menu_book Chapter 1

1916. Chapter 1. Wendy Macpherson's Son by Sherwood Anderson. At the beginning of the long twilight of a summer evening, Sam Macpherson, a tall, big-boned boy of thirteen, with brown hair, black eyes, and an amusing little habit of tilting his

chin in the air as he walked, came upon the station platform of the little corn-shipping town of Caxton in Iowa. It was a board platform, and the boy walked cautiously, lifting his bare feet and putting them down with extreme deliberateness on the hot, dry, cracked planks. Under one arm he carried a bundle of newspapers.

A long black cigar was in his hand. In front of the station he stopped, and Jerry Donlon, the baggage man, seeing the cigar in his hand, laughed and slowly drew the side of his face up into a laboured wink. What is the game tonight, Sam? he asked. Sam stepped to the baggage room door, handed him the cigar, and began giving directions,

painting into the baggage room, intent and businesslike in the face of the Irishman's laughter. Then, turning, he walked across the station platform to the main street of the town, his eyes bent on the ends of his fingers on which he was making computations with his thumb. Jerry looked after him, grinning so that his red gums made a splash of color on his bearded

face. A gleam of paternal pride lit his eyes, and he shook his head and muttered admiringly. Then lighting the cigar, he went down the platform to where a wrapped bundle of newspapers lay against the building, under the window of the telegraph office, and taking it in his arm disappeared, still grinning, into the baggage room.

Sam Macpherson walked down Main Street, past the shoe store, the bakery, and the candy store kept by Penny Hughes, toward a group lounging at the front of Geiger's drugstore. Before the door of the shoe store he paused a moment, and taking a small notebook from his pocket, ran his finger down the pages. Then shaking his head, continued on his way, again absorbed in doing sums on his fingers.

Suddenly, from among the men by the drugstore, a roaring song broke the evening quiet of the street, and a voice, huge and guttural, brought a smile to the boy's lips. He washed the windows and he swept the floor, and he polished up the handle of the big front door. He polished that handle so carefully, but now he's the ruler of the Queen's Navy. The singer, a short man with grotesquely wide shoulders, wore a long flowing mustache and

a black coat, covered with dust, that reached to his knees. He held a smoking briar pipe in his hand, and with it beat time for a row of men sitting on a long stone under the store window and pounding on the sidewalk with their heels to make a chorus for the song. Sam's smile broadened into a grin as he looked at the singer, Freedom Smith, a buyer of butter and eggs, and passed him at John Telfer, the orator, the dandy, the only man in town except

Mike McCarthy, who kept his trousers creased. Among all the men of Caxton, Sam most admired John Telfer, and in his admiration had struck upon the town's highlight. Telfer loved good clothes and wore them with an air, and never allowed Caxton to see him shabbily or indifferently dressed, laughingly declaring that it was his mission in life to give tone to the town. John Telfer had a small income left him by his father, once a banker in the town, and

in his youth he had gone to New York to study art, and later to Paris, but lacking ability or industry to get on, had come back to Caxton where he had married Eleanor Millis, a prosperous milliner. They were the most successful married pair in Caxton, and after years of life together they were still in love, were never indifferent to each other, and never quarreled. Telfer treated his wife with so much consideration and respect as though she were a sweetheart

or a guest in his house, and she, unlike most of the wives in Caxton, never ventured to question his comings and goings, but left him free to live his own life in his own way while she attended to the millinery business. At the age of forty-five John Telfer was a tall, slender, fine-looking man with black hair and a little black pointed beard, and with something lazy and carefree in his every

movement and impulse. Dressed in white flannels with white shoes, a jaunty cap upon his head, eyeglasses hanging from a gold chain, and a cane lightly swinging from his hand, he made a figure that might have passed unnoticed on the promenade before some fashionable summer hotel, but that seemed a breach of the laws of nature when seen on the streets of a corn shipping town in Iowa.

And Telfer was aware of the extraordinary figure he cut. It was a part of his program of life. Now, as Sam approached, he laid a hand on Freedom Smith's shoulder to check the song, and, with his eyes twinkling with good humor, began thrusting with his cane at the boy's feet. "'He will never be the ruler of the Queen's Navy,' he declared, laughing and following

the dancing boy about in a wide circle. He is a little mole that works underground in tent-upon worms. The trick he has of tilting up his nose is only his way of smelling out stray pennies. I have it from Banker Walker that he brings a basket of them into the bank every day. One of these days he will buy the town and put it into his vest pocket.' Circling about on the stone sidewalk and dancing to escape the flying cane, Sam dodged under

the arm of Valmore, a huge old blacksmith with shaggy clumps of hair on the back of his hands, and sought refuge between him and Freedom Smith. The blacksmith's hand stole out and lay upon the boy's shoulder. Telfer, his legs spread apart and the cane hooked upon his arm, began rolling a cigarette. Geiger, a yellow-skinned man with fat cheeks and with hands clasped over his round paunch, smoked black cigar and, as he sent each puff into

the air, grunted forth his satisfaction with life. He was wishing that Telfer, Freedom Smith and Valmore, instead of moving on to their nightly nest at the back of Wildman's Treasury, would come into his place for the evening. He thought he would like to have the three of them there night after night discussing the doings of the world. Quiet once more settled down upon the sleepy street. Over Sam's shoulder Valmore and Freedom

Smith talked of the coming corn crop and the growth and prosperity of the country. "'Times are getting better about here, but the wild things are almost gone,' said Freedom, who in the winter bought hides and pelts. The men sitting on the stone beneath the window watched with idle interest Telfer's labors with paper and tobacco. "'Young Henry Kearns has got married,' observed one of them, striving to make talk.

"'He has married a girl from over Parkertown, way. She gives lessons in painting. China painting. Kind of an artist, you know.' An ejaculation of disgust broke from Telfer. His fingers trembled and the tobacco that was to have been the foundation of his evening smoke rained on the sidewalk. "'An artist!' he exclaimed, his voice tense with excitement.

"'Who said artist? Who called her that?' he glared fiercely about. "'Let us have an end to this blatant misuse of fine old words. To say of one that he is an artist is to touch the peak of braise.' Throwing his cigarette paper after the scattered tobacco, he thrust one hand into his trouser pocket. With the other, he held the cane, emphasizing his points by ringing taps upon

the pavement. "'Guyger,' taking the cigar between his fingers, listened with open mouth to the outburst that followed. Balmour and Freedom Smith dropped their conversation and with broad smiles upon their faces gave attention. And Sam McPherson, his eyes round with wonder and admiration, felt again the thrill that always ran through him under the drumbeats of Telfer's eloquence.

"'An artist is one who hungers and thirsts after perfection, not one who dabs flowers upon plates to choke the gullets of diners,' declared Telfer, setting himself for one of the long speeches with which he loved to astonish the men of Caxton, and glaring down at those seated upon the stone. "'It is the artist who, among all men, has the divine audacity. Does he not hurl himself

into battle in which is engaged against him all of the accumulative genius of the world?' Pausing, he looked about for an opponent upon whom he might pour the flood of his eloquence. But on all sides, smiles greeted him. Undaunted, he rushed again to the charge. "'A business man, what is he?' he demanded. He succeeds by outwitting the little minds with which he comes in contact. A scientist is of more account. He pits his brains against

the dull unresponsiveness of inanimate matter and a hundred weight of black iron he makes do the work of a hundred housewives. But an artist tests his brains against the greatest brains of all times. He stands upon the peak of life and hurls himself against the world. A girl from Parketown who paints flowers upon dishes to be called an artist. "'Let me spew forth the thought. Let me cleanse my mouth. A man should have a prayer upon

his lips. What is the word, artist?' "'Well, we can't all be artists, and the woman can paint flowers upon dishes for all I care.' "'Well, we can't all be artists, and the woman can paint flowers upon dishes for all I care,' spoke up Valmore, laughing good-naturedly. "'We can't all paint pictures and write books.'

"'We do not want to be artists. We do not dare to be,' shouted Telfer, whirling and shaking his cane at Valmore. "'You have a misunderstanding of the word.' He straightened his shoulders and threw out his chest, and the boy standing beside the blacksmith threw up his chin, unconsciously imitating the swagger of the man.

"'I do not paint pictures. I do not write books. Yet.' "'Yet am I an artist,' declared Telfer proudly. "'I am an artist practicing the most difficult of all arts, the art of living. Here in this western village I stand and fling my challenge to the world. On the lip of not the greatest of you,' I cry, has life been more sweet.'

He turned from Valmore to the men upon the stone. "'Make a study of my life,' he commanded. "'It will be a revelation to you. With a smile I greet the morning. I swagger in the noon time and in the evening like Socrates of old. I gather a little group of youbenighted villages about me and toss wisdom into your teeth, striving to teach you judgment in the use

of great words.' "'You talk an almighty lot about yourself, John,' grumbled Freedom Smith, taking his pipe from his mouth. "'The subject is complex. It is varied. It is full of charm,' Telfer answered, laughing. Taking a fresh supply of tobacco and paper from his pocket, he rolled and lighted a cigarette.

His fingers no longer trembled. Flourishing his cane, he threw back his head and blew smoke into the air. He thought that in spite of the roar of laughter that had greeted Freedom Smith's comment, he had vindicated the honor of art and the thought made him happy. To the newsboy who had been leaning against the storefront lost in admiration, it seemed that he had caught in Telfer's talk an echo of the kind of talk that must go on among men

in the big outside world. Had not this Telfer traveled far? Had he not lived in New York and Paris? Without understanding the sense of what had been said, Sam felt that it must be something big and conclusive. When from the distance there came the shriek of a locomotive, he stood unmoved, trying to comprehend the meaning of Telfer's outburst over the lounger's simple statement.

"'There's the 745,' cried Telfer sharply. "'Is the war between you and Fatty at an end? Are we going to lose our evening's diversion? Has Fatty bluffed you out, or are you growing rich and lazy like Papa Geiger here?' Springing from his place beside the blacksmith and grasping the bundle of newspapers, Sam ran down the street, Telfer, Valmore, Freedom Smith, and the loungers following more slowly.

When the evening train from Des Moines stopped at Caxton, a blue-coated train news merchant leaped hurriedly to the platform and began looking anxiously about. "'Hurry, Fatty,' rang out Freedom Smith's huge voice. "'Sam's already have through one car!' The young man called Fatty ran up and down the station platform. "'Where's that bundle of Omaha papers, you Irish loafer?' he shouted, shaking his fist

at Jerry Donlon, who stood upon a truck at the front of the train, upending trunks into the baggage car. Jerry paused with a trunk dangling in mid-air. "'In the baggage room, of course!' "'Hurry, men! Do you want the kid to work the whole train?' An air of something impending hung over the idlers upon the platform, the train crew,

and even the travelling men who began climbing off the train. The engineer thrust his head out of the cab. The conductor, a dignified-looking man with a grey mustache, threw back his head and shook with mirth. A young man with a suitcase in his hand and a long pipe in his mouth ran to the door of the baggage room calling, "'Hurry, Fatty! The kid is working the entire train! You won't be able to sell a paper!'

The fat young man ran from the baggage room to the platform and shouted again to Jerry Donlon, who was now slowly pushing the empty truck along the platform. From the train came a clear voice calling, "'Ladies and gentlemen, have your change ready! Fatty, the train newsboy, has fallen down a well! Have your change ready, gentlemen!'

Jerry Donlon, followed by Fatty, again disappeared from sight. The conductor, waving his hand, jumped upon the steps of the train. The engineer pulled in his head and the train began to move. The fat young man emerged from the baggage room swearing revenge upon the head of Jerry Donlon.

"'There was no need to put it under a mail sack!' he shouted, shaking his fist. "'I'll be even with you for this!' Followed by the shouts of the travelling men and the laughter of the idlers upon the platform, he climbed upon the moving train and began running from car to car. Off the last car dropped Sam MacPherson, a smile on his lips, the bundle of newspapers gone, his pocket

jingling with coins. The evening's entertainment for the town of Caxton was at an end. John Telfer, standing by the side of Valmore, waved his cane in the air and began talking. "'Beat him again by gad!' he exclaimed. "'Only for Sam! Who says the spirit of the old Buccaneers is dead? That boy didn't understand what I said about art, but he is an artist just the same!'

"'I'll be even with you for this!' he said.