The young folks themselves should take the lead in this matter. A home is not merely a place with four walls where people meet to eat and drink and sleep securely beneath a roof. Nay, boys and girls, a house is reared to be a _home_—the center where a family may gather into one; to be a serene retreat where the tenderest affections may find rest; where love may have a dwelling place, and the _amenities_ of life gain ample scope; where parents and children may press one another heart to heart; where sorrows and joys may be freely shared in sacred confidence; in a word, where the great work of training human beings for the duties of the present life, and the perfection of another, may be begun and carried on.
There is one special reason for making much of the evenings at home that young people are not likely to think of. _Inevitably_ the _family_ circle will be broken up very soon. Perhaps not by death, but most certainly by change. When Fred goes to college that is the beginning of new ties and new associations, and the home privileges can never be quite so complete to him again. The years of the complete unity of the home are very few indeed. While these years are passing, young people especially should make the most of them. My dear boys and girls, get the benefit of these years; get their joys; store up memories of home life, for they will be in future years the most beautiful pictures of the heart. However some may sneer at it, the memory of home and mother is a great power for righteousness. It has saved many a person to God and native land and race.
“Be it ever so humble— There’s no place like home.”
Mr. Stamps, seated near the table, was glancing over the afternoon paper. Mrs. Stamps, in an easy chair, was doing some fancy work. Little Bobby, six years old, more or less, was playing with his toys on the floor. All at once the precocious little boy stopped short in the middle of his sport and, looking up at his mother, asked,—
“Well,” said Bobby, “did God make everything?”
Bobby was silent for a moment. Presently he looked anxiously at his father, and then, turning to his mother, he asked,—
“Mama, do you think that I could make a man, if I was to try real hard?”
“You had better run out to play now, Bobby,” said Mrs. Stamps, somewhat non-plused by her son’s curiosity.