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"Be it ever so humble."

Home! A small word of four letters, yet one of the very dearest and sweetest in our Mother tongue. What tender memories it holds, what sacred and blessed ties it tells of, ties that may be broken for a time, to earthly ken, but will join again in another Home. The child weeps when it leaves home for the first time, and school is lonely and dull, and his heart is turning every day with fresh longing for the dear home voices, and the sweet home faces he has left behind. And well for that child if each memory is an echo of peace and happiness, of sympathy and love; if Home brings to his mind the picture of a quiet haven, a pure atmosphere, a tender, loving mother, a strong human-divine manhood, a place of quiet joy. It shall follow him forever like a beacon light, and shall never leave him. It shall be a voice of warning in danger, it shall stand between him and sin like an angel of light with Home written across her brow; it shall light up the "Valley and the shadow."

The young girl dreams of another home which she is looking forward to. Mayhap her busy fingers are preparing each day for its coming. No matter how sweet and happy the old home, the new home looks so fair and sweet in its coming because it will be "My home" it will be "Our home."

Oh women of England! make your homes what they may be, what they should be, a City of Refuge for the weary toiler, where he knows love, and peace and rest await him; a sacred, aye, divine Shelter, where tender eyes, beaming with loving sympathy, shall welcome him, and make him feel "There’s no place like home.” Love your Home. Love it with a deep strong love. Let every duty, from the very smallest act, be thy God-given duty. Fill its rooms with the influence of kind and tender thoughts, for "thoughts are things," yes, very powerful things, and they shall remain in the room, they shall cling about the curtains, and hover around the walls, and they shall fall like a benediction on the heart of the one who enters. Think not because you have not been called to do some great work—as the world calls greatness—to occupy the public platform; to talk "of woman’s rights," or to go forth into foreign countries to preach; or to dispense charities, or sit on School Boards, that therefore you have nothing to do. You have a Home to make. Woman’s highest honor lies here. Take that word and think of it for ten minutes every morning. Try to realize all its depths of meaning, its pathos, its beauty, its tenderness, its sacredness, and say "I will make a Home!" Oh that every woman in England would do this! how soon would sorrow and hatred, malice and revenge, disappointment and bitterness, lust and sin, hide their ugly heads in our fair land—and “England’s Homes” would become the glory of the nation, and the joy of the whole earth.

—From The Bryngoleu Cookery Book

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« Harmony With Law   |   A Memory System (Poem) »

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Lily L. Allen

  • Born on December 30th, 1867 at Burrishoole, Eire
  • Wife of author James Allen
  • Wrote many books of her own

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