HOME.

Otago Witness, Issue 2173, 17 October 1895, Page 41

HOME.

A home must have at least one person whose coming is all the world to us, and who3e going (for there is always a parting) means the end of life, the end of love, the end even of a home.

There is no isolated word whioh is bo rich in association, so elcquent of meaning, or which embodies in itself so wide a Tange of pictured memories as that word " home." It is home, the home of childhood, when all things were true and sweet, all thirga were possible, all the world lay before us to conquer, that comes back in dreams to haunt the middle-aged, the sick, the old, and the weary; it is home—^a potential home of their own, a lovely, artistic perfection, a paradise of happiness and love, a realisation of all their brightest dreams— that the young look forward to.

And here is the strange thing about the plaoe that home holds in our imagination, our memory. The children and the young people— lafe, happy, sheltered at hometake but little note of its sweetness at the time. In action they are busy with the projects of the moment; in imagination they reserve all their powers for the future. It is when that vague future has become the limited present that we measure the full sweetness of the old home. Every pasoing year that takes us farther away from childhood's home shows us more of life's possibilities gauged, more of life's limits fixed, until fiom the very heart and centre of our own

home our thoughts fly yearningly back to the old home, the dear home of childhood.

There were coirfe shadows— ah 1 they are forgotten ; Borne pain, some puntahmentp, but they have no bitterness now. When the children olamber about your knee in tbe winter gloaming and the summer twilight, coaxing with kisses for stories, what do you tell them ? I know it is stories of " home." What fruits grew in the old garden ; the peoohes that grew in tbe upper oorner and fell so noiselessly in the soft deep grass, the little white alpiue strawberries that ran wild in the orchard, the blaokberrles ia Iho river meadow, the ruts off the hazels in the lovers' walk, the windfall apples that were our flotsam and jeteam 1 And what flowers grew at " home," in the days whan " ribbon borders " and " bedding out " were unknown ! What borders of violets perfumed the morning, what lilies of the valley bloomed, waxen white and undisturbed 1 There were no table decor at lone then for which the borders must be stripped, and it was possible to love flowers without picking them. Do yon remember jost where the wallflower always grew near the old wall, and the borage with its blue stars, tbe "lad's love" that the maids picked on Sunday and laid between the folds of tbe clean handkerobief that wes m much a psrfc of Sanduy'o accessories as was the hymn book and testament ? Then there were tbe big bunches ot sweetwilliam and tbe faint, feathery love-in-a-mist that the boys would call " devil-in-a-busb," and the graceful columbines that sprang up uninvited everywhere and w<»n immunity from destruction by their tweet, nnexpeofed freaks of colour. Yes, the fruit and flowers at " homo " were different. Everything was different— even the rainy days were different : the hills were all wrapped in mist, the soft r&in drifted on towards tbe sea all day, never a gleam of sunshine, but the hoarse roaring of the flooded liver ever growiug more Intistant. What did it matter ? We were never dull ; those wet days were sacred to long and elaborate plays in tho loft or the stable — plays that you tell Tommy and Oissic about sometimes, and they ask for "More; tell us some inoro," till you are tired and diEOover it is bedtime, whereat Tommy remarks, " Ob, bother bedtime I " and Oissie looks plaintive as she whispers, "It was much nicer when you were a little girl, mnmmie, dear— not so tume and sorter silly."

Ye», il'a " home, home, sweet, sweet homo," childhood's home, that comes back to us after the long yeare of strife and labour as tho sweetest, dearest memory that life holds; beside it the memory of firet and last lore alike wane vague and sickly swaot.

Our own hocoes get a bit monotonous sometimes, more than a little "Irjiog" often, tco foil of anxieties, overweighted with responsibilitis. The real honest wish of our hearts half tho time is to escape from them for a little while. Yi.ur shocked little deDial does not alter tbe truth.

But there is a thought worth keeplug ever before you. Home, tbat to you is the very battle-ground of life, where the giants of woik and anxiety and care and reapomibility lie in wait, ready to overcome you if peicliance you go unarmed with love and energy and prayer, is the home that in the long years to como the children will look back to for all that is sweetest in memory. Nvw, dear, in every day lhat seams so fall of interminable work for you — now, in sunshine or in olond, the book of memory is Icing written for Hie children Try to be patient, try to be br'ghfc ; whatever eke you lose hold of, keep a firm hold of charity, 11 for the greatest of these is charity " ; and if you make it a rule tha^no uncharitable thoughts shall find utterance at home, that your charity shall be not only for one another but for all the world around you, homo will b9 " Bweet borne," and its memories the very dearest tbat life oan give. I often think when I see people fagging themselves to death " keeping up appearances," banging on desperately to society, toiling and struggling in the relentless treadmill "just for the children's sake; I assure you I am tired to death of it— l only go on just for the cake of the oaildren," what a mistake that all this love and eelfsacrifice, all this actual money expenditure should not ba kept for horns.

Home Ih worth more thau we think — home is the place for our smiles and courtesies and wit, not for yawns and wearied silences and discontented grumbling. Home Is the place for our accomplishments, our sweetest eongp, our best conversation, our daintiest little touch of toilet; skill. "Anything does for home" is an idea that every mother should forbid at once. Home should be more to us than the houses of our acquaintance, the admiration of tbe outside public, tho notice of the society column. When we tbiok how dear the memory of oar own homo is to us, bow it shines through the dost and cobwebs of the years with a sacred radiance, then we oan realiso what homo demands from us today. Shall we not give it ?