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Winesburg, Ohio, by Sherwood Anderson
Departure, Concerning George Willard
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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
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.
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 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."
George counted his money he looked out of the window and was surprised to
see that the train was still in Winesburg.
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.
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.
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
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