A HOME for Pedro
B y Sally Hawthorne*
P EDRO, the accordion player, was walking very slowly down the road leading out of town. He carried his accordion under his left arm while in his right hand he held his few belong ings—an old comb, half a loaf of bread, a shirt with a bright red patch on the back, and a spoon. Usually his heart sang as he meandered along the wide avenues but today his heart felt too heavy for even the saddest of tunes. For Pedro’s head was hanging very low in deed and he didn’t even bother to brush away the tears which kept running down his cheeks into the black mustache with the turned-up ends. “ Oh, dear,” he said to himself, “ how I hate to leave this friendly town where I’ve been so happy!” But one must earn money to buy his breakfast, to say nothing of lunch and supper, and though the people who gathered around him to listen to his merry songs smiled and asked for more, they just didn’t seem to have very many pennies and nickels to toss into the little tin cup. Pedro was wondering where he would find a home. He couldn’t help crying harder as he remembered the little room made of old cast-off pieces of lumber, tucked under the creek bank at the other edge of town, so warm and cozy in the evenings. The flickering light of a candle would cast weird shadows on the walls, its bright flame dancing on the keys of the battered accordion as he would play himself to sleep. Ah, how Pedro’s heart ached as he walked away from it all, for he had many doubts that he would ever have such a nice home again. Suddenly the old man jumped as he heard a tiny noise right beside him. “My!” he exclaimed out loud, “I won der what that was! Better look. It sounds just like somebody crying.” Stepping to the edge of the road, he peered through the leaves into the shadows and what should he spy but a little brown monkey—of all things—> perched upon a low branch of a dwarf tree! The small creature was sobbing as if his heart would break; he sounded like a little child. “Why,” said Pedro, startled, “ I must help this tiny fellow. Perhaps he has lost his home, too!” He reached out his hand and gathered up the wee ball of fur, who cuddled up against his shabby coat and peered up into his face with bright black eyes. He made little squeaky noises which Pedro knew were thanks for his kindness. He thought, “ It is ter rible to be a human without a home but how much worse it must be to be a little monkey out on his own, with no one to love and care for him!” * Missionary of the Bolivian Indian Mission
He began to think what he should do. Maybe (happy thought) he ought to go back to his little shanty with the small animal, so he wouldn’t have to stay out in the cold. All of a sudden, Pedro felt cheered himself, just to have someone to look after. “What do you say, eh, Jocko?” The monkey bounced up and down on his shoulder, very pleased with himself. Pedro turned around and as they neared the center of town, on the way back to Pedro’s room by the river, they heard the sound of music. Jocko was so excited he could hardly sit still. “Watch out!” warned Pedro, as the monkey tumbled off his perch in his hurry to reach the music. As they rounded the bend, they came upon quite a crowd of people, all sing ing lustily, clustered around a small folding organ. They were singing words that were strange to Pedro—words that told of a home on a far-away strand, where tears and sorrow and sickness would never be known. Oh, how Pedro’s heart longed for such a place! How he wanted to be able to go there! But he was nobody, just a tattered old accor dion player without a nickel to his name. He stood on the edge of the crowd, drinking in the story they were singing, his eyes filling with tears again, as he saw the joy on the faces of these who were—he was sure—on their way to that promised land. Jocko had been sitting perfectly still, his bright, beady eyes darting here and there, and suddenly, as the organ began the third verse, he hopped down off Pedro’s shoulder, darted into the open space in the center of the gathering, and—horrors I^began to dance. He spun in circles, turning somersaults and kick ing his tiny feet. He skipped over to a dignified man with white hair and play fully pulled his trouser leg. He was surely having the time of his life! He, scampered up the skirt of one of the ladies and softly patted her cheek, while the song went on, haltingly and in
spurts, while everybody tried to smother giggles and hide smiles behind the song books. At last the song ended and a tall young man scooped up the monkey in his hands and pretended to spank him. “ This is a street meeting, little fellow. But one can see you have been an organ grinder’s pet, and how would you know the difference? Here’s a crowd and here’s music and so you just had to per form.” He held him up above the heads of the people. “Whose is he?” he asked. Pedro, his face very red, came forward and the monkey climbed back where he belonged. “ I’m very sorry Jocko danced at the meeting,” he said, and then to his consternation, began to cry. “ But oh,” he stammered, with all the people looking at him, “how I wish I could go to that beautiful home, too!” The meeting had been somewhat dis turbed by the antics of the little monkey, but at Pedro’s words it was really upset. The young man put his arm around the old accordion player’s shoulders and told him the most wonderful thing Pedro had ever heard in all his life— that the Lord Jesus Christ loved him and had died that he might have a home in Heaven. How eagerly Pedro accepted Him as his own Saviour—even though he could not understand how One such as He could love a poor old man enough to die for him! That night, as Pedro sat on the ground of his little shanty, leaning back against the wall (for he had no chair) it seemed to him that he had never been so happy, nor the humble little room more cozy. Why, just to think, that very day he thought he was leav ing it forever! Now here he sat, a new man, his sins all forgiven and on his (Continued on Page 21) Page Seventeen
By Martha S. Hooker
J U N E , 1951
Made with FlippingBook - Online magazine maker