment. - -To be sure, Enoch's marriage did not turn out. He -himself brought it to an end. He began to feel -choked and walled in by the life in the apartment, -and to feel toward his wife and even toward his -children as he had felt concerning the friends who -once came to visit him. He began to tell little lies -about business engagements that would give him -freedom to walk alone in the street at night and, the -chance offering, he secretly re-rented the room fac- -ing Washington Square. Then Mrs. Al Robinson -died on the farm near Winesburg, and he got eight -thousand dollars from the bank that acted as trustee -of her estate. That took Enoch out of the world of -men altogether. He gave the money to his wife and -told her he could not live in the apartment any -more. She cried and was angry and threatened, but -he only stared at her and went his own way. In -reality the wife did not care much. She thought -Enoch slightly insane and was a little afraid of him. -When it was quite sure that he would never come -back, she took the two children and went to a village -in Connecticut where she had lived as a girl. In the -end she married a man who bought and sold real -estate and was contented enough. - -And so Enoch Robinson stayed in the New York -room among the people of his fancy, playing with -them, talking to them, happy as a child is happy. -They were an odd lot, Enoch's people. They were -made, I suppose, out of real people he had seen and -who had for some obscure reason made an appeal -to him. There was a woman with a sword in her -hand, an old man with a long white beard who went -about followed by a dog, a young girl whose stock- -ings were always coming down and hanging over -her shoe tops. There must have been two dozen of -the shadow people, invented by the child-mind of -Enoch Robinson, who lived in the room with him. - -And Enoch was happy. Into the room he went -and locked the door. With an absurd air of impor- -tance he talked aloud, giving instructions, making -comments on life. He was happy and satisfied to go -on making his living in the advertising place until -something happened. Of course something did hap- -pen. That is why he went back to live in Winesburg -and why we know about him. The thing that hap- -pened was a woman. It would be that way. He was -too happy. Something had to come into his world. -Something had to drive him out of the New York -room to live out his life an obscure, jerky little fig- -ure, bobbing up and down on the streets of an Ohio -town at evening when the sun was going down be- -hind the roof of Wesley Moyer's livery barn. - -About the thing that happened. Enoch told George -Willard about it one night. He wanted to talk to -someone, and he chose the young newspaper re- -porter because the two happened to be thrown to- -gether at a time when the younger man was in a -mood to understand. - -Youthful sadness, young man's sadness, the sad- -ness of a growing boy in a village at the year's end, -opened the lips of the old man. The sadness was in -the heart of George Willard and was without mean- -ing, but it appealed to Enoch Robinson. - -It rained on the evening when the two met and -talked, a drizzly wet October rain. The fruition of -the year had come and the night should have been -fine with a moon in the sky and the crisp sharp -promise of frost in the air, but it wasn't that way. -It rained and little puddles of water shone under the -street lamps on Main Street. In the woods in the -darkness beyond the Fair Ground water dripped -from the black trees. Beneath the trees wet leaves -were pasted against tree roots that protruded from -the ground. In gardens back of houses in Winesburg -dry shriveled potato vines lay sprawling on the -ground. Men who had finished the evening meal -and who had planned to go uptown to talk the eve- -ning away with other men at the back of some store -changed their minds. George Willard tramped about -in the rain and was glad that it rained. He felt that -way. He was like Enoch Robinson on the evenings -when the old man came down out of his room and -wandered alone in the streets. He was like that only -that George Willard had become a tall young man -and did not think it manly to weep and carry on. -For a month his mother had been very ill and that -had something to do with his sadness, but not -much. He thought about himself and to the young -that always brings sadness. - -Enoch Robinson and George Willard met beneath -a wooden awning that extended out over the side- -walk before Voight's wagon shop on Maumee Street -just off the main street of Winesburg. They went -together from there through the rain-washed streets -to the older man's room on the third floor of the -Heffner Block. The young reporter went willingly -enough. Enoch Robinson asked him to go after the -two had talked for ten minutes. The boy was a little -afraid but had never been more curious in his life. -A hundred times he had heard the old man spoken -of as a little off his head and he thought himself -rather brave and manly to go at all. From the very -beginning, in the street in the rain, the old man -talked in a queer way, trying to tell the story of the -room in Washington Square and of his life in the -room. "You'll understand if you try hard enough," -he said conclusively. "I have looked at you when -you went past me on the street and I think you can -understand. It isn't hard. All you have to do is to -believe what I say, just listen and believe, that's all -there is to it." - -It was past eleven o'clock that evening when old -Enoch, talking to George Willard in the room in the -Heffner Block, came to the vital thing, the story of -the woman and of what drove him out of the city -to live out his life alone and defeated in Winesburg. -He sat on a cot by the window with his head in his -hand and George Willard was in a chair by a table. -A kerosene lamp sat on the table and the room, -although almost bare of furniture, was scrupulously -clean. As the man talked George Willard began to -feel that he would like to get out of the chair and -sit on the cot also. He wanted to put his arms about -the little old man. In the half darkness the man -talked and the boy listened, filled with sadness. - -"She got to coming in there after there hadn't -been anyone in the room for years," said Enoch -Robinson. "She saw me in the hallway of the house -and we got acquainted. I don't know just what she -did in her own room. I never went there. I think -she was a musician and played a violin. Every now -and then she came and knocked at the door and I -opened it. In she came and sat down beside me, just -sat and looked about and said nothing. Anyway, she -said nothing that mattered." - -The old man arose from the cot and moved about -the room. The overcoat he wore was wet from the -rain and drops of water kept falling with a soft -thump on the floor. When he again sat upon the cot -George Willard got out of the chair and sat beside -him. - -"I had a feeling about her. She sat there in the -room with me and she was too big for the room. I -felt that she was driving everything else away. We -just talked of little things, but I couldn't sit still. I -wanted to touch her with my fingers and to kiss -her. Her hands were so strong and her face was so -good and she looked at me all the time." - -The trembling voice of the old man became silent -and his body shook as from a chill. "I was afraid," -he whispered. "I was terribly afraid. I didn't want -to let her come in when she knocked at the door -but I couldn't sit still. 'No, no,' I said to myself, but -I got up and opened the door just the same. She -was so grown up, you see. She was a woman. I -thought she would be bigger than I was there in -that room." - -Enoch Robinson stared at George Willard, his -childlike blue eyes shining in the lamplight. Again -he shivered. "I wanted her and all the time I didn't -want her," he explained. "Then I began to tell her -about my people, about everything that meant any- -thing to me. I tried to keep quiet, to keep myself to -myself, but I couldn't. I felt just as I did about open- -ing the door. Sometimes I ached to have her go -away and never come back any more." - -The old man sprang to his feet and his voice -shook with excitement. "One night something hap- -pened. I became mad to make her understand me -and to know what a big thing I was in that room. I -wanted her to see how important I was. I told her -over and over. When she tried to go away, I ran -and locked the door. I followed her about. I talked -and talked and then all of a sudden things went to -smash. A look came into her eyes and I knew she -did understand. Maybe she had understood all the -time. I was furious. I couldn't stand it. I wanted her -to understand but, don't you see, I couldn't let her -understand. I felt that then she would know every- -thing, that I would be submerged, drowned out, -you see. That's how it is. I don't know why." - -The old man dropped into a chair by the lamp -and the boy listened, filled with awe. "Go away, -boy," said the man. "Don't stay here with me any -more. I thought it might be a good thing to tell you -but it isn't. I don't want to talk any more. Go away." - -George Willard shook his head and a note of com- -mand came into his voice. "Don't stop now. Tell -me the rest of it," he commanded sharply. "What -happened? Tell me the rest of the story." - -Enoch Robinson sprang to his feet and ran to the -window that looked down into the deserted main -street of Winesburg. George Willard followed. By -the window the two stood, the tall awkward boy- -man and the little wrinkled man-boy. The childish, -eager voice carried forward the tale. "I swore at -her," he explained. "I said vile words. I ordered her -to go away and not to come back. Oh, I said terrible -things. At first she pretended not to understand but -I kept at it. I screamed and stamped on the floor. I -made the house ring with my curses. I didn't want -ever to see her again and I knew, after some of the -things I said, that I never would see her again." - -The old man's voice broke and he shook his head. -"Things went to smash," he said quietly and sadly. -"Out she went through the door and all the life -there had been in the room followed her out. She -took all of my people away. They all went out -through the door after her. That's the way it was." - -George Willard turned and went out of Enoch -Robinson's room. In the darkness by the window, -as he went through the door, he could hear the thin -old voice whimpering and complaining. "I'm alone, -all alone here," said the voice. "It was warm and -friendly in my room but now I'm all alone." - - - - -AN AWAKENING - -BELLE CARPENTER had a dark skin, grey eyes, and -thick lips. She was tall and strong. When black -thoughts visited her she grew angry and wished she -were a man and could fight someone with her fists. -She worked in the millinery shop kept by Mrs. Kate -McHugh and during the day sat trimming hats by a -window at the rear of the store. She was the daugh- -ter of Henry Carpenter, bookkeeper in the First Na- -tional Bank of Winesburg, and lived with him in a -gloomy old house far out at the end of Buckeye -Street. The house was surrounded by pine trees and -there was no grass beneath the trees. A rusty tin -eaves-trough had slipped from its fastenings at the -back of the house and when the wind blew it beat -against the roof of a small shed, making a dismal -drumming noise that sometimes persisted all through -the night. - -When she was a young girl Henry Carpenter -made life almost unbearable for Belle, but as she -emerged from girlhood into womanhood he lost his -power over her. The bookkeeper's life was made up -of innumerable little pettinesses. When he went to -the bank in the morning he stepped into a closet -and put on a black alpaca coat that had become -shabby with age. At night when he returned to his -home he donned another black alpaca coat. Every -evening he pressed the clothes worn in the streets. -He had invented an arrangement of boards for the -purpose. The trousers to his street suit were placed -between the boards and the boards were clamped -together with heavy screws. In the morning he -wiped the boards with a damp cloth and stood them -upright behind the dining room door. If they were -moved during the day he was speechless with anger -and did not recover his equilibrium for a week. - -The bank cashier was a little bully and was afraid -of his daughter. She, he realized, knew the story of -his brutal treatment of her mother and hated him -for it. One day she went home at noon and carried -a handful of soft mud, taken from the road, into the -house. With the mud she smeared the face of the -boards used for the pressing of trousers and then -went back to her work feeling relieved and happy. - -Belle Carpenter occasionally walked out in the -evening with George Willard. Secretly she loved an- -other man, but her love affair, about which no one -knew, caused her much anxiety. She was in love -with Ed Handby, bartender in Ed Griffith's Saloon, -and went about with the young reporter as a kind -of relief to her feelings. She did not think that her -station in life would permit her to be seen in the -company of the bartender and walked about under -the trees with George Willard and let him kiss her -to relieve a longing that was very insistent in her -nature. She felt that she could keep the younger -man within bounds. About Ed Handby she was -somewhat uncertain. - -Handby, the bartender, was a tall, broad-shouldered -man of thirty who lived in a room upstairs above -Griffith's saloon. His fists were large and his eyes -unusually small, but his voice, as though striving to -conceal the power back of his fists, was soft and -quiet. - -At twenty-five the bartender had inherited a large -farm from an uncle in Indiana. When sold, the farm -brought in eight thousand dollars, which Ed spent -in six months. Going to Sandusky, on Lake Erie, -he began an orgy of dissipation, the story of which -afterward filled his home town with awe. Here and -there he went throwing the money about, driving -carriages through the streets, giving wine parties to -crowds of men and women, playing cards for high -stakes and keeping mistresses whose wardrobes cost -him hundreds of dollars. One night at a resort called -Cedar Point, he got into a fight and ran amuck like -a wild thing. With his fist he broke a large mirror -in the wash room of a hotel and later went about -smashing windows and breaking chairs in dance -halls for the joy of hearing the glass rattle on the -floor and seeing the terror in the eyes of clerks who -had come from Sandusky to spend the evening at -the resort with their sweethearts. - -The affair between Ed Handby and Belle Carpen- -ter on the surface amounted to nothing. He had suc- -ceeded in spending but one evening in her company. -On that evening he hired a horse and buggy at Wes- -ley Moyer's livery barn and took her for a drive. -The conviction that she was the woman his nature -demanded and that he must get her settled upon -him and he told her of his desires. The bartender -was ready to marry and to begin trying to earn -money for the support of his wife, but so simple -was his nature that he found it difficult to explain -his intentions. His body ached with physical longing -and with his body he expressed himself. Taking the -milliner into his arms and holding her tightly in -spite of her struggles, he kissed her until she became -helpless. Then he brought her back to town and let -her out of the buggy. "When I get hold of you again -I'll not let you go. You can't play with me," he de- -clared as he turned to drive away. Then, jumping -out of the buggy, he gripped her shoulders with his -strong hands. "I'll keep you for good the next time," -he said. "You might as well make up your mind to -that. It's you and me for it and I'm going to have -you before I get through." - -One night in January when there was a new moon -George Willard, who was in Ed Handby's mind the -only obstacle to his getting Belle Carpenter, went for -a walk. Early that evening George went into Ransom -Surbeck's pool room with Seth Richmond and Art -Wilson, son of the town butcher. Seth Richmond -stood with his back against the wall and remained -silent, but George Willard talked. The pool room -was filled with Winesburg boys and they talked of -women. The young reporter got into that vein. He -said that women should look out for themselves, -that the fellow who went out with a girl was not -responsible for what happened. As he talked he -looked about, eager for attention. He held the floor -for five minutes and then Art Wilson began to talk. -Art was learning the barber's trade in Cal Prouse's -shop and already began to consider himself an au- -thority in such matters as baseball, horse racing, -drinking, and going about with women. He began -to tell of a night when he with two men from Wines- -burg went into a house of prostitution at the county -seat. The butcher's son held a cigar in the side of -his mouth and as he talked spat on the floor. "The -women in the place couldn't embarrass me although -they tried hard enough," he boasted. "One of the -girls in the house tried to get fresh, but I fooled her. -As soon as she began to talk I went and sat in her -lap. Everyone in the room laughed when I kissed -her. I taught her to let me alone." - -George Willard went out of the pool room and -into Main Street. For days the weather had been -bitter cold with a high wind blowing down on the -town from Lake Erie, eighteen miles to the north, -but on that night the wind had died away and a -new moon made the night unusually lovely. With- -out thinking where he was going or what he wanted -to do, George went out of Main Street and began -walking in dimly lighted streets filled with frame -houses. - -Out of doors under the black sky filled with stars -he forgot his companions of the pool room. Because -it was dark and he was alone he began to talk aloud. -In a spirit of play he reeled along the street imitating -a drunken man and then imagined himself a soldier -clad in shining boots that reached to the knees and -wearing a sword that jingled as he walked. As a -soldier he pictured himself as an inspector, passing -before a long line of men who stood at attention. -He began to examine the accoutrements of the men. -Before a tree he stopped and began to scold. "Your -pack is not in order," he said sharply. "How many -times will I have to speak of this matter? Everything -must be in order here. We have a difficult task be- -fore us and no difficult task can be done without -order." - -Hypnotized by his own words, the young man -stumbled along the board sidewalk saying more -words. "There is a law for armies and for men too," -he muttered, lost in reflection. "The law begins with -little things and spreads out until it covers every- -thing. In every little thing there must be order, in -the place where men work, in their clothes, in their -thoughts. I myself must be orderly. I must learn that -law. I must get myself into touch with something -orderly and big that swings through the night like -a star. In my little way I must begin to learn some- -thing, to give and swing and work with life, with -the law." - -George Willard stopped by a picket fence near a -street lamp and his body began to tremble. He had -never before thought such thoughts as had just -come into his head and he wondered where they -had come from. For the moment it seemed to him -that some voice outside of himself had been talking -as he walked. He was amazed and delighted with -his own mind and when he walked on again spoke -of the matter with fervor. "To come out of Ransom -Surbeck's pool room and think things like that," he -whispered. "It is better to be alone. If I talked like -Art Wilson the boys would understand me but they -wouldn't understand what I've been thinking down -here." - -In Winesburg, as in all Ohio towns of twenty -years ago, there was a section in which lived day -laborers. As the time of factories had not yet come, -the laborers worked in the fields or were section -hands on the railroads. They worked twelve hours -a day and received one dollar for the long day of -toil. The houses in which they lived were small -cheaply constructed wooden affairs with a garden at -the back. The more comfortable among them kept -cows and perhaps a pig, housed in a little shed at -the rear of the garden. - -With his head filled with resounding thoughts, -George Willard walked into such a street on the clear -January night. The street was dimly lighted and in -places there was no sidewalk. In the scene that lay -about him there was something that excited his al- -ready aroused fancy. For a year he had been devot- -ing all of his odd moments to the reading of books -and now some tale he had read concerning fife in -old world towns of the middle ages came sharply -back to his mind so that he stumbled forward with -the curious feeling of one revisiting a place that had -been a part of some former existence. On an impulse -he turned out of the street and went into a little -dark alleyway behind the sheds in which lived the -cows and pigs. - -For a half hour he stayed in the alleyway, smelling -the strong smell of animals too closely housed and -letting his mind play with the strange new thoughts -that came to him. The very rankness of the smell of -manure in the clear sweet air awoke something -heady in his brain. The poor little houses lighted -by kerosene lamps, the smoke from the chimneys -mounting straight up into the clear air, the grunting -of pigs, the women clad in cheap calico dresses and -washing dishes in the kitchens, the footsteps of men -coming out of the houses and going off to the stores -and saloons of Main Street, the dogs barking and -the children crying--all of these things made him -seem, as he lurked in the darkness, oddly detached -and apart from all life. - -The excited young man, unable to bear the weight -of his own thoughts, began to move cautiously -along the alleyway. A dog attacked him and had to -be driven away with stones, and a man appeared at -the door of one of the houses and swore at the dog. -George went into a vacant lot and throwing back his -head looked up at the sky. He felt unutterably big -and remade by the simple experience through which -he had been passing and in a kind of fervor of emo- -tion put up his hands, thrusting them into the dark- -ness above his head and muttering words. The -desire to say words overcame him and he said -words without meaning, rolling them over on his -tongue and saying them because they were brave -words, full of meaning. "Death," he muttered, -night, the sea, fear, loveliness." - -George Willard came out of the vacant lot and -stood again on the sidewalk facing the houses. He -felt that all of the people in the little street must be -brothers and sisters to him and he wished he had -the courage to call them out of their houses and to -shake their hands. "If there were only a woman here -I would take hold of her hand and we would run -until we were both tired out," he thought. "That -would make me feel better." With the thought of a -woman in his mind he walked out of the street and -went toward the house where Belle Carpenter lived. -He thought she would understand his mood and -that he could achieve in her presence a position he -had long been wanting to achieve. In the past when -he had been with her and had kissed her lips he -had come away filled with anger at himself. He had -felt like one being used for some obscure purpose -and had not enjoyed the feeling. Now he thought -he had suddenly become too big to be used. - -When George got to Belle Carpenter's house there -had already been a visitor there before him. Ed -Handby had come to the door and calling Belle out -of the house had tried to talk to her. He had wanted -to ask the woman to come away with him and to be -his wife, but when she came and stood by the door -he lost his self-assurance and became sullen. "You -stay away from that kid," he growled, thinking of -George Willard, and then, not knowing what else to -say, turned to go away. "If I catch you together I -will break your bones and his too," he added. The -bartender had come to woo, not to threaten, and -was angry with himself because of his failure. - -When her lover had departed Belle went indoors -and ran hurriedly upstairs. From a window at the -upper part of the house she saw Ed Handby cross -the street and sit down on a horse block before the -house of a neighbor. In the dim light the man sat -motionless holding his head in his hands. She was -made happy by the sight, and when George Willard -came to the door she greeted him effusively and -hurriedly put on her hat. She thought that, as she -walked through the streets with young Willard, Ed -Handby would follow and she wanted to make him -suffer. - -For an hour Belle Carpenter and the young re- -porter walked about under the trees in the sweet -night air. George Willard was full of big words. The -sense of power that had come to him during the -hour in the darkness in the alleyway remained with -him and he talked boldly, swaggering along and -swinging his arms about. He wanted to make Belle -Carpenter realize that he was aware of his former -weakness and that he had changed. "You'll find me -different," he declared, thrusting his hands into his -pockets and looking boldly into her eyes. "I don't -know why but it is so. You've got to take me for a -man or let me alone. That's how it is." - -Up and down the quiet streets under the new -moon went the woman and the boy. When George -had finished talking they turned down a side street -and went across a bridge into a path that ran up the -side of a hill. The hill began at Waterworks Pond -and climbed upward to the Winesburg Fair -Grounds. On the hillside grew dense bushes and -small trees and among the bushes were little open -spaces carpeted with long grass, now stiff and -frozen. - -As he walked behind the woman up the hill -George Willard's heart began to beat rapidly and his -shoulders straightened. Suddenly he decided that -Belle Carpenter was about to surrender herself to -him. The new force that had manifested itself in him -had, he felt, been at work upon her and had led to -her conquest. The thought made him half drunk -with the sense of masculine power. Although he -had been annoyed that as they walked about she -had not seemed to be listening to his words, the fact -that she had accompanied him to this place took -all his doubts away. "It is different. Everything has -become different," he thought and taking hold of -her shoulder turned her about and stood looking at -her, his eyes shining with pride. - -Belle Carpenter did not resist. When he kissed her -upon the lips she leaned heavily against him and -looked over his shoulder into the darkness. In her -whole attitude there was a suggestion of waiting. -Again, as in the alleyway, George Willard's mind -ran off into words and, holding the woman tightly -he whispered the words into the still night. "Lust," -he whispered, "lust and night and women." - -George Willard did not understand what hap- -pened to him that night on the hillside. Later, when -he got to his own room, he wanted to weep and -then grew half insane with anger and hate. He hated -Belle Carpenter and was sure that all his life he -would continue to hate her. On the hillside he had -led the woman to one of the little open spaces -among the bushes and had dropped to his knees -beside her. As in the vacant lot, by the laborers' -houses, he had put up his hands in gratitude for the -new power in himself and was waiting for the -woman to speak when Ed Handby appeared. - -The bartender did not want to beat the boy, who -he thought had tried to take his woman away. He -knew that beating was unnecessary, that he had -power within himself to accomplish his purpose -without using his fists. Gripping George by the -shoulder and pulling him to his feet, he held him -with one hand while he looked at Belle Carpenter -seated on the grass. Then with a quick wide move- -ment of his arm he sent the younger man sprawling -away into the bushes and began to bully the -woman, who had risen to her feet. "You're no -good," he said roughly. "I've half a mind not to -bother with you. I'd let you alone if I didn't want -you so much." - -On his hands and knees in the bushes George -Willard stared at the scene before him and tried hard -to think. He prepared to spring at the man who had -humiliated him. To be beaten seemed to be infinitely -better than to be thus hurled ignominiously aside. - -Three times the young reporter sprang at Ed -Handby and each time the bartender, catching him -by the shoulder, hurled him back into the bushes. -The older man seemed prepared to keep the exercise -going indefinitely but George Willard's head struck -the root of a tree and he lay still. Then Ed Handby -took Belle Carpenter by the arm and marched her -away. - -George heard the man and woman making their -way through the bushes. As he crept down the hill- -side his heart was sick within him. He hated himself -and he hated the fate that had brought about his -humiliation. When his mind went back to the hour -alone in the alleyway he was puzzled and stopping -in the darkness listened, hoping to hear again the -voice outside himself that had so short a time before -put new courage into his heart. When his way -homeward led him again into the street of frame -houses he could not bear the sight and began to -run, wanting to get quickly out of the neighborhood -that now seemed to him utterly squalid and -commonplace. - - - - -"QUEER" - -FROM HIS SEAT on a box in the rough board shed that -stuck like a burr on the rear of Cowley & Son's store -in Winesburg, Elmer Cowley, the junior member of -the firm, could see through a dirty window into the -printshop of the Winesburg Eagle. Elmer was putting -new shoelaces in his shoes. They did not go in -readily and he had to take the shoes off. With the -shoes in his hand he sat looking at a large hole in -the heel of one of his stockings. Then looking -quickly up he saw George Willard, the only newspa- -per reporter in Winesburg, standing at the back door -of the Eagle printshop and staring absentmindedly -about. "Well, well, what next!" exclaimed the young -man with the shoes in his hand, jumping to his feet -and creeping away from the window. - -A flush crept into Elmer Cowley's face and his -hands began to tremble. In Cowley & Son's store a -Jewish traveling salesman stood by the counter talk- -ing to his father. He imagined the reporter could -hear what was being said and the thought made him -furious. With one of the shoes still held in his hand -he stood in a corner of the shed and stamped with -a stockinged foot upon the board floor. - -Cowley & Son's store did not face the main street -of Winesburg. The front was on Maumee Street and -beyond it was Voight's wagon shop and a shed for -the sheltering of farmers' horses. Beside the store an -alleyway ran behind the main street stores and all -day drays and delivery wagons, intent on bringing -in and taking out goods, passed up and down. The -store itself was indescribable. Will Henderson once -said of it that it sold everything and nothing. In the -window facing Maumee Street stood a chunk of coal -as large as an apple barrel, to indicate that orders -for coal were taken, and beside the black mass of -the coal stood three combs of honey grown brown -and dirty in their wooden frames. - -The honey had stood in the store window for six -months. It was for sale as were also the coat hang- -ers, patent suspender buttons, cans of roof paint, -bottles of rheumatism cure, and a substitute for cof- -fee that companioned the honey in its patient will- -ingness to serve the public. - -Ebenezer Cowley, the man who stood in the store -listening to the eager patter of words that fell from -the lips of the traveling man, was tall and lean and -looked unwashed. On his scrawny neck was a large -wen partially covered by a grey beard. He wore a -long Prince Albert coat. The coat had been pur- -chased to serve as a wedding garment. Before he -became a merchant Ebenezer was a farmer and after -his marriage he wore the Prince Albert coat to -church on Sundays and on Saturday afternoons -when he came into town to trade. When he sold -the farm to become a merchant he wore the coat -constantly. It had become brown with age and was -covered with grease spots, but in it Ebenezer always -felt dressed up and ready for the day in town. - -As a merchant Ebenezer was not happily placed -in life and he had not been happily placed as a -farmer. Still he existed. His family, consisting of a -daughter named Mabel and the son, lived with him -in rooms above the store and it did not cost them -much to live. His troubles were not financial. His -unhappiness as a merchant lay in the fact that when -a traveling man with wares to be sold came in at -the front door he was afraid. Behind the counter -he stood shaking his head. He was afraid, first that -he would stubbornly refuse to buy and thus lose the -opportunity to sell again; second that he would not -be stubborn enough and would in a moment of -weakness buy what could not be sold. - -In the store on the morning when Elmer Cowley -saw George Willard standing and apparently lis- -tening at the back door of the Eagle printshop, a -situation had arisen that always stirred the son's -wrath. The traveling man talked and Ebenezer lis- -tened, his whole figure expressing uncertainty. "You -see how quickly it is done," said the traveling man, -who had for sale a small flat metal substitute for -collar buttons. With one hand he quickly unfastened -a collar from his shirt and then fastened it on again. -He assumed a flattering wheedling tone. "I tell you -what, men have come to the end of all this fooling -with collar buttons and you are the man to make -money out of the change that is coming. I am offer- -ing you the exclusive agency for this town. Take -twenty dozen of these fasteners and I'll not visit any -other store. I'll leave the field to you." - -The traveling man leaned over the counter and -tapped with his finger on Ebenezer's breast. "It's an -opportunity and I want you to take it," he urged. -"A friend of mine told me about you. 'See that man -Cowley,' he said. 'He's a live one.'" - -The traveling man paused and waited. Taking a -book from his pocket he began writing out the -order. Still holding the shoe in his hand Elmer Cow- -ley went through the store, past the two absorbed -men, to a glass showcase near the front door. He -took a cheap revolver from the case and began to -wave it about. "You get out of here!" he shrieked. -"We don't want any collar fasteners here." An idea -came to him. "Mind, I'm not making any threat," -he added. "I don't say I'll shoot. Maybe I just took -this gun out of the case to look at it. But you better -get out. Yes sir, I'll say that. You better grab up -your things and get out." - -The young storekeeper's voice rose to a scream -and going behind the counter he began to advance -upon the two men. "We're through being fools -here!" he cried. "We ain't going to buy any more -stuff until we begin to sell. We ain't going to keep -on being queer and have folks staring and listening. -You get out of here!" - -The traveling man left. Raking the samples of col- -lar fasteners off the counter into a black leather bag, -he ran. He was a small man and very bow-legged -and he ran awkwardly. The black bag caught against -the door and he stumbled and fell. "Crazy, that's -what he is--crazy!" he sputtered as he arose from -the sidewalk and hurried away. - -In the store Elmer Cowley and his father stared at -each other. Now that the immediate object of his -wrath had fled, the younger man was embarrassed. -"Well, I meant it. I think we've been queer long -enough," he declared, going to the showcase and -replacing the revolver. Sitting on a barrel he pulled -on and fastened the shoe he had been holding in -his hand. He was waiting for some word of under- -standing from his father but when Ebenezer spoke -his words only served to reawaken the wrath in the -son and the young man ran out of the store without -replying. Scratching his grey beard with his long -dirty fingers, the merchant looked at his son with -the same wavering uncertain stare with which he -had confronted the traveling man. "I'll be starched," -he said softly. "Well, well, I'll be washed and ironed -and starched!" - -Elmer Cowley went out of Winesburg and along -a country road that paralleled the railroad track. He -did not know where he was going or what he was -going to do. In the shelter of a deep cut where the -road, after turning sharply to the right, dipped -under the tracks he stopped and the passion that -had been the cause of his outburst in the store began -to again find expression. "I will not be queer--one -to be looked at and listened to," he declared aloud. -"I'll be like other people. I'll show that George Wil- -lard. He'll find out. I'll show him!" - -The distraught young man stood in the middle of -the road and glared back at the town. He did not -know the reporter George Willard and had no spe- -cial feeling concerning the tall boy who ran about -town gathering the town news. The reporter had -merely come, by his presence in the office and in -the printshop of the Winesburg Eagle, to stand for -something in the young merchant's mind. He thought -the boy who passed and repassed Cowley & Son's -store and who stopped to talk to people in the street -must be thinking of him and perhaps laughing at -him. George Willard, he felt, belonged to the town, -typified the town, represented in his person the -spirit of the town. Elmer Cowley could not have -believed that George Willard had also his days of -unhappiness, that vague hungers and secret unnam- -able desires visited also his mind. Did he not repre- -sent public opinion and had not the public opinion -of Winesburg condemned the Cowleys to queerness? -Did he not walk whistling and laughing through -Main Street? Might not one by striking his person -strike also the greater enemy--the thing that -smiled and went its own way--the judgment of -Winesburg? - -Elmer Cowley was extraordinarily tall and his -arms were long and powerful. His hair, his eye- -brows, and the downy beard that had begun to -grow upon his chin, were pale almost to whiteness. -His teeth protruded from between his lips and his -eyes were blue with the colorless blueness of the -marbles called "aggies" that the boys of Winesburg -carried in their pockets. Elmer had lived in Wines- -burg for a year and had made no friends. He was, -he felt, one condemned to go through life without -friends and he hated the thought. - -Sullenly the tall young man tramped along the -road with his hands stuffed into his trouser pockets. -The day was cold with a raw wind, but presently -the sun began to shine and the road became soft -and muddy. The tops of the ridges of frozen mud -that formed the road began to melt and the mud -clung to Elmer's shoes. His feet became cold. When -he had gone several miles he turned off the road, -crossed a field and entered a wood. In the wood he -gathered sticks to build a fire, by which he sat trying -to warm himself, miserable in body and in mind. - -For two hours he sat on the log by the fire and -then, arising and creeping cautiously through a -mass of underbrush, he went to a fence and looked -across fields to a small farmhouse surrounded by -low sheds. A smile came to his lips and he began -making motions with his long arms to a man who -was husking corn in one of the fields. - -In his hour of misery the young merchant had -returned to the farm where he had lived through -boyhood and where there was another human being -to whom he felt he could explain himself. The man -on the farm was a half-witted old fellow named -Mook. He had once been employed by Ebenezer -Cowley and had stayed on the farm when it was -sold. The old man lived in one of the unpainted -sheds back of the farmhouse and puttered about all -day in the fields. - -Mook the half-wit lived happily. With childlike -faith he believed in the intelligence of the animals -that lived in the sheds with him, and when he was -lonely held long conversations with the cows, the -pigs, and even with the chickens that ran about the -barnyard. He it was who had put the expression -regarding being "laundered" into the mouth of his -former employer. When excited or surprised by any- -thing he smiled vaguely and muttered: "I'll be -washed and ironed. Well, well, I'll be washed and -ironed and starched." - -When the half-witted old man left his husking of -corn and came into the wood to meet Elmer Cowley, -he was neither surprised nor especially interested in -the sudden appearance of the young man. His feet -also were cold and he sat on the log by the fire, -grateful for the warmth and apparently indifferent -to what Elmer had to say. - -Elmer talked earnestly and with great freedom, -walking up and down and waving his arms about. -"You don't understand what's the matter with me so -of course you don't care," he declared. "With me -it's different. Look how it has always been with me. -Father is queer and mother was queer, too. Even -the clothes mother used to wear were not like other -people's clothes, and look at that coat in which fa- -ther goes about there in town, thinking he's dressed -up, too. Why don't he get a new one? It wouldn't -cost much. I'll tell you why. Father doesn't know -and when mother was alive she didn't know either. -Mabel is different. She knows but she won't say -anything. I will, though. I'm not going to be stared -at any longer. Why look here, Mook, father doesn't -know that his store there in town is just a queer -jumble, that he'll never sell the stuff he buys. He -knows nothing about it. Sometimes he's a little wor- -ried that trade doesn't come and then he goes and -buys something else. In the evenings he sits by the -fire upstairs and says trade will come after a while. -He isn't worried. He's queer. He doesn't know -enough to be worried." - -The excited young man became more excited. "He -don't know but I know," he shouted, stopping to -gaze down into the dumb, unresponsive face of the -half-wit. "I know too well. I can't stand it. When -we lived out here it was different. I worked and at -night I went to bed and slept. I wasn't always seeing -people and thinking as I am now. In the evening, -there in town, I go to the post office or to the depot -to see the train come in, and no one says anything -to me. Everyone stands around and laughs and they -talk but they say nothing to me. Then I feel so queer -that I can't talk either. I go away. I don't say any- -thing. I can't." - -The fury of the young man became uncontrollable. -"I won't stand it," he yelled, looking up at the bare -branches of the trees. "I'm not made to stand it." - -Maddened by the dull face of the man on the log -by the fire, Elmer turned and glared at him as he -had glared back along the road at the town of -Winesburg. "Go on back to work," he screamed. -"What good does it do me to talk to you?" A -thought came to him and his voice dropped. "I'm a -coward too, eh?" he muttered. "Do you know why -I came clear out here afoot? I had to tell someone -and you were the only one I could tell. I hunted out -another queer one, you see. I ran away, that's what I -did. I couldn't stand up to someone like that George -Willard. I had to come to you. I ought to tell him -and I will." - -Again his voice arose to a shout and his arms flew -about. "I will tell him. I won't be queer. I don't care -what they think. I won't stand it." - -Elmer Cowley ran out of the woods leaving the -half-wit sitting on the log before the fire. Presently -the old man arose and climbing over the fence went -back to his work in the corn. "I'll be washed and -ironed and starched," he declared. "Well, well, I'll -be washed and ironed." Mook was interested. He -went along a lane to a field where two cows stood -nibbling at a straw stack. "Elmer was here," he said -to the cows. "Elmer is crazy. You better get behind -the stack where he don't see you. He'll hurt some- -one yet, Elmer will." - -At eight o'clock that evening Elmer Cowley put -his head in at the front door of the office of the -Winesburg Eagle where George Willard sat writing. -His cap was pulled down over his eyes and a sullen -determined look was on his face. "You come on out- -side with me," he said, stepping in and closing the -door. He kept his hand on the knob as though pre- -pared to resist anyone else coming in. "You just -come along outside. I want to see you." - -George Willard and Elmer Cowley walked through -the main street of Winesburg. The night was cold -and George Willard had on a new overcoat and -looked very spruce and dressed up. He thrust his -hands into the overcoat pockets and looked inquir- -ingly at his companion. He had long been wanting -to make friends with the young merchant and find -out what was in his mind. Now he thought he saw -a chance and was delighted. "I wonder what he's -up to? Perhaps he thinks he has a piece of news for -the paper. It can't be a fire because I haven't heard -the fire bell and there isn't anyone running," he -thought. - -In the main street of Winesburg, on the cold No- -vember evening, but few citizens appeared and -these hurried along bent on getting to the stove at -the back of some store. The windows of the stores -were frosted and the wind rattled the tin sign that -hung over the entrance to the stairway leading to -Doctor Welling's office. Before Hern's Grocery a bas- -ket of apples and a rack filled with new brooms -stood on the sidewalk. Elmer Cowley stopped and -stood facing George Willard. He tried to talk and his -arms began to pump up and down. His face worked -spasmodically. He seemed about to shout. "Oh, you -go on back," he cried. "Don't stay out here with -me. I ain't got anything to tell you. I don't want to -see you at all." - -For three hours the distracted young merchant -wandered through the resident streets of Winesburg -blind with anger, brought on by his failure to declare -his determination not to be queer. Bitterly the sense -of defeat settled upon him and he wanted to weep. -After the hours of futile sputtering at nothingness -that had occupied the afternoon and his failure in -the presence of the young reporter, he thought he -could see no hope of a future for himself. - -And then a new idea dawned for him. In the dark- -ness that surrounded him he began to see a light. -Going to the now darkened store, where Cowley & -Son had for over a year waited vainly for trade to -come, he crept stealthily in and felt about in a barrel -that stood by the stove at the rear. In the barrel -beneath shavings lay a tin box containing Cowley & -Son's cash. Every evening Ebenezer Cowley put the -box in the barrel when he closed the store and went -upstairs to bed. "They wouldn't never think of a -careless place like that," he told himself, thinking of -robbers. - -Elmer took twenty dollars, two ten-dollar bills, -from the little roll containing perhaps four hundred -dollars, the cash left from the sale of the farm. Then -replacing the box beneath the shavings he went qui- -etly out at the front door and walked again in the -streets. - -The idea that he thought might put an end to all -of his unhappiness was very simple. "I will get out -of here, run away from home," he told himself. He -knew that a local freight train passed through -Winesburg at midnight and went on to Cleveland, -where it arrived at dawn. He would steal a ride on -the local and when he got to Cleveland would lose -himself in the crowds there. He would get work -in some shop and become friends with the other -workmen and would be indistinguishable. Then he -could talk and laugh. He would no longer be queer -and would make friends. Life would begin to have -warmth and meaning for him as it had for others. - -The tall awkward young man, striding through -the streets, laughed at himself because he had been -angry and had been half afraid of George Willard. -He decided he would have his talk with the young -reporter before he left town, that he would tell him -about things, perhaps challenge him, challenge all -of Winesburg through him. - -Aglow with new confidence Elmer went to the -office of the New Willard House and pounded on -the door. A sleep-eyed boy slept on a cot in the -office. He received no salary but was fed at the hotel -table and bore with pride the title of "night clerk." -Before the boy Elmer was bold, insistent. "You 'wake -him up," he commanded. "You tell him to come -down by the depot. I got to see him and I'm going -away on the local. Tell him to dress and come on -down. I ain't got much time." - -The midnight local had finished its work in Wines- -burg and the trainsmen were coupling cars, swing- -ing lanterns and preparing to resume their flight -east. George Willard, rubbing his eyes and again -wearing the new overcoat, ran down to the station -platform afire with curiosity. "Well, here I am. What -do you want? You've got something to tell me, eh?" -he said. - -Elmer tried to explain. He wet his lips with his -tongue and looked at the train that had begun to -groan and get under way. "Well, you see," he -began, and then lost control of his tongue. "I'll be -washed and ironed. I'll be washed and ironed and -starched," he muttered half incoherently. - -Elmer Cowley danced with fury beside the groan- -ing train in the darkness on the station platform. -Lights leaped into the air and bobbed up and down -before his eyes. Taking the two ten-dollar bills from -his pocket he thrust them into George Willard's -hand. "Take them," he cried. "I don't want them. -Give them to father. I stole them." With a snarl of -rage he turned and his long arms began to flay the -air. Like one struggling for release from hands that -held him he struck out, hitting George Willard blow -after blow on the breast, the neck, the mouth. The -young reporter rolled over on the platform half un- -conscious, stunned by the terrific force of the blows. -Springing aboard the passing train and running over -the tops of cars, Elmer sprang down to a flat car and -lying on his face looked back, trying to see the fallen -man in the darkness. Pride surged up in him. "I -showed him," he cried. "I guess I showed him. I -ain't so queer. I guess I showed him I ain't so -queer." - - - - -THE UNTOLD LIE - -RAY PEARSON and Hal Winters were farm hands em- -ployed on a farm three miles north of Winesburg. -On Saturday afternoons they came into town and -wandered about through the streets with other fel- -lows from the country. - -Ray was a quiet, rather nervous man of perhaps -fifty with a brown beard and shoulders rounded by -too much and too hard labor. In his nature he was -as unlike Hal Winters as two men can be unlike. - -Ray was an altogether serious man and had a little -sharp-featured wife who had also a sharp voice. The -two, with half a dozen thin-legged children, lived in -a tumble-down frame house beside a creek at the -back end of the Wills farm where Ray was employed. - -Hal Winters, his fellow employee, was a young -fellow. He was not of the Ned Winters family, who -were very respectable people in Winesburg, but was -one of the three sons of the old man called Wind- -peter Winters who had a sawmill near Unionville, -six miles away, and who was looked upon by every- -one in Winesburg as a confirmed old reprobate. - -People from the part of Northern Ohio in which -Winesburg lies will remember old Windpeter by his -unusual and tragic death. He got drunk one evening -in town and started to drive home to Unionville -along the railroad tracks. Henry Brattenburg, the -butcher, who lived out that way, stopped him at the -edge of the town and told him he was sure to meet -the down train but Windpeter slashed at him with -his whip and drove on. When the train struck and -killed him and his two horses a farmer and his wife -who were driving home along a nearby road saw -the accident. They said that old Windpeter stood up -on the seat of his wagon, raving and swearing at -the onrushing locomotive, and that he fairly screamed -with delight when the team, maddened by his inces- -sant slashing at them, rushed straight ahead to cer- -tain death. Boys like young George Willard and Seth -Richmond will remember the incident quite vividly -because, although everyone in our town said that -the old man would go straight to hell and that the -community was better off without him, they had a -secret conviction that he knew what he was doing -and admired his foolish courage. Most boys have -seasons of wishing they could die gloriously instead -of just being grocery clerks and going on with their -humdrum lives. - -But this is not the story of Windpeter Winters nor -yet of his son Hal who worked on the Wills farm -with Ray Pearson. It is Ray's story. It will, however, -be necessary to talk a little of young Hal so that you -will get into the spirit of it. - -Hal was a bad one. Everyone said that. There -were three of the Winters boys in that family, John, -Hal, and Edward, all broad-shouldered big fellows -like old Windpeter himself and all fighters and -woman-chasers and generally all-around bad ones. - -Hal was the worst of the lot and always up to -some devilment. He once stole a load of boards from -his father's mill and sold them in Winesburg. With -the money he bought himself a suit of cheap, flashy -clothes. Then he got drunk and when his father -came raving into town to find him, they met and -fought with their fists on Main Street and were ar- -rested and put into jail together. - -Hal went to work on the Wills farm because there -was a country school teacher out that way who had -taken his fancy. He was only twenty-two then but -had already been in two or three of what were spo- -ken of in Winesburg as "women scrapes." Everyone -who heard of his infatuation for the school teacher -was sure it would turn out badly. "He'll only get -her into trouble, you'll see," was the word that went -around. - -And so these two men, Ray and Hal, were at work -in a field on a day in the late October. They were -husking corn and occasionally something was said -and they laughed. Then came silence. Ray, who was -the more sensitive and always minded things more, -had chapped hands and they hurt. He put them into -his coat pockets and looked away across the fields. -He was in a sad, distracted mood and was affected -by the beauty of the country. If you knew the -Winesburg country in the fall and how the low hills -are all splashed with yellows and reds you would -understand his feeling. He began to think of the -time, long ago when he was a young fellow living -with his father, then a baker in Winesburg, and how -on such days he had wandered away into the woods -to gather nuts, hunt rabbits, or just to loaf about -and smoke his pipe. His marriage had come about -through one of his days of wandering. He had in- -duced a girl who waited on trade in his father's shop -to go with him and something had happened. He -was thinking of that afternoon and how it had af- -fected his whole life when a spirit of protest awoke -in him. He had forgotten about Hal and muttered -words. "Tricked by Gad, that's what I was, tricked -by life and made a fool of," he said in a low voice. - -As though understanding his thoughts, Hal Win- -ters spoke up. "Well, has it been worth while? What -about it, eh? What about marriage and all that?" he -asked and then laughed. Hal tried to keep on laugh- -ing but he too was in an earnest mood. He began -to talk earnestly. "Has a fellow got to do it?" he -asked. "Has he got to be harnessed up and driven -through life like a horse?" - -Hal didn't wait for an answer but sprang to his -feet and began to walk back and forth between the -corn shocks. He was getting more and more excited. -Bending down suddenly he picked up an ear of the -yellow corn and threw it at the fence. "I've got Nell -Gunther in trouble," he said. "I'm telling you, but -you keep your mouth shut." - -Ray Pearson arose and stood staring. He was al- -most a foot shorter than Hal, and when the younger -man came and put his two hands on the older man's -shoulders they made a picture. There they stood in -the big empty field with the quiet corn shocks stand- -ing in rows behind them and the red and yellow -hills in the distance, and from being just two indif- -ferent workmen they had become all alive to each -other. Hal sensed it and because that was his way -he laughed. "Well, old daddy," he said awkwardly, -"come on, advise me. I've got Nell in trouble. Per- -haps you've been in the same fix yourself. I know -what everyone would say is the right thing to do, -but what do you say? Shall I marry and settle down? -Shall I put myself into the harness to be worn out -like an old horse? You know me, Ray. There can't -anyone break me but I can break myself. Shall I do -it or shall I tell Nell to go to the devil? Come on, -you tell me. Whatever you say, Ray, I'll do." - -Ray couldn't answer. He shook Hal's hands loose -and turning walked straight away toward the barn. -He was a sensitive man and there were tears in his -eyes. He knew there was only one thing to say to -Hal Winters, son of old Windpeter Winters, only -one thing that all his own training and all the beliefs -of the people he knew would approve, but for his -life he couldn't say what he knew he should say. - -At half-past four that afternoon Ray was puttering -about the barnyard when his wife came up the lane -along the creek and called him. After the talk with -Hal he hadn't returned to the cornfield but worked -about the barn. He had already done the evening -chores and had seen Hal, dressed and ready for a -roistering night in town, come out of the farmhouse -and go into the road. Along the path to his own -house he trudged behind his wife, looking at the -ground and thinking. He couldn't make out what -was wrong. Every time he raised his eyes and saw -the beauty of the country in the failing light he -wanted to do something he had never done before, -shout or scream or hit his wife with his fists or -something equally unexpected and terrifying. Along -the path he went scratching his head and trying to -make it out. He looked hard at his wife's back but -she seemed all right. - -She only wanted him to go into town for groceries -and as soon as she had told him what she wanted -began to scold. "You're always puttering," she said. -"Now I want you to hustle. There isn't anything in -the house for supper and you've got to get to town -and back in a hurry." - -Ray went into his own house and took an overcoat -from a hook back of the door. It was torn about the -pockets and the collar was shiny. His wife went into -the bedroom and presently came out with a soiled -cloth in one hand and three silver dollars in the -other. Somewhere in the house a child wept bitterly -and a dog that had been sleeping by the stove arose -and yawned. Again the wife scolded. "The children -will cry and cry. Why are you always puttering?" -she asked. - -Ray went out of the house and climbed the fence -into a field. It was just growing dark and the scene -that lay before him was lovely. All the low hills were -washed with color and even the little clusters of -bushes in the corners of the fences were alive with -beauty. The whole world seemed to Ray Pearson to -have become alive with something just as he and -Hal had suddenly become alive when they stood in -the corn field stating into each other's eyes. - -The beauty of the country about Winesburg was -too much for Ray on that fall evening. That is all -there was to it. He could not stand it. Of a sudden -he forgot all about being a quiet old farm hand and -throwing off the torn overcoat began to run across -the field. As he ran he shouted a protest against his -life, against all life, against everything that makes -life ugly. "There was no promise made," he cried -into the empty spaces that lay about him. "I didn't -promise my Minnie anything and Hal hasn't made -any promise to Nell. I know he hasn't. She went -into the woods with him because she wanted to go. -What he wanted she wanted. Why should I pay? -Why should Hal pay? Why should anyone pay? I -don't want Hal to become old and worn out. I'll tell -him. I won't let it go on. I'll catch Hal before he gets -to town and I'll tell him." - -Ray ran clumsily and once he stumbled and fell -down. "I must catch Hal and tell him," he kept -thinking, and although his breath came in gasps he -kept running harder and harder. As he ran he -thought of things that hadn't come into his mind for -years--how at the time he married he had planned -to go west to his uncle in Portland, Oregon--how -he hadn't wanted to be a farm hand, but had -thought when he got out West he would go to sea -and be a sailor or get a job on a ranch and ride a -horse into Western towns, shouting and laughing -and waking the people in the houses with his wild -cries. Then as he ran he remembered his children -and in fancy felt their hands clutching at him. All -of his thoughts of himself were involved with the -thoughts of Hal and he thought the children were -clutching at the younger man also. "They are the -accidents of life, Hal," he cried. "They are not mine -or yours. I had nothing to do with them." - -Darkness began to spread over the fields as Ray -Pearson ran on and on. His breath came in little -sobs. When he came to the fence at the edge of the -road and confronted Hal Winters, all dressed up and -smoking a pipe as he walked jauntily along, he -could not have told what he thought or what he -wanted. - -Ray Pearson lost his nerve and this is really the -end of the story of what happened to him. It was -almost dark when he got to the fence and he put his -hands on the top bar and stood staring. Hal Winters -jumped a ditch and coming up close to Ray put his -hands into his pockets and laughed. He seemed to -have lost his own sense of what had happened in -the corn field and when he put up a strong hand -and took hold of the lapel of Ray's coat he shook -the old man as he might have shaken a dog that -had misbehaved. - -"You came to tell me, eh?" he said. "Well, never -mind telling me anything. I'm not a coward and I've -already made up my mind." He laughed again and -jumped back across the ditch. "Nell ain't no fool," -he said. "She didn't ask me to marry her. I want to -marry her. I want to settle down and have kids." - -Ray Pearson also laughed. He felt like laughing at -himself and all the world. - -As the form of Hal Winters disappeared in the -dusk that lay over the road that led to Winesburg, -he turned and walked slowly back across the fields -to where he had left his torn overcoat. As he went -some memory of pleasant evenings spent with the -thin-legged children in the tumble-down house by -the creek must have come into his mind, for he mut- -tered words. "It's just as well. Whatever I told him -would have been a lie," he said softly, and then -his form also disappeared into the darkness of the -fields. - - - - -DRINK - -TOM FOSTER came to Winesburg from Cincinnati -when he was still young and could get many new -impressions. His grandmother had been raised on a -farm near the town and as a young girl had gone to -school there when Winesburg was a village of -twelve or fifteen houses clustered about a general -store on the Trunion Pike. - -What a life the old woman had led since she went -away from the frontier settlement and what a -strong, capable little old thing she was! She had -been in Kansas, in Canada, and in New York City, -traveling about with her husband, a mechanic, be- -fore he died. Later she went to stay with her -daughter, who had also married a mechanic and -lived in Covington, Kentucky, across the river -from Cincinnati. - -Then began the hard years for Tom Foster's -grandmother. First her son-in-law was killed by a -policeman during a strike and then Tom's mother -became an invalid and died also. The grandmother -had saved a little money, but it was swept away by -the illness of the daughter and by the cost of the -two funerals. She became a half worn-out old -woman worker and lived with the grandson above -a junk shop on a side street in Cincinnati. For five -years she scrubbed the floors in an office building -and then got a place as dish washer in a restaurant. -Her hands were all twisted out of shape. When she -took hold of a mop or a broom handle the hands -looked like the dried stems of an old creeping vine -clinging to a tree. - -The old woman came back to Winesburg as soon -as she got the chance. One evening as she was com- -ing home from work she found a pocket-book con- -taining thirty-seven dollars, and that opened the -way. The trip was a great adventure for the boy. It -was past seven o'clock at night when the grand- -mother came home with the pocket-book held tightly -in her old hands and she was so excited she could -scarcely speak. She insisted on leaving Cincinnati -that night, saying that if they stayed until morning -the owner of the money would be sure to find them -out and make trouble. Tom, who was then sixteen -years old, had to go trudging off to the station with -the old woman, bearing all of their earthly belong- -ings done up in a worn-out blanket and slung across -his back. By his side walked the grandmother urging -him forward. Her toothless old mouth twitched ner- -vously, and when Tom grew weary and wanted to -put the pack down at a street crossing, she snatched -it up and if he had not prevented would have slung -it across her own back. When they got into the train -and it had run out of the city she was as delighted -as a girl and talked as the boy had never heard her -talk before. - -All through the night as the train rattled along, -the grandmother told Tom tales of Winesburg and -of how he would enjoy his life working in the fields -and shooting wild things in the woods there. She -could not believe that the tiny village of fifty years -before had grown into a thriving town in her ab- -sence, and in the morning when the train came to -Winesburg did not want to get off. "It isn't what I -thought. It may be hard for you here," she said, and -then the train went on its way and the two stood -confused, not knowing where to turn, in the pres- -ence of Albert Longworth, the Winesburg baggage -master. - -But Tom Foster did get along all right. He was -one to get along anywhere. Mrs. White, the banker's -wife, employed his grandmother to work in the -kitchen and he got a place as stable boy in the bank- -er's new brick barn. - -In Winesburg servants were hard to get. The -woman who wanted help in her housework em- -ployed a "hired girl" who insisted on sitting at the -table with the family. Mrs. White was sick of hired -girls and snatched at the chance to get hold of the -old city woman. She furnished a room for the boy -Tom upstairs in the barn. "He can mow the lawn -and run errands when the horses do not need atten- -tion," she explained to her husband. - -Tom Foster was rather small for his age and had -a large head covered with stiff black hair that stood -straight up. The hair emphasized the bigness of his -head. His voice was the softest thing imaginable, -and he was himself so gentle and quiet that he -slipped into the life of the town without attracting -the least bit of attention. - -One could not help wondering where Tom Foster -got his gentleness. In Cincinnati he had lived in a -neighborhood where gangs of tough boys prowled -through the streets, and all through his early forma- -tive years he ran about with tough boys. For a while -he was a messenger for a telegraph company and -delivered messages in a neighborhood sprinkled -with houses of prostitution. The women in the -houses knew and loved Tom Foster and the tough -boys in the gangs loved him also. - -He never asserted himself. That was one thing -that helped him escape. In an odd way he stood in -the shadow of the wall of life, was meant to stand -in the shadow. He saw the men and women in the -houses of lust, sensed their casual and horrible love -affairs, saw boys fighting and listened to their tales -of thieving and drunkenness, unmoved and strangely -unaffected. - -Once Tom did steal. That was while he still lived -in the city. The grandmother was ill at the time and -he himself was out of work. There was nothing to -eat in the house, and so he went into a harness shop -on a side street and stole a dollar and seventy-five -cents out of the cash drawer. - -The harness shop was run by an old man with a -long mustache. He saw the boy lurking about and -thought nothing of it. When he went out into the -street to talk to a teamster Tom opened the cash -drawer and taking the money walked away. Later -he was caught and his grandmother settled the mat- -ter by offering to come twice a week for a month -and scrub the shop. The boy was ashamed, but he -was rather glad, too. "It is all right to be ashamed -and makes me understand new things," he said to -the grandmother, who didn't know what the boy -was talking about but loved him so much that it -didn't matter whether she understood or not. - -For a year Tom Foster lived in the banker's stable -and then lost his place there. He didn't take very -good care of the horses and he was a constant -source of irritation to the banker's wife. She told him -to mow the lawn and he forgot. Then she sent him -to the store or to the post office and he did not come -back but joined a group of men and boys and spent -the whole afternoon with them, standing about, lis- -tening and occasionally, when addressed, saying a -few words. As in the city in the houses of prostitu- -tion and with the rowdy boys running through the -streets at night, so in Winesburg among its citizens -he had always the power to be a part of and yet -distinctly apart from the life about him. - -After Tom lost his place at Banker White's he did -not live with his grandmother, although often in the -evening she came to visit him. He rented a room at -the rear of a little frame building belonging to old -Rufus Whiting. The building was on Duane Street, -just off Main Street, and had been used for years as -a law office by the old man, who had become too -feeble and forgetful for the practice of his profession -but did not realize his inefficiency. He liked Tom -and let him have the room for a dollar a month. In -the late afternoon when the lawyer had gone home -the boy had the place to himself and spent hours -lying on the floor by the stove and thinking of -things. In the evening the grandmother came and -sat in the lawyer's chair to smoke a pipe while Tom -remained silent, as he always, did in the presence of -everyone. - -Often the old woman talked with great vigor. -Sometimes she was angry about some happening at -the banker's house and scolded away for hours. Out -of her own earnings she bought a mop and regularly -scrubbed the lawyer's office. Then when the place -was spotlessly clean and smelled clean she lighted -her clay pipe and she and Tom had a smoke to- -gether. "When you get ready to die then I will die -also," she said to the boy lying on the floor beside -her chair. - -Tom Foster enjoyed life in Winesburg. He did odd -jobs, such as cutting wood for kitchen stoves and -mowing the grass before houses. In late May and -early June he picked strawberries in the fields. He -had time to loaf and he enjoyed loafing. Banker -White had given him a cast-off coat which was too -large for him, but his grandmother cut it down, and -he had also an overcoat, got at the same place, that -was lined with fur. The fur was worn away in spots, -but the coat was warm and in the winter Tom slept -in it. He thought his method of getting along good -enough and was happy and satisfied with the way -fife in Winesburg had turned out for him. - -The most absurd little things made Tom Foster -happy. That, I suppose, was why people loved him. -In Hern's Grocery they would be roasting coffee on -Friday afternoon, preparatory to the Saturday rush -of trade, and the rich odor invaded lower Main -Street. Tom Foster appeared and sat on a box at the -rear of the store. For an hour he did not move but -sat perfectly still, filling his being with the spicy -odor that made him half drunk with happiness. "I -like it," he said gently. "It makes me think of things -far away, places and things like that." - -One night Tom Foster got drunk. That came about -in a curious way. He never had been drunk before, -and indeed in all his fife had never taken a drink of -anything intoxicating, but he felt he needed to be -drunk that one time and so went and did it. - -In Cincinnati, when he lived there, Tom had -found out many things, things about ugliness and -crime and lust. Indeed, he knew more of these -things than anyone else in Winesburg. The matter -of sex in particular had presented itself to him in a -quite horrible way and had made a deep impression -on his mind. He thought, after what he had seen of -the women standing before the squalid houses on -cold nights and the look he had seen in the eyes of -the men who stopped to talk to them, that he would -put sex altogether out of his own life. One of the -women of the neighborhood tempted him once and -he went into a room with her. He never forgot the -smell of the room nor the greedy look that came into -the eyes of the woman. It sickened him and in a -very terrible way left a scar on his soul. He had -always before thought of women as quite innocent -things, much like his grandmother, but after that -one experience in the room he dismissed women -from his mind. So gentle was his nature that he -could not hate anything and not being able to under- -stand he decided to forget. - -And Tom did forget until he came to Winesburg. -After he had lived there for two years something -began to stir in him. On all sides he saw youth mak- -ing love and he was himself a youth. Before he -knew what had happened he was in love also. He -fell in love with Helen White, daughter of the man -for whom he had worked, and found himself think- -ing of her at night. - -That was a problem for Tom and he settled it in -his own way. He let himself think of Helen White -whenever her figure came into his mind and only -concerned himself with the manner of his thoughts. -He had a fight, a quiet determined little fight of his -own, to keep his desires in the channel where he -thought they belonged, but on the whole he was -victorious. - -And then came the spring night when he got -drunk. Tom was wild on that night. He was like an -innocent young buck of the forest that has eaten -of some maddening weed. The thing began, ran its -course, and was ended in one night, and you may -be sure that no one in Winesburg was any the worse -for Tom's outbreak. - -In the first place, the night was one to make a -sensitive nature drunk. The trees along the resi- -dence streets of the town were all newly clothed in -soft green leaves, in the gardens behind the houses -men were puttering about in vegetable gardens, and -in the air there was a hush, a waiting kind of silence -very stirring to the blood. - -Tom left his room on Duane Street just as the -young night began to make itself felt. First he -walked through the streets, going softly and quietly -along, thinking thoughts that he tried to put into -words. He said that Helen White was a flame danc- -ing in the air and that he was a little tree without -leaves standing out sharply against the sky. Then -he said that she was a wind, a strong terrible wind, -coming out of the darkness of a stormy sea and that -he was a boat left on the shore of the sea by a -fisherman. - -That idea pleased the boy and he sauntered along -playing with it. He went into Main Street and sat -on the curbing before Wacker's tobacco store. For an -hour he lingered about listening to the talk of men, -but it did not interest him much and he slipped -away. Then he decided to get drunk and went into -Willy's saloon and bought a bottle of whiskey. Put- -ting the bottle into his pocket, he walked out of -town, wanting to be alone to think more thoughts -and to drink the whiskey. - -Tom got drunk sitting on a bank of new grass -beside the road about a mile north of town. Before -him was a white road and at his back an apple or- -chard in full bloom. He took a drink out of the bottle -and then lay down on the grass. He thought of -mornings in Winesburg and of how the stones in -the graveled driveway by Banker White's house -were wet with dew and glistened in the morning -light. He thought of the nights in the barn when it -rained and he lay awake hearing the drumming of -the raindrops and smelling the warm smell of horses -and of hay. Then he thought of a storm that had -gone roaring through Winesburg several days before -and, his mind going back, he relived the night he -had spent on the train with his grandmother when -the two were coming from Cincinnati. Sharply he -remembered how strange it had seemed to sit qui- -etly in the coach and to feel the power of the engine -hurling the train along through the night. - -Tom got drunk in a very short time. He kept tak- -ing drinks from the bottle as the thoughts visited -him and when his head began to reel got up and -walked along the road going away from Winesburg. -There was a bridge on the road that ran out of -Winesburg north to Lake Erie and the drunken boy -made his way along the road to the bridge. There -he sat down. He tried to drink again, but when he -had taken the cork out of the bottle he became ill -and put it quickly back. His head was rocking back -and forth and so he sat on the stone approach to -the bridge and sighed. His head seemed to be flying -about like a pinwheel and then projecting itself off -into space and his arms and legs flopped helplessly -about. - -At eleven o'clock Tom got back into town. George -Willard found him wandering about and took him -into the Eagle printshop. Then he became afraid that -the drunken boy would make a mess on the floor -and helped him into the alleyway. - -The reporter was confused by Tom Foster. The -drunken boy talked of Helen White and said he had -been with her on the shore of a sea and had made -love to her. George had seen Helen White walking -in the street with her father during the evening and -decided that Tom was out of his head. A sentiment -concerning Helen White that lurked in his own heart -flamed up and he became angry. "Now you quit -that," he said. "I won't let Helen White's name be -dragged into this. I won't let that happen." He -began shaking Tom's shoulder, trying to make him -understand. "You quit it," he said again. - -For three hours the two young men, thus strangely -thrown together, stayed in the printshop. When he -had a little recovered George took Tom for a walk. -They went into the country and sat on a log near -the edge of a wood. Something in the still night -drew them together and when the drunken boy's -head began to clear they talked. - -"It was good to be drunk," Tom Foster said. "It -taught me something. I won't have to do it again. I -will think more dearly after this. You see how it is." - -George Willard did not see, but his anger concern- -ing Helen White passed and he felt drawn toward -the pale, shaken boy as he had never before been -drawn toward anyone. With motherly solicitude, he -insisted that Tom get to his feet and walk about. -Again they went back to the printshop and sat in -silence in the darkness. - -The reporter could not get the purpose of Tom -Foster's action straightened out in his mind. When -Tom spoke again of Helen White he again grew -angry and began to scold. "You quit that," he said -sharply. "You haven't been with her. What makes -you say you have? What makes you keep saying -such things? Now you quit it, do you hear?" - -Tom was hurt. He couldn't quarrel with George -Willard because he was incapable of quarreling, so -he got up to go away. When George Willard was -insistent he put out his hand, laying it on the older -boy's arm, and tried to explain. - -"Well," he said softly, "I don't know how it was. -I was happy. You see how that was. Helen White -made me happy and the night did too. I wanted to -suffer, to be hurt somehow. I thought that was what -I should do. I wanted to suffer, you see, because -everyone suffers and does wrong. I thought of a lot -of things to do, but they wouldn't work. They all -hurt someone else." - -Tom Foster's voice arose, and for once in his life -he became almost excited. "It was like making love, -that's what I mean," he explained. "Don't you see -how it is? It hurt me to do what I did and made -everything strange. That's why I did it. I'm glad, -too. It taught me something, that's it, that's what I -wanted. Don't you understand? I wanted to learn -things, you see. That's why I did it." - - - - -DEATH - -THE STAIRWAY LEADING up to Doctor Reefy's office, -in the Heffner Block above the Paris Dry Goods -store, was but dimly lighted. At the head of the -stairway hung a lamp with a dirty chimney that was -fastened by a bracket to the wall. The lamp had a -tin reflector, brown with rust and covered with dust. -The people who went up the stairway followed with -their feet the feet of many who had gone before. -The soft boards of the stairs had yielded under the -pressure of feet and deep hollows marked the way. - -At the top of the stairway a turn to the right -brought you to the doctor's door. To the left was a -dark hallway filled with rubbish. Old chairs, carpen- -ter's horses, step ladders and empty boxes lay in the -darkness waiting for shins to be barked. The pile of -rubbish belonged to the Paris Dry Goods Company. -When a counter or a row of shelves in the store -became useless, clerks carried it up the stairway and -threw it on the pile. - -Doctor Reefy's office was as large as a barn. A -stove with a round paunch sat in the middle of the -room. Around its base was piled sawdust, held in -place by heavy planks nailed to the floor. By the -door stood a huge table that had once been a part -of the furniture of Herrick's Clothing Store and that -had been used for displaying custom-made clothes. -It was covered with books, bottles, and surgical in- -struments. Near the edge of the table lay three or -four apples left by John Spaniard, a tree nurseryman -who was Doctor Reefy's friend, and who had -slipped the apples out of his pocket as he came in -at the door. - -At middle age Doctor Reefy was tall and awk- -ward. The grey beard he later wore had not yet ap- -peared, but on the upper lip grew a brown mustache. -He was not a graceful man, as when he grew older, -and was much occupied with the problem of dispos- -ing of his hands and feet. - -On summer afternoons, when she had been mar- -ried many years and when her son George was a -boy of twelve or fourteen, Elizabeth Willard some- -times went up the worn steps to Doctor Reefy's of- -fice. Already the woman's naturally tall figure had -begun to droop and to drag itself listlessly about. -Ostensibly she went to see the doctor because of her -health, but on the half dozen occasions when she -had been to see him the outcome of the visits did -not primarily concern her health. She and the doctor -talked of that but they talked most of her life, of -their two lives and of the ideas that had come to -them as they lived their lives in Winesburg. - -In the big empty office the man and the woman -sat looking at each other and they were a good deal -alike. Their bodies were different, as were also the -color of their eyes, the length of their noses, and -the circumstances of their existence, but something -inside them meant the same thing, wanted the same -release, would have left the same impression on the -memory of an onlooker. Later, and when he grew -older and married a young wife, the doctor often -talked to her of the hours spent with the sick woman -and expressed a good many things he had been un- -able to express to Elizabeth. He was almost a poet -in his old age and his notion of what happened took -a poetic turn. "I had come to the time in my life -when prayer became necessary and so I invented -gods and prayed to them," he said. "I did not say -my prayers in words nor did I kneel down but sat -perfectly still in my chair. In the late afternoon when -it was hot and quiet on Main Street or in the winter -when the days were gloomy, the gods came into the -office and I thought no one knew about them. Then -I found that this woman Elizabeth knew, that she -worshipped also the same gods. I have a notion that -she came to the office because she thought the gods -would be there but she was happy to find herself -not alone just the same. It was an experience that -cannot be explained, although I suppose it is always -happening to men and women in all sorts of -places." - - -On the summer afternoons when Elizabeth and -the doctor sat in the office and talked of their two -lives they talked of other lives also. Sometimes the -doctor made philosophic epigrams. Then he chuck- -led with amusement. Now and then after a period -of silence, a word was said or a hint given that -strangely illuminated the fife of the speaker, a wish -became a desire, or a dream, half dead, flared sud- -denly into life. For the most part the words came -from the woman and she said them without looking -at the man. - -Each time she came to see the doctor the hotel -keeper's wife talked a little more freely and after an -hour or two in his presence went down the stairway -into Main Street feeling renewed and strengthened -against the dullness of her days. With something -approaching a girlhood swing to her body she -walked along, but when she had got back to her -chair by the window of her room and when dark- -ness had come on and a girl from the hotel dining -room brought her dinner on a tray, she let it grow -cold. Her thoughts ran away to her girlhood with -its passionate longing for adventure and she remem- -bered the arms of men that had held her when ad- -venture was a possible thing for her. Particularly she -remembered one who had for a time been her lover -and who in the moment of his passion had cried out -to her more than a hundred times, saying the same -words madly over and over: "You dear! You dear! -You lovely dear!" The words, she thought, ex- -pressed something she would have liked to have -achieved in life. - -In her room in the shabby old hotel the sick wife -of the hotel keeper began to weep and, putting her -hands to her face, rocked back and forth. The words -of her one friend, Doctor Reefy, rang in her ears. -"Love is like a wind stirring the grass beneath trees -on a black night," he had said. "You must not try -to make love definite. It is the divine accident of life. -If you try to be definite and sure about it and to live -beneath the trees, where soft night winds blow, the -long hot day of disappointment comes swiftly and -the gritty dust from passing wagons gathers upon -lips inflamed and made tender by kisses." - -Elizabeth Willard could not remember her mother -who had died when she was but five years old. Her -girlhood had been lived in the most haphazard man- -ner imaginable. Her father was a man who had -wanted to be let alone and the affairs of the hotel -would not let him alone. He also had lived and died -a sick man. Every day he arose with a cheerful face, -but by ten o'clock in the morning all the joy had -gone out of his heart. When a guest complained of -the fare in the hotel dining room or one of the girls -who made up the beds got married and went away, -he stamped on the floor and swore. At night when -he went to bed he thought of his daughter growing -up among the stream of people that drifted in and -out of the hotel and was overcome with sadness. As -the girl grew older and began to walk out in the -evening with men he wanted to talk to her, but -when he tried was not successful. He always forgot -what he wanted to say and spent the time complain- -ing of his own affairs. - -In her girlhood and young womanhood Elizabeth -had tried to be a real adventurer in life. At eighteen -life had so gripped her that she was no longer a -virgin but, although she had a half dozen lovers -before she married Tom Willard, she had never en- -tered upon an adventure prompted by desire alone. -Like all the women in the world, she wanted a real -lover. Always there was something she sought -blindly, passionately, some hidden wonder in life. -The tall beautiful girl with the swinging stride who -had walked under the trees with men was forever -putting out her hand into the darkness and trying -to get hold of some other hand. In all the babble of -words that fell from the lips of the men with whom -she adventured she was trying to find what would -be for her the true word, - -Elizabeth had married Tom Willard, a clerk in her -father's hotel, because he was at hand and wanted -to marry at the time when the determination to -marry came to her. For a while, like most young -girls, she thought marriage would change the face -of life. If there was in her mind a doubt of the out- -come of the marriage with Tom she brushed it aside. -Her father was ill and near death at the time and -she was perplexed because of the meaningless out- -come of an affair in which she had just been in- -volved. Other girls of her age in Winesburg were -marrying men she had always known, grocery clerks -or young farmers. In the evening they walked in -Main Street with their husbands and when she -passed they smiled happily. She began to think that -the fact of marriage might be full of some hidden -significance. Young wives with whom she talked -spoke softly and shyly. "It changes things to have -a man of your own," they said. - -On the evening before her marriage the perplexed -girl had a talk with her father. Later she wondered -if the hours alone with the sick man had not led to -her decision to marry. The father talked of his life -and advised the daughter to avoid being led into -another such muddle. He abused Tom Willard, and -that led Elizabeth to come to the clerk's defense. The -sick man became excited and tried to get out of bed. -When she would not let him walk about he began -to complain. "I've never been let alone," he said. -"Although I've worked hard I've not made the hotel -pay. Even now I owe money at the bank. You'll find -that out when I'm gone." - -The voice of the sick man became tense with ear- -nestness. Being unable to arise, he put out his hand -and pulled the girl's head down beside his own. -"There's a way out," he whispered. "Don't marry -Tom Willard or anyone else here in Winesburg. -There is eight hundred dollars in a tin box in my -trunk. Take it and go away." - -Again the sick man's voice became querulous. -"You've got to promise," he declared. "If you won't -promise not to marry, give me your word that you'll -never tell Tom about the money. It is mine and if I -give it to you I've the right to make that demand. -Hide it away. It is to make up to you for my failure -as a father. Some time it may prove to be a door, a -great open door to you. Come now, I tell you I'm -about to die, give me your promise." - - -In Doctor Reefy's office, Elizabeth, a tired gaunt -old woman at forty-one, sat in a chair near the stove -and looked at the floor. By a small desk near the -window sat the doctor. His hands played with a -lead pencil that lay on the desk. Elizabeth talked of -her life as a married woman. She became impersonal -and forgot her husband, only using him as a lay -figure to give point to her tale. "And then I was -married and it did not turn out at all," she said -bitterly. "As soon as I had gone into it I began to -be afraid. Perhaps I knew too much before and then -perhaps I found out too much during my first night -with him. I don't remember. - -"What a fool I was. When father gave me the -money and tried to talk me out of the thought of -marriage, I would not listen. I thought of what the -girls who were married had said of it and I wanted -marriage also. It wasn't Tom I wanted, it was mar- -riage. When father went to sleep I leaned out of the -window and thought of the life I had led. I didn't -want to be a bad woman. The town was full of sto- -ries about me. I even began to be afraid Tom would -change his mind." - -The woman's voice began to quiver with excite- -ment. To Doctor Reefy, who without realizing what -was happening had begun to love her, there came -an odd illusion. He thought that as she talked the -woman's body was changing, that she was becom- -ing younger, straighter, stronger. When he could -not shake off the illusion his mind gave it a profes- -sional twist. "It is good for both her body and her -mind, this talking," he muttered. - -The woman began telling of an incident that had -happened one afternoon a few months after her -marriage. Her voice became steadier. "In the late -afternoon I went for a drive alone," she said. "I had -a buggy and a little grey pony I kept in Moyer's -Livery. Tom was painting and repapering rooms in -the hotel. He wanted money and I was trying to -make up my mind to tell him about the eight hun- -dred dollars father had given to me. I couldn't de- -cide to do it. I didn't like him well enough. There -was always paint on his hands and face during those -days and he smelled of paint. He was trying to fix -up the old hotel, and make it new and smart." - -The excited woman sat up very straight in her -chair and made a quick girlish movement with her -hand as she told of the drive alone on the spring -afternoon. "It was cloudy and a storm threatened," -she said. "Black clouds made the green of the trees -and the grass stand out so that the colors hurt my -eyes. I went out Trunion Pike a mile or more and -then turned into a side road. The little horse went -quickly along up hill and down. I was impatient. -Thoughts came and I wanted to get away from my -thoughts. I began to beat the horse. The black clouds -settled down and it began to rain. I wanted to go at -a terrible speed, to drive on and on forever. I -wanted to get out of town, out of my clothes, out -of my marriage, out of my body, out of everything. -I almost killed the horse, making him run, and when -he could not run any more I got out of the buggy -and ran afoot into the darkness until I fell and hurt -my side. I wanted to run away from everything but -I wanted to run towards something too. Don't you -see, dear, how it was?" - -Elizabeth sprang out of the chair and began to -walk about in the office. She walked as Doctor Reefy -thought he had never seen anyone walk before. To -her whole body there was a swing, a rhythm that -intoxicated him. When she came and knelt on the -floor beside his chair he took her into his arms and -began to kiss her passionately. "I cried all the way -home," she said, as she tried to continue the story -of her wild ride, but he did not listen. "You dear! -You lovely dear! Oh you lovely dear!" he muttered -and thought he held in his arms not the tired-out -woman of forty-one but a lovely and innocent girl -who had been able by some miracle to project her- -self out of the husk of the body of the tired-out -woman. - -Doctor Reefy did not see the woman he had held -in his arms again until after her death. On the sum- -mer afternoon in the office when he was on the -point of becoming her lover a half grotesque little -incident brought his love-making quickly to an end. -As the man and woman held each other tightly -heavy feet came tramping up the office stairs. The -two sprang to their feet and stood listening and -trembling. The noise on the stairs was made by a -clerk from the Paris Dry Goods Company. With a -loud bang he threw an empty box on the pile of -rubbish in the hallway and then went heavily down -the stairs. Elizabeth followed him almost immedi- -ately. The thing that had come to life in her as she -talked to her one friend died suddenly. She was -hysterical, as was also Doctor Reefy, and did not -want to continue the talk. Along the street she went -with the blood still singing in her body, but when -she turned out of Main Street and saw ahead the -lights of the New Willard House, she began to trem- -ble and her knees shook so that for a moment she -thought she would fall in the street. - -The sick woman spent the last few months of her -life hungering for death. Along the road of death -she went, seeking, hungering. She personified the -figure of death and made him now a strong black- -haired youth running over hills, now a stem quiet -man marked and scarred by the business of living. -In the darkness of her room she put out her hand, -thrusting it from under the covers of her bed, and -she thought that death like a living thing put out -his hand to her. "Be patient, lover," she whispered. -"Keep yourself young and beautiful and be patient." - -On the evening when disease laid its heavy hand -upon her and defeated her plans for telling her son -George of the eight hundred dollars hidden away, -she got out of bed and crept half across the room -pleading with death for another hour of life. "Wait, -dear! The boy! The boy! The boy!" she pleaded as -she tried with all of her strength to fight off the arms -of the lover she had wanted so earnestly. - - -Elizabeth died one day in March in the year when -her son George became eighteen, and the young -man had but little sense of the meaning of her -death. Only time could give him that. For a month -he had seen her lying white and still and speechless -in her bed, and then one afternoon the doctor -stopped him in the hallway and said a few words. - -The young man went into his own room and -closed the door. He had a queer empty feeling in -the region of his stomach. For a moment he sat star- -ing at, the floor and then jumping up went for a -walk. Along the station platform he went, and -around through residence streets past the high- -school building, thinking almost entirely of his own -affairs. The notion of death could not get hold of -him and he was in fact a little annoyed that his -mother had died on that day. He had just received -a note from Helen White, the daughter of the town -banker, in answer to one from him. "Tonight I could -have gone to see her and now it will have to be put -off," he thought half angrily. - -Elizabeth died on a Friday afternoon at three -o'clock. It had been cold and rainy in the morning -but in the afternoon the sun came out. Before she -died she lay paralyzed for six days unable to speak -or move and with only her mind and her eyes alive. -For three of the six days she struggled, thinking of -her boy, trying to say some few words in regard to -his future, and in her eyes there was an appeal so -touching that all who saw it kept the memory of the -dying woman in their minds for years. Even Tom -Willard, who had always half resented his wife, for- -got his resentment and the tears ran out of his eyes -and lodged in his mustache. The mustache had -begun to turn grey and Tom colored it with dye. -There was oil in the preparation he used for the -purpose and the tears, catching in the mustache and -being brushed away by his hand, formed a fine mist- -like vapor. In his grief Tom Willard's face looked -like the face of a little dog that has been out a long -time in bitter weather. - -George came home along Main Street at dark on -the day of his mother's death and, after going to his -own room to brush his hair and clothes, went along -the hallway and into the room where the body lay. -There was a candle on the dressing table by the door -and Doctor Reefy sat in a chair by the bed. The -doctor arose and started to go out. He put out his -hand as though to greet the younger man and then -awkwardly drew it back again. The air of the room -was heavy with the presence of the two self- -conscious human beings, and the man hurried -away. - -The dead woman's son sat down in a chair and -looked at the floor. He again thought of his own -affairs and definitely decided he would make a -change in his fife, that he would leave Winesburg. -"I will go to some city. Perhaps I can get a job on -some newspaper," he thought, and then his mind -turned to the girl with whom he was to have spent -this evening and again he was half angry at the turn -of events that had prevented his going to her. - -In the dimly lighted room with the dead woman -the young man began to have thoughts. His mind -played with thoughts of life as his mother's mind -had played with the thought of death. He closed his -eyes and imagined that the red young lips of Helen -White touched his own lips. His body trembled and -his hands shook. And then something happened. -The boy sprang to his feet and stood stiffly. He -looked at the figure of the dead woman under the -sheets and shame for his thoughts swept over him -so that he began to weep. A new notion came into -his mind and he turned and looked guiltily about as -though afraid he would be observed. - -George Willard became possessed of a madness to -lift the sheet from the body of his mother and look -at her face. The thought that had come into his mind -gripped him terribly. He became convinced that not -his mother but someone else lay in the bed before -him. The conviction was so real that it was almost -unbearable. The body under the sheets was long -and in death looked young and graceful. To the boy, -held by some strange fancy, it was unspeakably -lovely. The feeling that the body before him was -alive, that in another moment a lovely woman -would spring out of the bed and confront him, be- -came so overpowering that he could not bear the -suspense. Again and again he put out his hand. -Once he touched and half lifted the white sheet that -covered her, but his courage failed and he, like Doc- -tor Reefy, turned and went out of the room. In the -hallway outside the door he stopped and trembled -so that he had to put a hand against the wall to -support himself. "That's not my mother. That's not -my mother in there," he whispered to himself and -again his body shook with fright and uncertainty. -When Aunt Elizabeth Swift, who had come to watch -over the body, came out of an adjoining room he -put his hand into hers and began to sob, shaking -his head from side to side, half blind with grief. "My -mother is dead," he said, and then forgetting the -woman he turned and stared at the door through -which he had just come. "The dear, the dear, oh -the lovely dear," the boy, urged by some impulse -outside himself, muttered aloud. - -As for the eight hundred dollars the dead woman -had kept hidden so long and that was to give -George Willard his start in the city, it lay in the tin -box behind the plaster by the foot of his mother's -bed. Elizabeth had put it there a week after her mar- -riage, breaking the plaster away with a stick. Then -she got one of the workmen her husband was at -that time employing about the hotel to mend the -wall. "I jammed the corner of the bed against it," -she had explained to her husband, unable at the -moment to give up her dream of release, the release -that after all came to her but twice in her life, in the -moments when her lovers Death and Doctor Reefy -held her in their arms. - - - - -SOPHISTICATION - -IT WAS EARLY evening of a day in, the late fall and -the Winesburg County Fair had brought crowds of -country people into town. The day had been clear -and the night came on warm and pleasant. On the -Trunion Pike, where the road after it left town -stretched away between berry fields now covered -with dry brown leaves, the dust from passing wag- -ons arose in clouds. Children, curled into little balls, -slept on the straw scattered on wagon beds. Their -hair was full of dust and their fingers black and -sticky. The dust rolled away over the fields and the -departing sun set it ablaze with colors. - -In the main street of Winesburg crowds filled the -stores and the sidewalks. Night came on, horses -whinnied, the clerks in the stores ran madly about, -children became lost and cried lustily, an American -town worked terribly at the task of amusing itself. - -Pushing his way through the crowds in Main -Street, young George Willard concealed himself in -the stairway leading to Doctor Reefy's office and -looked at the people. With feverish eyes he watched -the faces drifting past under the store lights. -Thoughts kept coming into his head and he did not -want to think. He stamped impatiently on the -wooden steps and looked sharply about. "Well, is -she going to stay with him all day? Have I done all -this waiting for nothing?" he muttered. - -George Willard, the Ohio village boy, was fast -growing into manhood and new thoughts had been -coming into his mind. All that day, amid the jam of -people at the Fair, he had gone about feeling lonely. -He was about to leave Winesburg to go away to -some city where he hoped to get work on a city -newspaper and he felt grown up. The mood that -had taken possession of him was a thing known to -men and unknown to boys. He felt old and a little -tired. Memories awoke in him. To his mind his new -sense of maturity set him apart, made of him a half- -tragic figure. He wanted someone to understand the -feeling that had taken possession of him after his -mother's death. - -There is a time in the life of every boy when he -for the first time takes the backward view of life. -Perhaps that is the moment when he crosses the line -into manhood. The boy is walking through the street -of his town. He is thinking of the future and of the -figure he will cut in the world. Ambitions and re- -grets awake within him. Suddenly something hap- -pens; he stops under a tree and waits as for a voice -calling his name. Ghosts of old things creep into his -consciousness; the voices outside of himself whisper -a message concerning the limitations of life. From -being quite sure of himself and his future he be- -comes not at all sure. If he be an imaginative boy a -door is tom open and for the first time he looks out -upon the world, seeing, as though they marched in -procession before him, the countless figures of men -who before his time have come out of nothingness -into the world, lived their lives and again disap- -peared into nothingness. The sadness of sophistica- -tion has come to the boy. With a little gasp he sees -himself as merely a leaf blown by the wind through -the streets of his village. He knows that in spite of -all the stout talk of his fellows he must live and die -in uncertainty, a thing blown by the winds, a thing -destined like corn to wilt in the sun. He shivers and -looks eagerly about. The eighteen years he has lived -seem but a moment, a breathing space in the long -march of humanity. Already he hears death calling. -With all his heart he wants to come close to some -other human, touch someone with his hands, be -touched by the hand of another. If he prefers that -the other be a woman, that is because he believes -that a woman will be gentle, that she will under- -stand. He wants, most of all, understanding. - -When the moment of sophistication came to George -Willard his mind turned to Helen White, the Wines- -burg banker's daughter. Always he had been con- -scious of the girl growing into womanhood as he -grew into manhood. Once on a summer night when -he was eighteen, he had walked with her on a coun- -try road and in her presence had given way to an -impulse to boast, to make himself appear big and -significant in her eyes. Now he wanted to see her -for another purpose. He wanted to tell her of the -new impulses that had come to him. He had tried -to make her think of him as a man when he knew -nothing of manhood and now he wanted to be with -her and to try to make her feel the change he be- -lieved had taken place in his nature. - -As for Helen White, she also had come to a period -of change. What George felt, she in her young wom- -an's way felt also. She was no longer a girl and -hungered to reach into the grace and beauty of -womanhood. She had come home from Cleveland, -where she was attending college, to spend a day at -the Fair. She also had begun to have memories. Dur- -ing the day she sat in the grand-stand with a young -man, one of the instructors from the college, who -was a guest of her mother's. The young man was -of a pedantic turn of mind and she felt at once he -would not do for her purpose. At the Fair she was -glad to be seen in his company as he was well -dressed and a stranger. She knew that the fact of -his presence would create an impression. During the -day she was happy, but when night came on she -began to grow restless. She wanted to drive the in- -structor away, to get out of his presence. While they -sat together in the grand-stand and while the eyes -of former schoolmates were upon them, she paid so -much attention to her escort that he grew interested. -"A scholar needs money. I should marry a woman -with money," he mused. - -Helen White was thinking of George Willard even -as he wandered gloomily through the crowds think- -ing of her. She remembered the summer evening -when they had walked together and wanted to walk -with him again. She thought that the months she -had spent in the city, the going to theaters and the -seeing of great crowds wandering in lighted thor- -oughfares, had changed her profoundly. She wanted -him to feel and be conscious of the change in her -nature. - -The summer evening together that had left its -mark on the memory of both the young man and -woman had, when looked at quite sensibly, been -rather stupidly spent. They had walked out of town -along a country road. Then they had stopped by a -fence near a field of young corn and George had -taken off his coat and let it hang on his arm. "Well, -I've stayed here in Winesburg--yes--I've not yet -gone away but I'm growing up," he had said. "I've -been reading books and I've been thinking. I'm -going to try to amount to something in life. - -"Well," he explained, "that isn't the point. Per- -haps I'd better quit talking." - -The confused boy put his hand on the girl's arm. -His voice trembled. The two started to walk back -along the road toward town. In his desperation -George boasted, "I'm going to be a big man, the -biggest that ever lived here in Winesburg," he de- -clared. "I want you to do something, I don't know -what. Perhaps it is none of my business. I want you -to try to be different from other women. You see -the point. It's none of my business I tell you. I want -you to be a beautiful woman. You see what I want." - -The boy's voice failed and in silence the two came -back into town and went along the street to Helen -White's house. At the gate he tried to say something -impressive. Speeches he had thought out came into -his head, but they seemed utterly pointless. "I -thought--I used to think--I had it in my mind you -would marry Seth Richmond. Now I know you -won't," was all he could find to say as she went -through the gate and toward the door of her house. - -On the warm fall evening as he stood in the stair- -way and looked at the crowd drifting through Main -Street, George thought of the talk beside the field of -young corn and was ashamed of the figure he had -made of himself. In the street the people surged up -and down like cattle confined in a pen. Buggies and -wagons almost filled the narrow thoroughfare. A -band played and small boys raced along the side- -walk, diving between the legs of men. Young men -with shining red faces walked awkwardly about -with girls on their arms. In a room above one of the -stores, where a dance was to be held, the fiddlers -tuned their instruments. The broken sounds floated -down through an open window and out across the -murmur of voices and the loud blare of the horns -of the band. The medley of sounds got on young -Willard's nerves. Everywhere, on all sides, the sense -of crowding, moving life closed in about him. He -wanted to run away by himself and think. "If she -wants to stay with that fellow she may. Why should -I care? What difference does it make to me?" he -growled and went along Main Street and through -Hern's Grocery into a side street. - -George felt so utterly lonely and dejected that he -wanted to weep but pride made him walk rapidly -along, swinging his arms. He came to Wesley Moy- -er's livery barn and stopped in the shadows to listen -to a group of men who talked of a race Wesley's -stallion, Tony Tip, had won at the Fair during the -afternoon. A crowd had gathered in front of the -barn and before the crowd walked Wesley, prancing -up and down boasting. He held a whip in his hand -and kept tapping the ground. Little puffs of dust -arose in the lamplight. "Hell, quit your talking," -Wesley exclaimed. "I wasn't afraid, I knew I had -'em beat all the time. I wasn't afraid." - -Ordinarily George Willard would have been in- -tensely interested in the boasting of Moyer, the -horseman. Now it made him angry. He turned and -hurried away along the street. "Old windbag," he -sputtered. "Why does he want to be bragging? Why -don't he shut up?" - -George went into a vacant lot and, as he hurried -along, fell over a pile of rubbish. A nail protruding -from an empty barrel tore his trousers. He sat down -on the ground and swore. With a pin he mended -the torn place and then arose and went on. "I'll go -to Helen White's house, that's what I'll do. I'll walk -right in. I'll say that I want to see her. I'll walk right -in and sit down, that's what I'll do," he declared, -climbing over a fence and beginning to run. - - -On the veranda of Banker White's house Helen -was restless and distraught. The instructor sat be- -tween the mother and daughter. His talk wearied -the girl. Although he had also been raised in an -Ohio town, the instructor began to put on the airs -of the city. He wanted to appear cosmopolitan. "I -like the chance you have given me to study the back- -ground out of which most of our girls come," he -declared. "It was good of you, Mrs. White, to have -me down for the day." He turned to Helen and -laughed. "Your life is still bound up with the life of -this town?" he asked. "There are people here in -whom you are interested?" To the girl his voice -sounded pompous and heavy. - -Helen arose and went into the house. At the door -leading to a garden at the back she stopped and -stood listening. Her mother began to talk. "There is -no one here fit to associate with a girl of Helen's -breeding," she said. - -Helen ran down a flight of stairs at the back of -the house and into the garden. In the darkness she -stopped and stood trembling. It seemed to her that -the world was full of meaningless people saying -words. Afire with eagerness she ran through a gar- -den gate and, turning a corner by the banker's barn, -went into a little side street. "George! Where are -you, George?" she cried, filled with nervous excite- -ment. She stopped running, and leaned against a -tree to laugh hysterically. Along the dark little street -came George Willard, still saying words. "I'm going -to walk right into her house. I'll go right in and sit -down, " he declared as he came up to her. He -stopped and stared stupidly. "Come on," he said -and took hold of her hand. With hanging heads they -walked away along the street under the trees. Dry -leaves rustled under foot. Now that he had found -her George wondered what he had better do and -say. - - -At the upper end of the Fair Ground, in Wines- -burg, there is a half decayed old grand-stand. It has -never been painted and the boards are all warped -out of shape. The Fair Ground stands on top of a -low hill rising out of the valley of Wine Creek and -from the grand-stand one can see at night, over a -cornfield, the lights of the town reflected against the -sky. - -George and Helen climbed the hill to the Fair -Ground, coming by the path past Waterworks Pond. -The feeling of loneliness and isolation that had come -to the young man in the crowded streets of his town -was both broken and intensified by the presence of -Helen. What he felt was reflected in her. - -In youth there are always two forces fighting in -people. The warm unthinking little animal struggles -against the thing that reflects and remembers, and -the older, the more sophisticated thing had posses- -sion of George Willard. Sensing his mood, Helen -walked beside him filled with respect. When they -got to the grand-stand they climbed up under the -roof and sat down on one of the long bench-like -seats. - -There is something memorable in the experience -to be had by going into a fair ground that stands at -the edge of a Middle Western town on a night after -the annual fair has been held. The sensation is one -never to be forgotten. On all sides are ghosts, not -of the dead, but of living people. Here, during the -day just passed, have come the people pouring in -from the town and the country around. Farmers -with their wives and children and all the people -from the hundreds of little frame houses have gath- -ered within these board walls. Young girls have -laughed and men with beards have talked of the -affairs of their lives. The place has been filled to -overflowing with life. It has itched and squirmed -with life and now it is night and the life has all gone -away. The silence is almost terrifying. One conceals -oneself standing silently beside the trunk of a tree -and what there is of a reflective tendency in his na- -ture is intensified. One shudders at the thought of -the meaninglessness of life while at the same in- -stant, and if the people of the town are his people, -one loves life so intensely that tears come into the -eyes. - -In the darkness under the roof of the grand-stand, -George Willard sat beside Helen White and felt very -keenly his own insignificance in the scheme of exis- -tence. Now that he had come out of town where -the presence of the people stirring about, busy with -a multitude of affairs, had been so irritating, the -irritation was all gone. The presence of Helen re- -newed and refreshed him. It was as though her -woman's hand was assisting him to make some mi- -nute readjustment of the machinery of his life. He -began to think of the people in the town where he -had always lived with something like reverence. -He had reverence for Helen. He wanted to love and -to be loved by her, but he did not want at the mo- -ment to be confused by her womanhood. In the -darkness he took hold of her hand and when she -crept close put a hand on her shoulder. A wind -began to blow and he shivered. With all his strength -he tried to hold and to understand the mood that -had come upon him. In that high place in the dark- -ness the two oddly sensitive human atoms held each -other tightly and waited. In the mind of each was -the same thought. "I have come to this lonely place -and here is this other," was the substance of the -thing felt. - -In Winesburg the crowded day had run itself out -into the long night of the late fall. Farm horses -jogged away along lonely country roads pulling their -portion of weary people. Clerks began to bring sam- -ples of goods in off the sidewalks and lock the doors -of stores. In the Opera House a crowd had gathered -to see a show and further down Main Street the -fiddlers, their instruments tuned, sweated and -worked to keep the feet of youth flying over a dance -floor. - -In the darkness in the grand-stand Helen White -and George Willard remained silent. Now and then -the spell that held them was broken and they turned -and tried in the dim light to see into each other's -eyes. They kissed but that impulse did not last. At -the upper end of the Fair Ground a half dozen men -worked over horses that had raced during the after- -noon. The men had built a fire and were heating -kettles of water. Only their legs could be seen as -they passed back and forth in the light. When the -wind blew the little flames of the fire danced crazily -about. - -George and Helen arose and walked away into -the darkness. They went along a path past a field of -corn that had not yet been cut. The wind whispered -among the dry corn blades. For a moment during -the walk back into town the spell that held them -was broken. When they had come to the crest of -Waterworks Hill they stopped by a tree and George -again put his hands on the girl's shoulders. She em- -braced him eagerly and then again they drew -quickly back from that impulse. They stopped kiss- -ing and stood a little apart. Mutual respect grew big -in them. They were both embarrassed and to relieve -their embarrassment dropped into the animalism of -youth. They laughed and began to pull and haul at -each other. In some way chastened and purified by -the mood they had been in, they became, not man -and woman, not boy and girl, but excited little -animals. - -It was so they went down the hill. In the darkness -they played like two splendid young things in a -young world. Once, running swiftly forward, Helen -tripped George and he fell. He squirmed and shouted. -Shaking with laughter, he roiled down the hill. -Helen ran after him. For just a moment she stopped -in the darkness. There was no way of knowing what -woman's thoughts went through her mind but, -when the bottom of the hill was reached and she -came up to the boy, she took his arm and walked -beside him in dignified silence. For some reason -they could not have explained they had both got -from their silent evening together the thing needed. -Man or boy, woman or girl, they had for a moment -taken hold of the thing that makes the mature life -of men and women in the modern world possible. - - - -DEPARTURE - -YOUNG GEORGE WILLARD got out of bed at four in -the morning. It was April and the young tree leaves -were just coming out of their buds. The trees along -the residence streets in Winesburg are maple and -the seeds are winged. When the wind blows they -whirl crazily about, filling the air and making a car- -pet underfoot. - -George came downstairs into the hotel office car- -rying a brown leather bag. His trunk was packed -for departure. Since two o'clock he had been awake -thinking of the journey he was about to take and -wondering what he would find at the end of his -journey. The boy who slept in the hotel office lay -on a cot by the door. His mouth was open and he -snored lustily. George crept past the cot and went -out into the silent deserted main street. The east was -pink with the dawn and long streaks of light climbed -into the sky where a few stars still shone. - -Beyond the last house on Trunion Pike in Wines- -burg there is a great stretch of open fields. The fields -are owned by farmers who live in town and drive -homeward at evening along Trunion Pike in light -creaking wagons. In the fields are planted berries -and small fruits. In the late afternoon in the hot -summers when the road and the fields are covered -with dust, a smoky haze lies over the great flat basin -of land. To look across it is like looking out across -the sea. In the spring when the land is green the -effect is somewhat different. The land becomes a -wide green billiard table on which tiny human in- -sects toil up and down. - -All through his boyhood and young manhood -George Willard had been in the habit of walking on -Trunion Pike. He had been in the midst of the great -open place on winter nights when it was covered -with snow and only the moon looked down at him; -he had been there in the fall when bleak winds blew -and on summer evenings when the air vibrated with -the song of insects. On the April morning he wanted -to go there again, to walk again in the silence. He -did walk to where the road dipped down by a little -stream two miles from town and then turned and -walked silently back again. When he got to Main -Street clerks were sweeping the sidewalks before the -stores. "Hey, you George. How does it feel to be -going away?" they asked. - -The westbound train leaves Winesburg at seven -forty-five in the morning. Tom Little is conductor. -His train runs from Cleveland to where it connects -with a great trunk line railroad with terminals in -Chicago and New York. Tom has what in railroad -circles is called an "easy run." Every evening he -returns to his family. In the fall and spring he -spends his Sundays fishing in Lake Erie. He has a -round red face and small blue eyes. He knows the -people in the towns along his railroad better than a -city man knows the people who live in his apart- -ment building. - -George came down the little incline from the New -Willard House at seven o'clock. Tom Willard carried -his bag. The son had become taller than the father. - -On the station platform everyone shook the young -man's hand. More than a dozen people waited -about. Then they talked of their own affairs. Even -Will Henderson, who was lazy and often slept until -nine, had got out of bed. George was embarrassed. -Gertrude Wilmot, a tall thin woman of fifty who -worked in the Winesburg post office, came along -the station platform. She had never before paid any -attention to George. Now she stopped and put out -her hand. In two words she voiced what everyone -felt. "Good luck," she said sharply and then turning -went on her way. - -When the train came into the station George felt -relieved. He scampered hurriedly aboard. Helen -White came running along Main Street hoping to -have a parting word with him, but he had found a -seat and did not see her. When the train started Tom -Little punched his ticket, grinned and, although he -knew George well and knew on what adventure he -was just setting out, made no comment. Tom had -seen a thousand George Willards go out of their -towns to the city. It was a commonplace enough -incident with him. In the smoking car there was a -man who had just invited Tom to go on a fishing -trip to Sandusky Bay. He wanted to accept the invi- -tation and talk over details. - -George glanced up and down the car to be sure -no one was looking, then took out his pocketbook -and counted his money. His mind was occupied -with a desire not to appear green. Almost the last -words his father had said to him concerned the mat- -ter of his behavior when he got to the city. "Be a -sharp one," Tom Willard had said. "Keep your eyes -on your money. Be awake. That's the ticket. Don't -let anyone think you're a greenhorn." - -After George counted his money he looked out of -the window and was surprised to see that the train -was still in Winesburg. - -The young man, going out of his town to meet -the adventure of life, began to think but he did not -think of anything very big or dramatic. Things like -his mother's death, his departure from Winesburg, -the uncertainty of his future life in the city, the seri- -ous and larger aspects of his life did not come into -his mind. - -He thought of little things--Turk Smollet wheel- -ing boards through the main street of his town in -the morning, a tall woman, beautifully gowned, -who had once stayed overnight at his father's hotel, -Butch Wheeler the lamp lighter of Winesburg hur- -rying through the streets on a summer evening and -holding a torch in his hand, Helen White standing -by a window in the Winesburg post office and put- -ting a stamp on an envelope. - -The young man's mind was carried away by his -growing passion for dreams. One looking at him -would not have thought him particularly sharp. -With the recollection of little things occupying his -mind he closed his eyes and leaned back in the car -seat. He stayed that way for a long time and when -he aroused himself and again looked out of the car -window the town of Winesburg had disappeared -and his life there had become but a background on -which to paint the dreams of his manhood. - - - -End of Project Gutenberg text of Winesburg, Ohio - diff --git a/old/wnbrg11.zip b/old/wnbrg11.zip Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 75707c0..0000000 --- a/old/wnbrg11.zip +++ /dev/null |