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Worth Womans While
The Oneness of Prayer.
The human heart in whatever part of the earth,
in whatever tongue it find utterance, whether Chris
tian or heathen, is lifted up in the hour of need to
its god; and comforted or appeased acording as is
its faith in the efficacy of the power appealed to.
Prayer differs only in form or expression, just as
peoples and races differ in complexion and feature
and even size, but in the essential elements of man
hood not at all. The prompting to pray, the im
pulse to look up somewhere, is, as we understand it,
prayer—what difference, then, whether we tell our
beads, or repeat long written forms, or in unset and (
halting phrase make our supplications known?
It is prayer with us all, and the soul that truly
prays has no criticism for another however much
the expression may differ from his own.
It is curious, it is interesting, to consider how in
our very likeness we have recourse to such different
means with the same motive and end. And it is
not difficult to see how where there are many gods,
praying must be managed with dispatch that the
duties of existence may go on—yet who shall say
that it is less truly prayer? In Japan where are
no fewer than 3,000,000 deities, a devout and con
scientious worshipper, making the periodical visits
to his favorite shrines, will not possibly have much
time to give to any one; so, in order that no duty
may be left undone, no prayer unprayed, tall posts
are provided in the streets with prayers printed on
them, and a small wheel attached to which any one
may give a turn in passing, and having thus offered
his petition go on his way with the consciousness
that his devotions have been attended to and, as he
believes, recorded in Heaven.
The Budhists write their prayers on a cylinder,
each revolution of which they believe registers a
petition once; just so many times as they have a
mind to twirl the little machine, which has some
thing the appearance of a large rattle, just so often
is the desire presented to Heaven. In Tibet some
lamas enclose the prayer-cylinder in a cabinet, and
by means of a ball and chain arrangement are en
abled to keep up a praying so long as they continue
at their post. Others, that there may be never any
cessation in their supplications, enclose the scroll of
prayers in a large cylinder and attach it to a mill
wheel which is placed over a stream with current
strong enough to keep it revolving steadily and un
interruptedly. Thus do they pray without ceasing,
and so is no hour of time when they are not repre
sented at the throne of their diety in an attitude
of faithful beseeching.
Stated times for prayer is the custom with nearly
all peoples; the Mohammedan seated in shop or
booth, bows his head to earth as the cry of the
meuzzin in his minaret rings out over the city
and the Angelas, morning, noon, and night, sounds
a halt in the round of life wherever Romanists are.
Perhaps all are not familiar with the religious cus
toms of the people of the Tyrol, and it would not be
out of place to quote from a traveler who gives the
“If yon were to go through a Tyrolese village at
six o’clock in the evening, you would hear from
every cottage a hum like that of a hive of bees,
every one, father and mother and children and ser
vants, saying their prayers. It is much the same
at noon, only then many of the people are out of
doors in the fields, or in their gardens.
“One market-day at Innsbruck I was dining, and
there was a party of farmers at another table hav
ing their dinner. The church bell rang the Angelus.
Then they all rose up, and standing reverently, the
oldest man in the party began the prayers, and the
rest responded. And the women shopping were
standing still in the market, and those at the booths
selling stood also with folded hands, and the men
had their hats off, and instead of the buzz of bar
The Golden Age for May 10, 1906.
By FLORENCE TUCKER .
gaining, rose the murmur of the prayer from all that
Can a more beautiful sight be conceived? A
whole village at the noonday hour looking up as one
heart to Heaven! It is a lesson to us who pray
perhaps only when we lie down to sleep. And yet
is this true of any? The set form and time are
our regular observance, but, “Prayer,” pious James
Montgomery said, “is the soul’s sincere desire, ut
tered or unexpressed.” And how true it is those
who have come through the valleys of trial and sor
row and the deep, dark places of temptation and
error can understand—places where there was no
turning aside for prayer, but even while held in the
deepest depths the heart uttered its cry and looked
“Prayer is the burden of a sigh,
The falling of a tear,
The upward glancing of an eye,
When none but God is near”
the involuntary expression of the burdened or
tempted heart. If ever we pray it is in these ex
pressions which escape from us in the hours of
direst need. Or, just as sincerely, often times, when
communing with conscience it prods us when, appar
ently, the way was smoothest—outward calm does
not always betoken quiet within; and the moan of
recollection which never sleeps reaches as surely
to the throne of mercy from the clerk at his desk
or the woman at her ceaseless round of duty as
though hours they spent in penance at some shrine.
Going about the streets, or even in places of pleas
ure, the soul has its times of involuntary and light
ning-flash appeal to God—the one God, for whether
so recognized, that to which the inner conscious
ness flies all unconsciously is He who has created
us all so alike it is strange we cannot realize it—
and pitifully strange we could ever have criticism
one for another, even to the way we say our prayers.
The Buddhist before his prayer cylinder, the Roman
ist counting his beads, the Christian in silent med
itation and communion with his God as he follows
the call to business or turns his feet toward the
temple—where is the difference to the All-Saving
One? And whether we go into the closet or breathe
our petition in the busy mart or on the highway, it
is all one, so that charity be there,' the kindness
which has no carping word for any creature or any
Worth While to Be Sweet.
J. R. Miller, in one of his books, tells the follow
ing legend: “One day, in Galilee, the useful corn
spurned the lilies because they fed no one’s hun
ger. ‘One cannot earn a living just by being
sweet,’ said the proud cereal. The lilies said noth
ing in reply, only seemed the sweeter. Then the
Master came that way, and, while his disciples
rested at his feet and the rustling corn invited
them to eat, he said, ‘Children, the life is more
than meat; consider the lilies, how beautiful they
grow.’ ” To this legend the writer adds, “It cer
tainly seemed worth while to be sweet, for it pleas
ed the Master.” Sweetness and cheerfulness, when
we give them, are not missed by us. Instead, the
giving of them adds to our store.
God has given to this outside world much bright
ness and beauty. Every leaf and flower and star
are constantly giving out their sweetness to us. We,
too, can give out something of sweetness and
brightness to others. It may not be much we can
give, but let us remember:
“If I can live
To make some pale face brighter and to give
A second’s luster to some tear-dimmed eye,
Or e’en impart
One throb of comfort to an aching heart,
Or cheer some wayworn soul in passing by—
“If I can lend
A strong hand to the fallen, or defend
The right against the single envious strain,
My life, though bare,
Perhaps, of much that seemeth dear and fair
To us of earth, will not have been in vain.
“The purest joy—
Most near to heaven—far from earth’s alloy,
Is bidding cloud give way to sun and shine;
And ’twill be well
If, on that day of days, the angels tell
Os me, ‘She did her best for one of Thine.’ ”
The Four Big Brooms.
O mother, why does the big wind blow,
And rattle the window pane?
If I close my eyes to sleep, just so,
It wakes me up again;
If I hide my head beneath the spread,
You speak so soft and low
That I cannot hear what you have said.
Oh, why does the big wind blow?
“Let us play, my darling, a merry play.
The winds are four big brooms
That sweep the world on a windy day
As Mary sweeps our rooms.
The South wind is the parlor brush
That sweeps in a quieter way,
But the North wind comes with a roar and rush
On the world-wide sweeping day.
“Like Mary sweeping the halls and stairs
Is the work of the good West broom,
And the sweetest odors, the softest airs,
Float over the world’s wide room.
But to-night the broom from the East is here,
And with it comes the rain,
Like John when he brushes the porch, my dear,
And hoses the window pane.”
The little boy laughed and cuddled close
In his warm and downy bed.
“I hear the broom, and I hear the hose,
And I like them both,” he said.
And so, though the rain may pelt away,
And the big wind loudly roar,
He remembers the wide-world’s sweeping day
And thinks of the big brooms four.
Those of us who have learned the art of making
the best of things, should extend it to the point of
making the best of people. Look at their good
points. Put the most charitable construction on
their acts. Give them the credit for honest pur
poses even when they blunder. If your first im
pulse is to ascrioe unworthy motives to those about
you, it shows a serious weakness in yourself. You
cannot make the most of life till you have learned
to make the best of others.—Anon.
Breathe deep. When occasion permits your being
out-of-doors, make the most of it to take as many
deep inhalations as the time will allow. If house
hold or other duties keep you closely inside, make it
a point to go now and then to the outer door if you
can get no further. Step outside, look abroad, and
breathe; drink of Nature’s tonic which braces you
up and gives renewed life, and without which you
grow languid and like a plant denied the sunlight.
If y ou have tested its efficacy ,you know for your
self; if not, have faith in what others have proven,
and begin at once the cultivation of a habit too
long neglected. Drop everything at least three or
four times a day, and run out in the open for a few
minutes, and just breathe.