Juan Of The Slag Pots

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 smoke Rolls 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 track Down the slippery dump like a lava flow, To cool in the cañon depths below.

Behind in the smelter vast and dim The beat of the great blasts called to him, And deep in the throat of the furnace glowed The molten ore on its fiery road; Soon to flow in a golden stream, With rainbow shimmer and jeweled gleam Into the pots like some strange wine. “Tap!” the foreman gave the sign. Juan poised the bar on his arm at rest And 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 hail As the swift flood leaped from its narrow trail Like a hungry hound on a blood-stained track. “Back!” the frightened men surged back; Reeled and ran--but the hindmost fell Straight in the path of that molten hell. Cheeks that were black with the stinging smoke Went white beneath, and a hoarse shout broke From the swaying crowd--but no man moved; And the hot flood crept and crawled and shoved Its flame-tongues out. Then straight and swift Juan leaped, and they saw him stoop and lift A fear-dazed burden, and turn and call On 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!