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6 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 following description: “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 great throng.” 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 up. “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 human act. 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.