The Church, too--I mean the great Catholic Church, formed of all the branches of our Christianity "who love the Lord Jesus Christ in sincerity"--must open its arms with a heartier tone of welcome and brotherhood to the tried and disheartened working-people. Nothing in recent art has stirred me so deeply as a dim copy of Hacker's "Christ and the Magdalene," reproduced by Mr. Stead in the _Review of Reviews_. The Christ is standing with coarse clothing and toil-worn hands by the work-bench in the carpenter-shop at Nazareth. The shavings are heaped in piles around, him on the otherwise bare floor, while kneeling at his feet in penitence and trust is the Magdalene. Brothers, it is this carpenter Christ, as Frances Willard aptly puts it, "the Monday Christ," for whom the toil-worn world hungers, and will welcome when it sees Him manifested in us, in the shop, the factory, and the counting-room, as well as in the church. Zoe Dana Underhill sings, in _Harper's Magazine_, a song the modern Church needs to learn, until its great heart shall throb with its spirit. "The Master called to His reapers, 'Make scythe and sickle keen, And bring me the grain from the uplands, And the grass from the meadows green, And from off the mist-clad marshes, Where the salt waves fret and foam, Ye shall gather the rustling sedges, To furnish the harvest-home. Then the laborers cried, 'O Master, We will bring Thee the yellow grain That waves on the windy hillside, And the tender grass from the plain; But that which springs on the marshes Is dry and harsh and thin, Unlike the sweet field-grasses, So we will not gather it in.' But the Master said, 'O foolish! For many a weary day, Through storm and drought, ye have labored For the grain and the fragrant hay. The generous earth is fruitful, And breezes of summer blow Where these, in the sun and the dews of heaven, Have ripened soft and slow. 'But out on the wide, bleak marshland Hath never a plough been set, And with rapine and rage of hungry waves The shivering soil is wet. There flower the pale green sedges, And the tides that ebb and flow, And the biting breath of the sea-wind Are the only care they know. 'They have drunken of bitter waters, Their food hath been sharp sea-sand; And yet they have yielded a harvest Unto the Master's hand. So shall ye all, O reapers, Honor them now the more, And garner in gladness, with songs of praise, The grass from the desolate shore.'" X. OUR BROTHERS AND SISTERS, THE BOSTON PAUPERS. "And Sir Launfal said, 'I behold in thee, An image of Him who died on the tree; * * * * * Mild Mary's Son, acknowledge me; Behold, through Him, I give to thee!'" --James Russell Lowell: _Sir Launfal_.