SOME think that the little child cannot be converted, because he is too young to understand religion. They might just as well say he cannot live on food because he cannot tell how the grass that feeds the ox is turned into flesh and then nourishes him. They might just as well say he cannot be warmed with his clothes because he cannot tell how the grass the sheep eats is turned into wool, and how wool is made into cloth. The greatest man that ever lived cannot tell how the grass is turned into flesh, or into wool, and thus made to nourish or warm us. The little child can eat the food and live; the philosopher can do no more. He can put on his garments and be warm; the great and learned can do no more. A poor blind beggar once cried out in the street, and asked Christ to have mercy on him. What did he want? Lord, that my eyes might be opened. How could he tell how Christ could open his eyes? And when he found them cured what could he say when they asked him, "How opened he thine eyes?"—"By what means he opened mine eyes I know not; but one thing I know, that whereas I was blind, I now see." Could the greatest man that ever lived say more? Every child knows what it is to love his mother, but can he tell you any more about it than that he feels? Can any man say more? Every child can take hold of his father's hand, and go with him in the dark, and that is having faith in his father; but he cannot tell what faith is. A little child once got lost in the woods, and night came on, and it grew dark, and they could not find him for a long time. At last he lay down under a log, cold and afraid, and cried as loud as he dared. At length he heard some one calling. He was afraid at first that it was a wild beast. Then he plainly heard his own name. Still he did not stir. But when the voice came nearer, and he heard his own name called, he stopped crying, and jumped up and went toward the voice. He could not see anything, but he heard his father's voice, and ran to him. Thus he could have faith, though he could not tell what faith was. The child Samuel could say, "Speak, Lord, for thy servant heareth," though he could not know the voice of the Lord from the voice of Eli. So the little child can believe in Christ, and love him, though he cannot know all the deep things in religion. He can live upon the sincere milk of the word, and grow thereby, and that is all that is necessary for his being gathered to Christ. The beautiful rose does not know how the dews of the night refresh it and revive it, but they do. The modest lily that peeps up and catches a few of the bright sunbeams, does not know how they make it white and pure, but they do. The valley that lies at the foot of the mountain does not know how the gentle rills that run down the sides of the mountain, bursting out from hundreds of little springs, make it bright and fertile, but they do. So the little one does not know how he believes in Christ, and how he lives by faith, but he does. And the tall tree of the forest, and the giant oak on the hill, can no more tell how they are nourished by the rain and sunshine, than the little violets that grow in a crack of the rock; and the lofty tree in the garden, and the frail lily are alike, for they know not how. When the child has said that he feels love to Christ in his heart, could a Newton with all his great mind say more?