Tom Harris is what I call a handsome man, if he has been a
trifle wild in his time. He measures six feet without any boots,
weighs a hundred and ninety pounds before dinner, and is as
strong as seven devils. In those days when Tom was a boy, life
around this part of the anthracite regions was a little tame, and
that may have been the reason why Tom left to join the navy.
Tom was a rugged lad then, but that sea life just built him up,
till now he can’t be beat.
It was just by chance that I met Tom last July in New York,
while his ship was in dry dock at the Brooklyn Navy Yards. Tom
always had a big heart; but in his ten long years of wild sea life
he had almost forgotten home. I told him as best I could of
home, the strike, his brother’s death, and the hard times his sister
had to provide for her aged mother. Tom listened like a man in
a trance. We talked and walked for at least three hours. Just
before parting he laid his hand on my shoulder and with a voice
full of feeling said: “Dubh, it’s a shame for Bert to work so,” and
he paused, “I’d like to see mother,” he added. “And besides I
might be able to help care for her.” After that talk I knew Ton*
would never go back to the sea.
Bertha and her mother still lived on the old homestead about
two miles from the city of Carbonton. Tom’s unexpected return
brought a joy to that home that no one can describe, and no one
save the mother and sister know. Tom had never dreamed of how
much he was missed at home. And now for the first time he
realized the Joys of home.
Tom was repentant and wished to redeem himself. He was
resolved to provide for the family, for Bertha must rest. His
mind naturally turned to Old Mud Creek'mine, about half way
to the city. But the strike was on. And then he thought of how
this very coal company had robbed his father of all that valley.
Land that today was worth hundreds of thousands if not millions
And he thought how happy they could all be of they could only
A Tale of the Strike.
A TALE OF THE STRIKE.