what is a home

A London magazine recently asked its subscribers what a home is, and received over eight hundred answers. Out of these, six were selected as the best.

Here they are:
"Home--A world of strife shut out, a world of love shut in."
 "Home--A place where the small are great, and the great are small."
 "Home--The father's kingdom, the mother's world, and the child's paradise."
 "Home-- The place where we grumble the most and are treated the best."
 "Home-- The center of our affection, round' which our heart's best wishes twine."
 "Home-- The place where our stomachs get three square meals a day and our hearts, a thousand."

ROCK ME TO SLEEP

Backward, turn backward, 0 Time, in your flight,

Make me a child again just for tonight!

 Mother, come back from the echoless shore,

 Take me again to your heart, as of yore;

 Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care,

 Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair;

Over my slumbers your loving watch keep,

Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep.

Backward, flow backward, O tide of the years!

 I am so weary of toil and of tears-­

Toil without recompense, tears all in vain-

­Take them and give me my childhood again!

I have grown weary of dust and decay-

­Weary of flinging my soul-wealth away;

Weary of sowing for others to reap;

Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep.

Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue,

 Mother, 0 mother, my heart calls for you!

Many a summer the grass has grown green

Blossomed and faded, our faces between;

Yet, with strong yearning and passionate pain,

Long I tonight for your presence again,

Come from the silence so long and so deep;

 Rock me to sleep, mother- rock me to sleep.

Over my heart in the days that are flown

No love like mother-love ever has shone;

No other worship abides and endures­

Faithful, unselfish and patient like yours,

None like a mother can charm away pain.

From the sick soul and the world-weary brain.

Slumber's soft calm o'er my heavy lids creep;

Rock me to sleep, mother- rock me to sleep.

Come, let your brown hair, just lighted with gold,

 Fall on your shoulders again, as of old;

Let it drop over my forehead tonight,

Shading my faint eyes away from the light;

For with its sunny-edged shadows once more

Haply will throng the sweet visions of yore;

Lovingly, softly, its bright billows sweep­-

Rock me to sleep, mother; rock me to sleep!

Mother, dear mother, the years have been long

Since I last listened your lullaby song.

Sing, then, and unto my soul it shall seem

Womanhood's years have been only a dream.

Clasped to your breast in a loving embrace,

With your light lashes just sweeping my face,

Never hereafter to wake or to weep-­

Rock me to sleep, mother; rock me to sleep.

Florence Percy (pen name): Elizabeth Akers Allen.

The Love of Home

It is only shallow-minded pretenders who either make distinguished origin a matter of personal merit, or obscure origin a matter of personal reproach. Taunt and scoffing at the humble condition of early life affect nobody in America but those who are foolish enough to indulge in them, and they are generally sufficiently punished by public rebuke. A man who is not ashamed of himself need not be ashamed of his early condition.

     It did not happen to me to be born in a log-cabin; but my elder brothers and sisters were born in a log-cabin raised among the snowdrifts of New Hampshire, at a period so early that when the smoke first rose from its rude chim­ney and curled over the frozen hills, there was no similar evidence of a white man's habitation between it and the settlements on the rivers of Canada.

     Its remains still exist; I make it an annual visit. I carry my children to it, to teach them the hardships endured by the generations which have gone before them. I love to dwell on the tender recollections, the kindred ties, the early affections and the touching narratives and incidents which mingle with all I know of this primitive family abode.

     I weep to think that none of those who inhabited it are now among the living; and if ever I am ashamed of it, or if ever I fail in affectionate veneration for him who reared it and defended it against savage violence and de­struction, cherished all the domestic virtues beneath its root and, through the fire and blood of a seven years' revolution­ary war, shrunk from no danger, no toil, no sacrifice, to serve his country and to raise his children to a condition better than his own, may my name and the name of my posterity be blotted forever from the memory of mankind!

                                                                                                            Daniel Webster