to note how one becomes accustomed to the absence of the aids to devotion and reverence which appeal to eye, and ear and heart, whether in some stately cathedral or humble village church, in the old country; the tower with its peal of bells, the heaven-pointing spire, God's acre with its memorials of the dead, the ordered ritual; the very atmosphere of the House of God, set apart from all common use, and consecrated not only once as an official ceremony, but by the prayers and praises, the sorrows and thanksgivings of countless worshippers who have realized in their House of God that Sacramental Presence promised to two or three who meet together; all this, in some measure touches the heart of the least devout. Is it possible, think you, to worship as one would wish in, for instance, such a place as that in which I held service last Sunday? Picture to yourself a New Zealand woolshed, long, and roughly built of wood, with high pitched thatched roof, somewhat in the shape of a church with nave, lean-to side aisles, but no chancel; a boarded floor redolent of greasy wool, the "side aisles" parcelled out into pens to hold sheep ready for the shearers; here and there a wool press, tables for wool sorting, bins for fleeces; all tidied up as well as may be for Sunday. It was shearing time, and yesterday the shed was full of the noise of work, scuffling and bleating of sheep, the sharp clipping sound of shears, now and then rough words; jests and laughter as evening drew in and work ceased, and men compared their tallies of sheep shorn, making ready for an off day to-morrow.
Can one expect to realize here the ideal of a place of worship as at home? Come and join in it. At the end of the shed is an upturned barrel, covered with
