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"Are you hurt?" he asked. Fright made his voice almost inaudible. He struck a match with shaking fingers and ran down the cellar stairs. "Betty! Where are you?" "Oh, I am here in the coal." "What?" "I I can't seem to get out; I stepped into the coal pit in the dark and it all all slid with me and over me and I'm in it up to the shoulders."
With even more recklessness than characterizes the waste of our forests and our coal, we have allowed this perfect fuel to escape. To the dwellers in each region where natural gas is found, it seems that the supply is inexhaustible.
There is coal on the peninsula itself, but of very inferior quality, mixed with ice. One may see chunks of coal with veins of ice running through them thrown upon the fire.
But then the frequent exercise of prayer increased his love, and inflamed it to that degree, that St. Bonaventure does not think it possible to find words to express it. This Divine charity penetrated his whole interior, as fire penetrates a burning coal.
He sat on a deck chair, and when he was not tapping refractory bits of coal with them, he kept his feet on which he wore, after the manner of sandals, the holy relics of a pair of carpet slippers out of the way upon the mantel-piece, among the glass eyes.
For this reason it has been proposed to compel consumers to adopt anthracite as the domestic coal by Act of Parliament.
So the coal business was carried on by from twelve to fifteen gangs, each of about ten men and twenty women! The latter were sturdy creatures, modestly attired in rough jackets and skirts. There were not far from thirty bamboo baskets to the gang.
He stood under the lamp-post, and shook his fist at the block generally. "Who threw that lump of coal?" he demanded in stentorian tones. To my horror, it was the voice of the man at Eighty-eight, an Irish gentleman, a journalist like myself. I saw it all, as the unfortunate hero always exclaims, too late, in the play.
When we reached a remarkably narrow part of the tunnel, I leaned my left hand against the rock. When I took my hand away, and happened to glance at it, it was quite black. We had reached the coal strata of the Central Earth. "A coal mine!" I cried. "A coal mine without miners," responded my uncle, a little severely. "How can we tell?" "I can tell," replied my uncle, in a sharp and doctorial tone.
Possessing nothing but a statistical, inhuman conception of government, the average municipal reformer looks down contemptuously upon a man like Tim Sullivan with his clambakes and his dances; his warm and friendly saloons, his handshaking and funeral-going and baby-christening; his readiness to get coal for the family, and a job for the husband.
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