The long, black valley, with its dense shroud of smoke that rose and fell and formed itself into fantastic shapes in the moonlight, the poor little houses clinging to the hillside, the occasional cry of a woman being beaten by a drunken husband, the glare of the coke fires and the rumble of coal cars being pushed along the railroad tracks, all of these made a grim and rather inspiring impression on the young man’s mind, so that although he hated the mines and the miners, he sometimes paused in his night-wanderings and stood with his great shoulders lifted, breathing deeply, and feeling things he had no words in him to express. Sherwood Anderson entertains no illusions regarding our much vaunted modern civilization. He sees the modern man in a state of disintegration and moral collapse, due to greed and lust. The surface gives an illusion of grandeur, but there is a bog underlying the structure. To prove his point, the writer bids us accompany him in a walk around Chicago. We are supposed to escort a well-meaning American business man through the city. He is a well-balanced and kindly person, inclined to take a rosy view of life. Let us follow him in his walk. In front of a house a man is seen mowing the lawn. There is something pleasant in the screech of the lawn-mower. A little farther up the street the wanderer peeps through a window and perceives pictures hanging on a wall. A woman in white plays the piano. How sweet and quiet life is! The wanderer lights a cigar. Everything seems so beautiful and fresh, and, lo! by the light of a street lamp he sees a man staggering against the wall. Never mind! The wanderer has enjoyed a good dinner at the hotel. He remains optimistic. Drunkards are prodigal sons. Wine and song are incentives to work. Let us pass on! The wanderer can have no grudge against his time and country. Let the I.W.W. howl, if they want. All of a sudden two men come out of a saloon and palaver on the curb. Now one of them jumps and, with a rapid thrust forward of his whole body, knocks his friend down in the gutter. Sinister and smoky buildings all around look like accomplices. At the end of the street an enormous crane erects its snout against the sky. The wanderer has thrown away his cigar. Somebody walks in front of him and raises his fist to heaven. He notices with a start the movement of the man’s lips, his large and ugly face in the glare of the street lamp. But he keeps on going, and hurries among pawnshops, saloons and what not. He has a nightmare.... He sees a burglar looking over the walls of a garden where children are at play,--the wanderer’s own garden and own children. It is getting late. A suspicious looking woman comes down a stair, with bleached face. A police wagon rattles by. A child kicks dirty newspapers along the street. His piercing voice dominates the din of the street-cars and the siren of the police patrol. The wanderer hastens to board a car to return to his hotel.