The king makes merit when he builds a costly temple or goes on his yearly tour to distribute presents among the priests of the royal wats. The pauper makes merit when with a broom of small twigs he sweeps the dead leaves from the temple-grounds. The old man makes merit when with painful difficulty he urges his palsied limbs to the wat, and there bows in the temple before an image of Buddha till his forehead touches the floor. The housewife who takes the last mouthful of rice from her hungry husband to feed some lazy priest makes merit. The infant makes merit when the mother, holding its tiny hand in hers, guides the fingers in forming the wax taper that is used in worship. [Illustration: THE GREAT TOWER OF THE PAGODA WAT CHEUG.] Pagodas, or sacred spires――detached pyramidal piles of solid masonry, frequently reaching a great height――are always found in connection with the Siamese temples. These are supposed to contain some relic of Buddha, and are sacred to his memory. The most remarkable pagoda of Siam is that in the extensive grounds of the Wat Cheug, opposite the royal palace in Bangkok. Bell-shaped and about two hundred feet high, every inch of its irregular surface is encrusted over with colored and glazed ornamentation, consisting largely of grotesque human and animal figures, while from each projection to the very needle-point of the spire hang little bells, a tiny golden wing attached to their tongues to catch the passing breeze, and all day long thousands of tinkling, silvery voices, “As if a choir Of golden-nested birds in heaven were singing,” fill the air with sweet, weird music. [Illustration: BUDDHIST PRIEST.] Each wat has also its chapel, or preaching-hall. On the feasts or sacred days crowds of women flock to hear some favorite priest read _Bana_. One day a missionary stopped to rest among the shady groves of a wat, and, hearing the voice of one reading, he entered. Out of a congregation of fifty he found only two men. This is what he saw: A yellow-robed priest seated on his high pedestal in the centre, in one hand a fan to keep his eyes from wandering to things carnal, in the other a palm-leaf book, from which he read sentences of the Buddhist scriptures, written in the Pali, in a monotonous tone, occasionally adding an explanation in Siamese. Before him burned a wax taper. His congregation, seated in a circle on the floor, reverently listened with downcast eyes, their palms joined and heads bowed till the elbows rested on the ground, though much of the service was in an unknown tongue: “Blessed is he who heareth the law.” So, reverently listening to the words spoken, they believe themselves blest, nor would they consider the merit any greater if they understood the preacher.