The Sunday herald and weekly national intelligencer., 1890-08-10
THE CHARCOAL MAN.
Why His Dismal Cry is no Longer Heard
Upon Our Streets.

Why His Dismal Cry Is no Longer Heard
Upon Our Streets.
The absence of anything to which we have
long been accustomed is rather saddening.
There was time, and not long ago, when the
dismal cry of the charcoal man could be heard
on all the streets and by-ways of the city, but
now the grmy wagon and it's still grimier driver,
with his familiar cry of "chark-chark-
char-rr-coal, charcoal, chark, +" is heard no more
and charcoal wagon has become curiosity.
Sauntering along one of the back streets in the
southwest section few days ago a SUNDAY
HERALD reporter espied charcoal wagon. 1t
seemed to be the last of its race, a survival
from past epoch.
In the good old charcoal days there was the
burly form of an old colored driver dawdling,
elbows or knees, upon the seat of his ram
shackle vehicle pulled by spawned horse who
would fairly startle the echoes with his stento-
rian, repeated shout, while from the rear of the
vehicle, as an accompaniment, would proceed
| the shrill treble of his little boy.
| Next will be remembered the dred-up little
man behind his old gray horse, both grimy with
coal dust, and both looking half asleep, moving
| at a snail's pace along the streets. Occasion
| ally the old man would, in a perfunctory
| manner, utter in a cracked voice. "Charcoal,
! chark, chark, chark," looking neither to the
| right or left, and apparently caring naught
whether he found customer or not. Then
| there were old women as black and weather.
|
about day after day among the thickly-settled
| tenement alleys of the city, with their stock in
| trade of charcoal, bushel or so, sung in sack
| over one shoulder, singing constantly in n high
| pitched voice a song of ''charcoal,n and selling
| five or ten cents worth to the poor people of
| the neighborhood.
But as the reporter stood wondering why
| these once familiar characters had suddenly
disappeared in night, as it We're, like sora and
| woodcock, a soot-covered old man, with an
empty sack in one hand, emerged from neigh
| boring tin-shop. He was fair speciman of the
now almost extinct charcoal man, and his white
teeth glstened as he smiled at the reporter
| His face was covered with SCOT, his hair and
| kinky beard filled with shining black dust, his
hands grimy, and his blue jeans oyeralls and
shirt were more black than blue. The reporter
asked the old remnant of an extinct class whaU
| had become of all the charcoal men that used
to perambulate the streets.
"Well boss,n said he, scratching his old poll,
Greatly dunno-never thought of it before
But it's true dey is all gone, or mos all gone,
anyhow Reckon it's cos deres no business.
Gas stoves, gasoline stoves, coal-oil stoves, and
hard-coal stoves has knocked 'em out. People
don't want charcoal no more. just sold a sack
| fluffy cents worth-in that shop"
'Do you still go the daily rounds"
"No; | am driving for a coal yard. Coal
yards keep charcoal. Don't sell much. Don't
! very many want it now. People, such as tim
smiths, silver platers gunsmiths, and the lille,
who have to have fires sometimes in little port