A GREAT many people have "hobbies." We have all of us known individuals who seemed incapable of talking upon any subject but one. Introduce almost any topic of conversation, and the hobbyist will manage to bring in something on his favorite subject. A farmer discusses the condition of the crops and the fluctuations of the market; a dressmaker talks about dress, and a milliner about bonnets. You can tell a sailor or a soldier in five minutes by his conversation.
Now, at the risk of being called a "hobbyist," we are going to talk a little while about home-building. "Why, you are not a carpenter, are you? or an architect, or a mason, or a plumber?"—O no; none of these; these people build houses. Don't you know that there is a great difference between houses and homes?
There are two classes of homeless people in the world,—the rich and the poor,—both are to be pitied. "The rich?" you question. "How can that be possible? Of course I pity the poor fellow who has not money enough to buy himself even the humblest home; but the rich, really it doesn't strike me that they need any pity."
Well, let us visit that palatial mansion across the street. A servant meets you at the door. Your feet sink into velvet carpets; pictures by the most famous artists, and bric-a-brac and curios from all over the world are everywhere. "What a beautiful home!" you exclaim. Wait. Do you see those sweet children out on the lawn, in the care of their nurse? That nurse could assure you that these children have not looked into their mother's eyes for a fortnight, and that the joys of the sweet good-night lullaby from mother's lips they have never known. They have been defrauded of childhood's sweetest inheritance—the good-night kiss and the evening prayer from the lips of her who gave them birth. She is society's queen and the slave of fashion; her children are well fed and well dressed; but they never knew what it is to have a home; for "what is home without a mother?"
Under the very shadow of the mansion of the wealthy, stands the hovel of the poor woman who toils in the sweatshop from sun to sun. Yonder, in the tiny window, with great, hollow eyes, peeping out to catch a little glimpse of the outside world, is a baby face. Ah! that little one has never known—perhaps never will know—the joys of "sweet home."
Some one has well said that home consists of more than four walls. The humblest cottage, if love and tenderness and patience and forbearance be there, if no harsh words are heard there, and no sullen and ill-tempered frowns are seen there, may be a home in every true sense of the word. There is not a word in the English tongue that often means less, but may mean more, than that much-abused word, "home."
"Hallo, Jim, building yourself a house, are you?"
"I hope I'm doing more than that, sir," replies the young man, as he wipes the honest sweat from his forehead, "I hope I'm building a home for Jennie and me and the bairns."
"That's right; what are you going to put into the foundation, Jim?"
"O, people call it a cement foundation, I suppose, sir, but I am putting in plenty of love; love never faileth, you know, and the foundation must be firm, or the home will not stand."
"Well, it seems to me that you are speaking in parables, aren't you, Jim? But what kind of material are you building with?"
"I'm laying the walls with brick, sir; but I'm putting in plenty of kindness and good temper, and the pillars will be supported with prayer, and the hinges of the doors will be oiled with loving words, and the whole structure covered with praise."
"Well, surely, my friend, God will bless your home, for He has promised to bless the habitation of the just."
"But," some one objects, "it takes more than one to make a home. I try to be kind, and I reckon I should succeed reasonably well, if the children were not so trying. John is a regular torment, and Mary is so careless and heedless that really I forget my good resolutions before the day is half done."
Let me tell you something: It is little credit to you or me when we smile under a sunny sky. But when those days come when everything goes wrong,—and we all know there are many just such days,—if, in the face of all these petty annoyances, we keep a bright and cheery face, then we may feel that we are growing in grace indeed.
O, it is not the beautiful architecture or the costly furniture or even the conveniences and necessities of the house that make it a home. There can be no true home without LOVE. There must be a bearing with the little faults of the dear ones, remembering that we, too, are compassed about with the same infirmities.
Then, in spite of poverty, our home will be a blessed foretaste of that glorious one which the Master is preparing for us.