"It has," he said, waving attention to the boy, who was making a mess
of the effort to arrange Uncle Charlie's loaf into a neat package, "a
pretty name. They call it Norman--Norman McGregor." Uncle Charlie
laughed heartily and again stamped upon the floor. Putting his finger
to his forehead to suggest deep thought, he turned to the minister. "I
am going to change all that," he said.

"Norman indeed! I shall give him a name that will stick! Norman! Too
soft, too soft and delicate for Coal Creek, eh? It shall be
rechristened. You and I will be Adam and Eve in the garden naming
things. We will call it Beaut--Our Beautiful One--Beaut McGregor."

The Reverend Minot Weeks also laughed. He thrust four ringers of each
hand into the pockets of his trousers, letting the extended thumbs lie
along the swelling waist line. From the front the thumbs looked like
two tiny boats on the horizon of a troubled sea. They bobbed and
jumped about on the rolling shaking paunch, appearing and disappearing
as laughter shook him. The Reverend Minot Weeks went out at the door
ahead of Uncle Charlie, still laughing. One fancied that he would go
along the street from store to store telling the tale of the
christening and laughing again. The tall boy could imagine the details
of the story.

It was an ill day for births in Coal Creek, even for the birth of one
of Uncle Charlie's inspirations. Snow lay piled along the sidewalks
and in the gutters of Main Street--black snow, sordid with the
gathered grime of human endeavour that went on day and night in the
bowels of the hills. Through the soiled snow walked miners, stumbling
along silently and with blackened faces. In their bare hands they