FATEFUL HOURS AT A MINE SHAFT
Who can adequately picture the anguish of soul and the suspense
of waiting of these women and children called to the mouth of
a mine by news of an explosion that has entombed, if not incinerated,
husband, father, and brother down in the cavernous depths? Dark
and silent, standing like a flock of frightened sheep, there is
no shrieking of women, no struggling of frenzied mothers. But
there is that awful, tearless, patient silence, such as only the
dismal dread of a mine disaster can awaken.
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