The Leprechaun A tale of things much older and deeper in the earth. The air in Hazleton, even here along the Stockton Mountain road, always smells of two things: wet pine needles and the faint, cold scent of pulverized coal. Much like the early autumn air, it clings to everything. Come sit on this weathered grey wooden bench and let me share a seasonal tale I gathered in these hills some time back. Many years back, I was sitting on this very bench, the same creaking slats, the same faded green paint watching the dusk fall over the ridge when Liam stumbled out of the roadhouse yonder. He was a middle-aged man then, but the memories he was carrying seemed centuries old. He was swaying slightly that evening, his canvas overalls thick with the black, greasy dust of the deep tunnels. He saw the silver gleam of my flask and made a beeline for the bench, sat right were you are now. “A drop o’ that good water for a story, mister?” he slurred, that thick Irish brogue of hi...