Sudden a purring whisper comes, Rising swift, like the throb of drums, And the iron track which stretches forth, Straight as a lance from south to north, Quivers and sings in the mighty strain From the grinding wheels of a through-bound train Then, for a space, as the whistle screams, Nacozari awakes from dreams. Women and children, boys and men Stream to the station platform then, Eager to gaze from its long plank walk, With gesturing arms and rapid talk, At the huge machine like a comet hurled From the mystical zone of the outer world. Thus it was on one summer's day, While the land in its noontide slumber lay With never a living creature near Save a lizard, perhaps, by a cactus spear Basking himself in the fervid heat, Or, high aloft, like a pirate fleet, A flock of vultures on lazy wing Circling wide in a watchful ring, That into the street of the desert town A long, slow freight came rolling down, Laden with goods of Northern yield For Mexican mine and town and field. Rumbling in with failing speed It came to rest like a. tired steed, With the mogul engine's dusty flank Close by the massive water-tank, As if it longed, like a living thing, To quench its thirst at the cooling spring Of the thousand-foot artesian well, Sunk through the desert's crusted shell. Just as it stopped with a grinding jar Rattling back from car to car, Out of the engine-cab swung clear Jesus Garcia, the engineer, Sooted and grimed to his finger-tips But the lilt of a song on his smiling lips, For he was handsome and young and strong And love was the theme of his murmured song. Slowly he passed his engine by Scanning its length with a practiced eye, Touching a polished slide-valve here. Or there, a shaft of the running-gear, Which done, he turned in a boyish mood To a group of children who, gaping, stood At the side of the track, too wonder-bound To move a limb or to make a sound. Into their midst Garcia sprung And a chubby lad to his shoulder swung, Who, laughing, clutched at his corded neck Like a sailor tossed on a rocking deck. Perhaps to the Mexican engineer The child suggested a vision dear Of a little boy of his very own In a white-washed cottage at Torreon, And the dark-eyed mother who, day by day, Told beads for her husband, far away, And watched, as the trains steamed forth and back, For his mogul engine along the track. But only a moment, with swinging feet, The baby perched on his lofty seat, For suddenly down by the cars in rear There rang a shriek of unbridled fear. Garcia turned, in amaze looked back; A score of men from the railroad track Were rushing away in a frantic race As if they had looked on a demon's face, And then, as he turned, the cause was plain For half-way back in the standing train A flame licked out from a box-car's side, Yellow and spiteful, a handbreadth wide. His cheek grew pale, but his lips still smiled