When the sun peeks over the east hills, into Old Forge and gray mist creeps from the thin black river, long shadows stretch out on the streets and gardens like ghost fingers. Shadows from the house, the church, the breaker, fall aimlessly over the town while the soft, red sun is low and the whistles scream out the hour.

Dark specters with ruddy faces, and shining pails ‘neath their armpits, steal briskly down from the hill or up from their homes by the river, and powing themselves down the shaft into huddled groups on a carriage deep in the dark of earth’s bosom, and coolness that man’s engines make. They bend along through each passage until they reach their chambers.

These men are makers of cities. These men have built up Old Forge.

When the sun lingers over the west hills, above Old Forge, and the lazy black river winds onward, long shadows stretch our over the streets and gardens, and the fathers will laugh with their children and tell them a sleepy-time story. Telling babes sleepy-time stories, and working so near the Grim-Reaper.

The dangers they lived through yesterday will be less, perhaps by tomorrow, when the sun peeks over the hills, into Old Forge, and the gray mist creeps up from the river, a NEW whistle screams out the hour.