Winter 1960 • Vol. XXII No. 1 Fiction |

The Poacher

"There are many religions in Africa, bequeathed to her by a Europe that no longer has much use for them." As he spoke, Father Cartier in his white robe, smiled gently. The black, wooden cross round his neck swung like a pendulum as he walked until he stilled it against his chest with his left hand. "It is a pity that we missionaries fight so amongst ourselves, is it not? Such a waste of time. But it helps to keep us amused, you know, and that is a very good thing out here. The missionary in the Reformed Church, just two miles from us, hasn't spoken to me now for six months because one of his boys came over to Catholicism. He accuses me of poaching." "But, Father, you can see his point of view. With his beliefs that must have been a serious defeat. Worse, if you will forgive my saying so, than if the boy had been left a heathen." "Ah, no. You miss the point. The boy is no more a Catholic than that chicken over there. But he plays football and we have the best team in the dist

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