COAL: Devil's Stew

Out of the mouths of smutty holes in the earth at Scranton, Pa., came forth mules, blinking, tottering. Terrified by the sun, not to be pacified by the raucous calls of miners, they stampeded toward the Appalachian heights.

It was an all-day's work to recapture them, and so ended the only disorder attendant upon the first week and week-end of the anthracite suspension.

Mules never leave their subterranean coal-faced galleries except when their masters, the operators, expect long idleness. When, therefore, it was observed that most of the mulish multitude had been brought...

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