Junior King's Business MARTHA S. HOOKER, Editor Associate Professor of Christian Education, Biola Bible College Something for Jesus by Sally Hawthorne
Illu s t r a t io n s : V io le t JL anqu ist
Dick leaned out over the bal- t ' cony, pointing to the spreading tree atop a distant hill. “We shade,” he said. “ It’s so hot here in town . . . a perfect day for a picnic.” “Well, don’t whine,” Yvie told him in a severe seven-year-old’s voice. “You know Daddy and Mommy agreed on a picnic, but when the Indians came to visit they couldn’t very well tell them to go away.” “ That’s right, honey,” Faith said. “You know how they prayed some one would decide to come for Bible study. If the Christian Indians are having a good time singing and pray ing they won’t be tempted to go to the fiesta.” She pointed down the street. “ Look at all the chicherias! The people are starting in early— by afternoon everyone will be drunk.” “ In this short block I can, count six chica flags,” Robert said. “ Daddy says that during some of the Bolivian fiestas almost every house in town puts out its little banner. That means corn liquor is sold there and the In dians go inside to drink.” “Yes, and the banner isn’t taken down until all the liquor is gone.” Faith sighed. Forgetting momentarily his disap pointment in the lost picnic, Dick gestured excitedly. “Watch those two men fighting! Wow! One lost his leather fighting-helmet and the other Indian socked him right on the ear. “ I think that’s awful,” Faith ex claimed. “ But they aren’t happy if the fiesta ends without a good fight.” “We’re just kids. Even if we wanted to tell them about Jesus they would not listen,” Yvie pouted. “Mommy said we would be missionaries same as she and Daddy, but . . .” “ Say . . . yes, I think it might work!” Dick snapped his fingers briskly. “What? Tell us, Dick. What are
you talking about?” Four pairs of puzzled eyes demanded an explana tion of his mystifying statement. Robert pulled at his sleeve. “ Come on, Dick, stop grinning and tell us what it’s all about. Are we in on it?” “ Sure. This is a wonderful idea! Now listen while I explain.” Dick assigned jobs like a veteran foreman. “ You, Faith, will squeeze all those lemons and oranges; Yvie can cart the skins out to the corral, and dump the sugar in the juice; you’ll love that part, Shrimp. You have to keep tasting it to see when there’s enough. Just be sure it’s plenty sweet!” “What do I do?” Robert asked anx iously. “ Drink it?” “Ha, ha. Very funny! You, my dear brother, will get a large square of white cloth out of Mommy’s rag bag and draw a fancy edge around it with crayons, and a glass of lemon- orangeade in the middle. And since I’m the handyman of the family, I will get a long pole to put our punch sign on!” “ Oh!” cried Faith. “We’re going to . . .” She hesitated. “ This scares .me. What if we get into trouble?” “ Don’t be silly. If you mean Daddy and Mommy, I don’t see why they haven’t thought of it themselves.” Several Indians paused in the street to watch the activity. They were plainly startled as their eyes traveled from the table in the doorway, past the children beckoning hospitably to them; upwards to stare in amazement at the beautifully-decorated banner advertising fruit punch; back to the full pitchers and waiting glasses on the table. Their expressions indicated that they thought someone must be dream ing. A white flag over the door meant a drinking place; yet mis sionaries lived here. “ Come on,” Dick invited. “ Have
some. It’s rico!” He held out a glass. Would the Indian accept it, or would he turn away, afraid? Faith held her breath. These In dians had been taught to hate the foreigners, and it had taken a long time to break down the superstition of only a handful. What could mere children hope to accomplish? It seemed a very long time that Dick held the brimming glass of lemon- orangeade. Faith spoke up eagerly, “You don’t have to pay for this, you know. It’s free. Try it.” At her warm smile, the Indian accepted the glass. Considering the tales he had heard of these Gringos, he no doubt felt very daring as he downed its contents in one long gulp. Turning excitedly to his companions, he began talking rapidly in Quechua. They pushed closer to the table as Faith filled three more glasses. Listen!” Dick cried, feeling his knees turn to limp spaghetti; “ Have you ever seen a book like this?” They all looked at him expectantly^ but with a sudden motion he thrust the little wordless book at Faith. “ I wanted to explain it to them, but I •••just don’t know enough Quechua.” He was close to tears; this was his big moment and he was tongue-tied. Faith darted into the house, but in a moment she was back, grinning at Dick. “ The day is saved! I remem bered Daddy had translated this. Look here, folks.” She had caught them unawares; in a few short minutes she had given the way of salvation, even quoting Scrip ture verses in the Indian tongue. They were amazed. They were hear ing their own language flowing from the lips of a little Norte-Americana. As they stood spellbound, other Indians arriving from the country to participate in the fiesta, halted in the street to see what was going on. Apparently, they also found it hard
always have such fun playing in its
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TH E KING 'S BUSINESS
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