“Martin Cooney,” [I have found, upon making inquiry at Pittston, that the boy’s name was Craegin, not Cooney] “is the name of the boy who, deep down in the horrid depths of the Pittston mine, performed a deed of heroic self-sacrifice which shames into insignificance the actions by which many happier men have climbed to fame and honor. Cooney and a companion stood at the bottom of the shaft as the car was about to ascend for the last time. High above them roaring flame and blinding smoke amid the crash of falling timber were fast closing up the narrow way to light and life; below them in the gloomy pit were a score of men working on, unconscious of their deadly peril. Cooney, with one foot upon the car, thought of his endangered friends. He proposed to his companion that they should return and warn the miners of their threatened fate. His companion refused to go, and then Cooney, without a moment’s hesitation, but with full consciousness that he had chosen almost certain death, leaped from the car and groped his way back through the growing darkness. It was too late: the miners had closed the ventilating door before he reached them; and standing there between the immovable barrier and the shaft, the hot breath of the fiery pit poured in upon him in a pitiless blast, and so he died.”—_Philadelphia Evening Bulletin_, June 5, 1871. Up, thou Warden gray of Honor, Swing thy temple’s rusted door; Hither from the mine of Pittston, Hies, at last, one hero more. ... While he toil’d amid the miners, Came a cry that startled him; “Fire!” he heard, and o’er him quickly, Saw the smoking shaft grow dim. “Now for life!” a comrade shouted, “Mount this car! no more cars go!” “Nay for life,” replied young Martin, “Call the men at work below!” Cried the first: “No time to tarry! Look!—The flames!—We must not stay!” “Time for them to close the smoke out!” Martin cried, and rush’d away. “Fire! fire! fire!” he shouted shrilly, Groping down the passage dim. “Fire!” those heard, and closed the passage, Closed it on the smoke and him. “Stop the smoke!” cried men above him.— Still the ghastly fumes crept on; Caught the boy, and, crawling round him, Choked his corpse they clung upon. “Woe on woe!” cried those above him, “All will die; the fires descend!” By the coal-pit, by the coal-boy, Never light like that was kenn’d. Whence, O whence that blinding brightness? What had touch’d the boy afar?— For the chariot of Elijah Had he spurn’d his comrade’s car? “Stop the fire!” cried all the village,— Ah, but none could now keep down Martin’s love, there marshal’d heavenward, Haloed by a martyr’s crown. Not the flood that men set flowing Faster than the fire could spread, Now could quench the flame eternal Burning in the soul that sped.