In September 1900, a 22-year-old journalist traveled from Philadelphia to the anthracite-laden hills and valleys of Schuylkill County. Her name was Esther Nixon, a former dancer and dance instructor who had taken up the pen as a powerful female voice on the staff of newspapers in her home city of Philadelphia and in the cities of the Midwest.
Her stories were attributed to “Edythe Langdon,” and her columns examined political and social issues of the day from the perspective of women. She arrived at the train depot in the turbulent Coal Region community of Shenandoah as the Coal Strike of 1900 threatened to leave the cities of the Northeast without fuel to heat their homes that winter.
The strike of the United Mine Workers of America against coal operators had already sparked violence in this northern corner of Schuylkill County, with a brawl between striking miners and local law enforcement leading to a shootout that left one Lithuanian mineworker dead and dozens wounded.
The Pennsylvania National Guard had been called into the region and taken up an armed occupation of Shenandoah, patrolling its streets and the nearby patch towns at the collieries that dotted the landscape around the densely populated town of 20,000 people.
Nixon traveled to the vicinity of the Indian Ridge Colliery of the Philadelphia and Reading Coal and Iron Company on the eastern edge of Shenandoah, where much of the violence had originated in September. She walked the streets of the company-owned houses near the colliery and spent time with the residents. Nixon spoke with them about the strike, about their difficult lives, and mused on the lives of working-class women who had to work desperately against all odds to keep their children from starvation and suffering amid gripping poverty.
“To the women a strike is a fearful thing,” she wrote. “It blasts hope, it defers comforts, it converts even the necessities of life into comfort.”
She concluded:
“And the winter cold pinches the thinly-clad children and the wolf of hunger scratches lines of pain on their faces, the mother’s heart almost breaks. Yet when the husband sits in the corner pulling at a pipe which tobacco has deserted for weeks, and the shiny stove has gone to pay the rent, and the children wail fitfully in their sleep, and all the future seems as black as the coal by which they have bread, the wife’s instinct comes up, too, and the miner’s wife fights down her own despair and comforts him.”
“Edythe Langdon’s” story appeared in the September 30, 1900 edition of the Philadelphia Inquirer, just as the 1900 Coal Strike was drawing to a close, proving that the United Mine Workers of America had staying power in the Coal Region, and setting the stage for a much larger strike two years later in 1902.
“WE’LL FIGHT IT OUT TO THE BITTER END,” SAY THE WIVES OF COAL MINERS
That Men Must Work and Women Must Weep Is a True and Tried Saying, and Edythe Langdon, After a Trip to the Mines, Decides That the Women of That Region Must Do Both—To Her They Tell What a Strike Means to Them and What Their Lives Are—Inside Information of the Existence of the Black Diamond’s Subjects
Part of One Miner’s Family
“For man must work and woman must weep,” says Kingsley.
In the mines woman must both work and weep, thought I, as I looked at their prematurely-aged faces.
Strikes spell hunger and destitution to the miner’s wife. They mean stripping the home of every little luxury that it has perhaps taken years to buy—the luxuries of the miner, by the way, are the necessities of others more fortunate.
They mean the giving up of every longed-for comfort. And then they mean that the children, as dear to the miner’s wife as are those of her more fortunate sisters, must go half-fed and without clothing enough to keep them warm the coming winter.
There are many children in the mining region.
Resigned are these miners’ wives as a rule. They have bartered the light and joy of life for the love of a man who toils like a gnome in the gloomy caverns of earth. But, making that choice, they abide by it.
Do they give up? Not a bit of it. They drudge on and on and on until some work comes along again, and then on and on until the next strike and work – until death comes and mines, operators, and strikes are nothing.
But they never give up.
Two Classes of Miners
In the first place there are two classes of miners. The contracting miner, who deals directly with the operator. This contracting miner then employs other men, usually two or three, to help him get the coal out. These men are usually paid $2 a day.
The contracting miner as a rule is fairly well off. He owns his house, and his wife hasn’t the careworn, haggard look of the other miners’ wives. They even have pianos and lace curtains. Neither do their children go into the breakers, there to be made familiar at a very tender age with their tyrant and life-ruler – coal.
It is this latter class that I visited Indian Ridge, about a mile out of Shenandoah.
Black against the sky was the bank of refuse from the mine. Stretching along from it are the miners’ homes. The black bank is like a great hand clutching firmly the little street.
In the doorway of one of the frame houses stood a woman. She was looking intently toward the mine as I came toward her. Her face, shaded by her hand, was comely – something, though, had drawn down the corners of the mouth and traced tiny wrinkles on her forehead. She could not have been more than 25 years of age.
“Would you mind,” I asked, “telling me just how you feel about this strike?”
For a moment she looked at me without speaking. Then “Come in,” she said.
It was a fair-sized room that I entered. A clean rag carpet covered the floor. Three straight-backed chairs were arranged on one side of the room. On a table in the centre were a lamp and a plush-backed album. Just beyond was the kitchen. The floor bare, but spotlessly clean, a table covered with oilcloth, a few boxes scattered about for use as stools and a very large cooking stove very highly polished.
Incident of the Shining Stove
“They had to strike,” the woman was saying, as I looked about me furtively. “My man was making $10 a [paycheck], to live, to pay the rent of $5 a month and to buy clothing. I have four children, the oldest a girl of nine, whom I send to school. We had nothing saved, and in another week will be destitute.”
There was a grimness about the way she said this. The grimness that has tears close behind it.
“How on such a small income did you ever buy any furniture?” said I.
“Oh, we had it when we were married ten years ago,” she replied,” all but the stove, and on one pay he made $40, the only time in ten years; I just took $23 and bought the stove.”
I looked at the shining stove, so bright, in the little, bare kitchen.
“It’s the best thing in the house, she signed, “and I guess it will be the first to go. They’ll take it for rent.”
She sighed again and picked up the baby. It couldn’t have been over a year old, and had been sitting on the floor, crooning over a very hard piece of bread.
“I wouldn’t mind it if it wasn’t for the children,” she went on. “They must have shoes and something to eat, and I’ve tried so hard to make both ends meet,” she concluded, piteously.
Pie and Cake Marvels
Just down the street was a little girl with a baby on each side. Her dress, a faded blue calico, had just been freshly washed and ironed. Her glossy yellow hair was neatly plaited.
“What’s your name?” I said. “Is your father a miner?”
“Annie Bishler,” she answered, looking up with a world of trouble in her eyes – she was probably eight years old. “Yes, my father’s a miner. Bad luck to us. That’s the reason we have half enough to eat and nothing to wear. He only makes $9 a [paycheck] since he has been working ¾ time, and there are nine of us.”
“But what can you have to eat, with such an allowance?”
“For breakfast,” she answered, “we have coffee and bread; for dinner we have bread and coffee, and for supper we have coffee and bread, and sometimes soup. Father has to have all the meat, you know, to keep his strength, so he can work.”
“Surely sometimes you have it a little different,” I insisted, “some pie or cake or fruit.”
“Pie or cake or fruit,” she repeated, then jumped up and looked in the door.
“Mother, the lady is asking if we ever have pie or cake,” whereupon they both laughed heartily, but wistfully for all.
Women Seek for Fuel
On the steps next door was a Swedish woman, about 22. She told me her husband made sometimes $15 a [paycheck], and at other times not so much. They have two children, the oldest not yet 4. They pay $8 rent and have four boarders, which helps out with the expenses.
I looked in the window and found the house very clean. A painful effort in the way of decorations had been made by tacking tissue paper in different designs on the wall. And great streams of paper flowers hung down from all four corners of the room. I spoke about the neatness of herself, her home, and her children. She answered that she did her best, but first or last “poor people must learn to hovel.”
Back of these houses is the mine’s dirt bank. Boys and girls, men and women, take their sieves and climb up this to get coal for fuel. Since the strike the mines refuse to sell it to them.
I saw one woman over 50, barefooted with two baskets, work her way half up it. Another younger, with a baby on one arm and a large bucket on the other, crawled up, placed the baby right down upon this awful black dirt and began to sieve out her bucket full. When she came down I asked her how she could walk on that rough stuff without shoes.
“Would ye have me sit home forever,” she retorted, sharply,” and have nothing to cook with? Ye can’t buy shoes and keep seven children on $4 a week, can ye?”
I assured her I didn’t think I could.
When the Military Passes
On the next street the houses were larger, containing about seven rooms. I stopped to talk to a little breaker boy. When a man from one of the windows opposite beckoned me to come over. On complying with his request I was asked into a medium-sized room, answering the purpose of a dining room and parlor. Rag carpet covered the floor, with home-made rugs at the doors. A walnut sideboard on one side of the room and an extension table on the other, with two straight-back chairs, completed the furniture.
“Americans, are you?” I asked.
“Can’t you see that on our faces?” he answered. Just then a woman entered the room. She looked, in her clean calico dress, like a good soul, kind-hearted, and full of charity, the sort of a person you could go to in trouble and be comforted.
Without my asking her, she immediately told me her opinion of the strike and what it meant to her family.
“Me man, John Kelly, over there,” and she pointed to the man who had called me in, “was making $2 a day. My boys, 14 and 16, $5 [for] the week. We are buying this house and it costs about $10 a week for our grub. That’s not allowing any bananas for dessert,” she added with a twinkle in her eye.
“You can see for yourself we weren’t bad off, but before me boys were able to work as many a time we didn’t have our stomachs full. Striking at this time means that it will take me all winter to catch up, even if they are not out much longer. Still, I’m willin’ for the sake of the poor creatures who never have enough to eat that my man shall strike.”
There was a clatter of hoofs and a clash of sabres. On the street a troop of cavalry rode past. Everything grew very quiet. The clatter and clashing died away int he distance. A sigh of relief came from the people One little urchin yelled:
“Gee, but I’d hate to have one of those bullets in me. I’m scared to death when them soldiers go by.”
In a row of houses newly built I was looking in the parlor window. It was the nicest I had yet seen. Bright Brussels carpet, an upholstered parlor suit, lace curtains, and all the family were represented by large crayon pictures. When I was suddenly grabbed by the arm and pulled away.
Upon looking around I discovered a very old woman scowling at me.
“What’s this impudence for?” she said. “Who are you that you go peeping in people’s windows? We’re not curiosities just because we are standing up for our rights.”
“I beg your pardon,” said I. “If I had known you were near home I wouldn’t have looked. Anyhow, it’s awfully nice. Won’t you tell me how the strike will affect you personally?”
Hostess Was Belligerent
“Not much,” she said, sullenly. “Me man has been a miner 40 years. We own this house; don’t owe a cent; but we’ve no thanks to these times. Not a penny have we been able to save for years. Me husband is a contractor. You hear them say they are the men who get the money, but nobody gets it but the operator.”
“Death to them!” she yelled, suddenly, and swung her arms around with such force that if they had been within reach of her they would surely gone down under the blow.
She remembered herself in a moment, and again asked my business. On being informed, she broke out again, saying that the men would do as they pleased. But she had seen strikes last seven months. The children get sick from being underfed, and the want of clothes.
“Would you rather have the men give in if they found they are making no headway?” I ventured to inquire.
“Never, never!” she yelled. “Don’t you know it’s awfully dangerous around here? It was very quiet, she was simply giving me a hint to keep out of people’s business.
One of the most pathetic cases I saw was a little woman living in three rooms with five children. The oldest two, seven, and nine, she sent to school. Her husband, Michael Whalen, since he had to work ¾ time, made about $8 a [paycheck]. They paid $4 rent. The house was furnished very nicely with what they have bought when they were married. She had one outfit for each child, which on Saturday she took off and washed and ironed, so they could be clean for Sunday.
They had just $2 with no prospect of any more, she told me, with tears in her eyes. Their usual fare on his salary consisted in the winter mostly of sauerkraut and potatoes, and in the summer of vegetables.
It never dawns upon the women they might lose. Determination is in every face; every voice says, “We’ll hold out or starve in the attempt.”
I don’t believe the women could have called the strike on, because of fear for their children, but, as dame fortune has willed it so, they will hold out to the bitter end.
Sitting on the doorstep of a nice-looking house was a crowd of young people discussing the strike. I stopped to listen.
“We’ll win, of course,” said a pretty girl, about 19. “You bet I’ll be glad.”
“So will I,” said a young fellow, taking a hold of her hand. “Won’t take us long to get married, will it, Sadie?”
“Be sure it’s going to be better,” said a middle-aged man who had just come up.
“My gal and me got married on just such prospects. It’s never been any better, and now we’ve five children to keep.”
That’s all right,” said Sadie; “it’s up to me.”
I’dl like to meet you ten years from now,” said the middle-aged man, and walked slowly down the street.
Breaker Boys Are Happy
They were having dinner in the row, and every house I looked into they asked me to share their small supply. One good natured Irish woman sent me out an apple by a little curly-haired fellow, whose name I afterward learned is George Dewey. The Admiral should be proud of him, with his bright eyes and sturdy little legs.
In a large family where two or three boys are old enough to work in the breakers the mother of the home manages to get along nicely. But in a family with five small children it is wonderful how they exist at all.
Four little breaker boys were standing on the corner. They had a very small pipe for the four, so each was taking his puffs and passing it along.
I asked them how they liked striking.
“Fine,” they all spoke up at once. “All we do now is stand on the corners, smoke, and talk it over.”
“But after while,” I remonstrated, “when the money is all gone, what then?”
“Now,” said a little fellow about ten, “we’re blessing Mother Jones, but when me mudder haasn’t any money to buy grub guess we’ll be cussin’ her.”
The soldiers went by on the next street, and away they went.
The strike rests lightest on the breaker boys.
But to the women a strike is a fearful thing; it blasts hope, it defers comforts, it converts even the necessities of life into comfort.
And the winter cold pinches the thinly-clad children and the wolf of hunger scratches lines of pain on their faces, the mother’s heart almost breaks. Yet when the husband sits in the corner pulling at a pipe which tobacco has deserted for weeks, and the shiny stove has gone to pay the rent, and the children wail fitfully in their sleep, and all the future seems as black as the coal by which they have bread, the wife’s instinct comes up, too, and the miner’s wife fights down her own despair and comforts him.
Read more about the 1900 Coal Strike
Deadly riots in Shenandoah, Pennsylvania | 1900
“Mother Jones” at Shenandoah, Pennsylvania | September 1900
Striking mineworkers parade in Mahanoy City, Pennsylvania | September 1900
Photographs show Pennsylvania National Guard deployment to the Coal Region | September 1900
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