JUAN OF THE SLAG POTS
A “Run-away” in the smelter, at Jerome, Arizona.
A “Run-away” in the smelter, at Jerome, Arizona.
Juan of the slag pots, sullen and grim,Scarred of jaw and crooked of limb;May the Mother of Christ have thought of him!Ay! Juan, lame Juan; no saint indeed,But a better thing—a man, at need.Night long where the reek of the sulphur smokeRolls up till the heart is like to choke;Till the ears are sick with the clang and whirr,And the eyeballs ache with the fiery blur,Juan rolled the slag pots, huge and black,And poured them out in a burning trackDown the slippery dump like a lava flow,To cool in the cañon depths below.Behind in the smelter vast and dimThe beat of the great blasts called to him,And deep in the throat of the furnace glowedThe molten ore on its fiery road;Soon to flow in a golden stream,With rainbow shimmer and jeweled gleamInto the pots like some strange wine.“Tap!” the foreman gave the sign.Juan poised the bar on his arm at restAnd swung it straight for the clay-cloaked “breast”;A touch; a fury of blinding light;A sweep of the swirling mass flame-white;Hot drops flung like scorching hailAs the swift flood leaped from its narrow trailLike a hungry hound on a blood-stained track.“Back!” the frightened men surged back;Reeled and ran—but the hindmost fellStraight in the path of that molten hell.Cheeks that were black with the stinging smokeWent white beneath, and a hoarse shout brokeFrom the swaying crowd—but no man moved;And the hot flood crept and crawled and shovedIts flame-tongues out. Then straight and swiftJuan leaped, and they saw him stoop and liftA fear-dazed burden, and turn and callOn the saints for mercy. Ay! that’s all.Where the great blasts beat and the smoke drifts low,Like ragged veils swung to and fro,Shifting, shimmering, dun and gray,Juan sits in the sunshine day by day;Juan of the slag pots, sullen and grim,Scarred of jaw and crooked of limb—May the Mother of Christ have thought of him!