Cannibals and Missionaries [antikvár]

One "Bless, o Lord, thy gifts to our use and us to thy service; for Christ's sake. Amen." Excited as a kid on the day of his confirmation, the Reverend Frank Barber raced through the grace and drank his orange juice. His gaze embraced his family, whose sleepy heads had slowly returned to an upright position. One chair at the long table was vacant. His eldest, he saw, had already finished his breakfast and taken his -plate, cup, and saucer to the pantry. A crumpled embossed yellow paper napkin and an empty orapge juice glass marked his place. "He's gone to get the car," said young Helen. Among his manifold blessings, the rector of St. Matthew's, in lovely Gracie Square, was able to count garage privileges, extended as a courtesy to the church, over on York Avenue—a brisk seven-minute walk, great for chasing the cobwebs. He twirled the Lazy Susan in the center of the table and chose a medium-boiled egg from the basket. The eggs wore snug felt hats in the shape of roosters —a wonderful idea, he always thought: they kept the eggs warm and guided your selection, dark blue for medium, yellow for soft. He was elated that his fledglings had all got up and dressed themselves—though it was Saturday; no school—to see him off on his mission. "Gosh, it's so darned early, it's practically dark out," he marveled. On the table candles burned in two silver candelabra, a gift from the vestry for his and "old" Helen's twentieth anniversary last July. On the sideboard stood