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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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