I suppose you never visited a colliery. Coal is found in beds and veins underground. Deep holes are made, down which the miners go and dig it out; it is hoisted out by means of steam-engines. These holes are called shafts. The pitmen have two enemies to encounter down in the coal-pits—water, and a kind of gas which explodes on touching the flame of a candle. The water has to be pumped out; and miners are now provided with a lamp, called a safety-lamp, which is covered with a fine wire gauze to keep the gas away from the flame.

The coal is brought up from the pit in baskets, loaded on waggons, running then on tramroads, and sent to the sheds. Tramroads were a sort of wooden railway. A colliery is a busy and odd-looking spot.

Geordie's family lived in one room—father, mother, four boys, and two girls—curious quarters, one would think; but working men at that time had smaller wages and poorer homes than now, for Geordie was born in 1781, in the little village of Wylam, seven miles from Newcastle, and his full name is George Stephenson.

James, an older brother, is "picker;" and by-and-by George is old enough to be picker too, going with his father and brother to their daily tasks like a man. To clear the coal of stones and dross is their business. There are a number of pits around, and each one has a name, "Dolly pit," "Water-run pit," and so on.

I do not know how long George was picker, but we next find him driving a gin-horse at a pit two miles off, across the fields. Away he goes in the early morning, gladdened all along by many bird songs. George and the birds are fast friends. He knows where their nests are in the hedgerows, but he never robs them, and watches over them with fatherly affection. At home he has tame birds, whose pretty, knowing ways are the wonder of the neighbourhood. For many years a tame blackbird was as much one of the family as George himself, coming and going at pleasure, and roosting at night over his head. Sometimes it spent the summer in the woods, but was sure to come back with cold weather to share his care and crumbs through the winter.

George, too, had a famous breed of rabbits; and as for his dog, it was one of the most accomplished and faithful creatures in the district. In fact, the boy had an insight into animal nature, as we shall find he had into other things, that gave him power over it—a power which he never abused.

George next arose to be assistant fireman with his father, at a shilling a day. He was fourteen, and so small of his age that he used to hide when the inspector came round, lest he should be thought too small for his wages. If small in body, he was large in heart, intent in all things to do his best. And this made his work so well done that it could not escape the notice of his employers. When he went to the office on the Saturday night to receive his wages, double pay was given him, twelve instead of six shillings. George could scarcely believe in his good luck. When he found it was really no mistake, he took the money and rushed out of the office, exclaiming, "I am now a made man for life!"

George rapidly shot ahead of his father, a kind old man who always stayed as fireman, while his boy climbed one round after another up the ladder of promotion. At seventeen we find him plugman. What is that? A plugman has charge of a pumping-engine, and when the water in the pit is below the suction holes he goes down the shaft and plugs the tube, in order to make the pump more easily draw. The post required more skill and knowledge of machinery than any he had filled before, and George proved himself equal to it.

Indeed he loves his engine as he loves his birds. It is quite a pet with him. He keeps it in prime order. He takes it to pieces and cleans it and studies it; pries into the why and wherefore, and is never satisfied until he understands every spring and cog of the machinery, and gets the mastery of it. You never find him idling away his time. In leisure moments he is at his old study, moulding clay engines, and putting new thoughts into them.

He wished he knew the history of engines, and how they were thought out at first. Somebody told him about Watt, the father of steam-power, and that there were books which would satisfy his curiosity. Books! What good would books do poor George? He cannot read. Not read? No. He is eighteen, and hardly knows his letters. Few of the colliers could. They were at that time a rough and generally ignorant set of men, whose pay-day was a holiday, when their hard-won earnings were squandered at cock-fights and ale-houses.

If one was found who did read, what a centre of light was he! At night the men and boys gathered around him, when by the light of his engine-fire he would give them the news from an old newspaper, or a scrap of knowledge from some stray magazine, or a wild story from an odd volume; and on these occasions no one listened with more profound attention than George.

Oh, it was so wonderful to read, he thought! It was to open the gates into great fields of knowledge. Read he must. The desire grew upon him stronger and stronger. In the neighbouring hamlet of Welbottle old Robin Cowens taught an evening school.

"I'll go," cried George.

"And I too," echoed Tommy Musgrove, a fellow-workman, quite carried away by George's enthusiasm.

Now they went to Robin's school three evenings a week. I do not know how it was with Tommy, but old Robin never had a better scholar than George; indeed, he soon out-learned his master. His schooling cost him threepence a week, and, poor as it was, put into his hand the two keys of knowledge, reading and writing.

These mastered, he longs to use them. Andrew Robertson opens an evening school nearer than Welbottle, and Andrew proposes to teach arithmetic, a branch George is anxious to grapple with next. "And he took to figurin' wonderful," said Master Andrew, speaking of his new scholar, who soon left his class-mates far behind. And no wonder. Every spare moment to George was more precious than gold-dust, and was used accordingly. When not on duty he sits by his engine and works out his sums. No beer-shop enticed him to its cups. No cock-fight tempted him to be its spectator. He hates everything low and vulgar.