human being.

But as things are, one has only to go into the streets of this, or any
great city, to see how we, with all our boasted civilisation, are, as
yet, but one step removed from barbarism. Is that a hard word? Why,
there are the barbarians around us at every street corner! Grown
barbarians--it may be now all but past saving--but bringing into the
world young barbarians, whom we may yet save, for God wishes us to save
them. It is not the will of their Father which is in heaven that one of
them should perish. And for that very reason He has given them
capabilities, powers, instincts, by virtue of which they need not perish.
Do not deceive yourselves about the little dirty, offensive children in
the street. If they be offensive to you, they are not to Him who made
them. "Take heed that ye despise not one of these little ones; for I say
unto you, That in heaven their angels do always behold the face of my
Father which is in heaven." Is there not in every one of them, as in
you, the Light which lighteth every man that cometh into the world? And
know you not Who that Light is, and what He said of little children?
Then, take heed, I say, lest you despise one of these little ones.
Listen not to the Pharisee when he says, Except the little child be
converted, and become as I am, he shall in nowise enter into the kingdom
of heaven. But listen to the voice of Him who knew what was in man, when
He said, "Except ye be converted, and become as little children, ye shall
not enter into the kingdom of heaven." Their souls are like their
bodies, not perfect, but beautiful enough, and fresh enough, to shame any
one who shall dare to look down on them. Their souls are like their
bodies, hidden by the rags, foul with the dirt of what we miscall
civilisation. But take them to the pure stream, strip off the ugly,
shapeless rags, wash the young limbs again, and you shall find them, body
and soul, fresh and lithe, graceful and capable--capable of how much, God
alone who made them knows. Well said of such, the great Christian poet
of your northern hills--

"Not in entire forgetfulness,
And not in utter nakedness,
But trailing clouds of glory do we come
From God, who is our home."

Truly, and too truly, alas! he goes on to say--

"Shades of the prison-house begin to close
Upon the growing boy."

Will you let the shades of that prison-house of mortality be peopled with
little sa