A beautiful letter is dropped in the mailbox. The envelope is made of costly paper, the writing is in elegant calligraphy, the contents perfumed and valuable. One thing is missing, so the envelope goes to the dead letter office. Another mailing, this one scribbled on an inexpensive postcard, affixed with a stamp, travels over a thousand miles to its destination and is safely delivered to the addressee. Like letters need a stamp, service needs to be rendered with a pure consciousness; else it will yield no fruit
