MAKING THE HOUSE A HOME

By

Edgar A. Guest

1922

 _Here's our story, page by page, Happy youth and middle-age, Smile and tear-drop, weal and woe Such as all who live must know-- Here it is all written down, Not for glory or renown, But the hope when we are gone Those who bravely follow on Meeting care and pain and grief Will not falter in belief. _

Making the House a Home

We have been building a home for the last fifteen years, but it beginsto look now as though it will not be finished for many years to come. This is not because the contractors are slow, or the materials scarce, or because we keep changing our minds. Rather it is because it takesyears to build a home, whereas a house can be builded in a few months. 

Mother and I started this home-building job on June 28th, 1906. I wastwenty-five years of age; and she--well, it is sufficient for thepurposes of this record to say that she was a few years younger. I wasjust closing my career as police reporter for the Detroit "Free Press, "when we were married. Up to a few months before our wedding, my hourshad been from three o'clock, in the afternoon, until three o'clock inthe morning, every day of the week except Friday. Those are not fithours for a married man--especially a young married man. So it wasfortunate for me that my managing editor thought I might havepossibilities as a special writer, and relieved me from night duty. 

It was then we began to plan the home we should build. It was to be ahall of contentment and the abiding place of joy and beauty. And it wasall going to be done on the splendid salary of twenty-eight dollars aweek. That sum doesn't sound like much now, but to us, in January, 1906, it was independence. The foundation of our first home was something lessthan five hundred dollars, out of which was also to come theextravagance of a two-weeks' honeymoon trip. 

Fortunately for all of us, life does not break its sad news in advance. Dreams are free, and in their flights of fancy young folks may be asextravagant as they wish. There may be breakers ahead, and trials, daysof discouragement and despair, but life tells us nothing of them tospoil our dreaming. 

We knew the sort of home we wanted, but we were willing to beginhumbly. This was not because we were averse to starting at the top. Both Mother and I had then, and have now, a fondness for the best thingsof life. We should have liked a grand piano, and a self-making ice box, and a servant, and an automobile right off! But less than five hundreddollars capital and twenty-eight dollars a week salary do not providethose things. 

What we _could_ have would be a comfortable flat, and some nicefurniture. We'd pay cash for all we could, and buy the remainder of thenecessary things on time. We had found a wonderful, brand-new flat whichwe could rent for twenty-five dollars a month. It had hardwood floors, steam heat, two big bedrooms, a fine living room with a gas grate, ahot-water heater for the bath, and everything modern and convenient. To-day the landlord would ask ninety dollars a month for that place andtell you he was losing money at that. 

With the rent paid, we should have eighty-seven dollars a month left tolive on. The grocery bill, at that time, would not run more than twentydollars a month; telephone, gas, and electric light would not exceed tendollars a month; the milkman and the paper boy would take but little, and in winter time a ton of coal per month would be sufficient. Oh, weshould have plenty of money, and could easily afford to pledge twentydollars a month to pay for necessary furniture. 

It will be noticed that into our dreaming came no physician, nodentist, no expenses bobbing up from unexpected sources. Not a singlebill collector called at the front door of our dream castle to ask formoney which we did not have. 

If older and wiser heads suggested the possibility of danger, weproduced our plans on paper, and asked them from whence could troublecome? To-day we understand the depth of the kindly smile which ourprotests always evoked. They were letting the dreamers dream. 

At last the furniture was bought on the installment plan and the newflat was being put in order. It called for a few more pieces offurniture than we had figured on, and the debt, in consequence, wasgreater; but that meant merely a few months more to make payments. 

It was fine furniture, too! Of course it has long since ceased to serveus; but never in this world shall that dining set be duplicated! Forperfection of finish and loveliness of design, that first oak diningtable will linger in our memories for life. The one we now have costmore than all the money we spent for all the furniture with which webegan housekeeping; and yet, figuring according to the joy it hasbrought to us, it is poor in comparison. 

And so it was, too, with the mahogany settee, upholstered in greenplush, and the beveled glass dresser, and the living-room chairs. Weused to make evening trips over to that flat merely for the joy ofadmiring these things--our things; the first we had ever possessed. 

Then came the night of June 27th. We had both looked forward to thatwonderful honeymoon trip up the lakes to Mackinac Island, and tomorrowwe were to start. But right then I am sure that both Mother and I wishedwe might call it off. It seemed so foolish to go away from such abeautiful flat and such lovely furniture. 

The honeymoon trip lasted two weeks; and one day, at Mackinac Island, Ifound Mother in tears. 

"What the matter?" I asked. 

"I want to go home!" she said. "I know I am silly and foolish, but Iwant to get back to our own house and our own furniture, and arrangeour wedding presents, and hang the curtains, and put that set ofHaviland china in the cabinet!"

So back we came to begin our home-building in earnest. 

The rent and the furniture installments came due regularly, just as wehad expected. So did the gas and electric light and telephone bills. But, somehow or other, our dream figures and the actual realities didnot balance. There never was a month when there was as much left of oureighty-seven dollars as we had figured there should have been. 

For one thing, I was taken ill. That brought the doctor into the house;and since then we have always had him to reckon with and to settlewith. Then there was an insurance policy to keep up. In our dream days, the possibility of my dying sometime had never entered our heads; butnow it was an awful reality. And that quarterly premium developed adistressing habit of falling due at the most inopportune times. Justwhen we thought we should have at least twenty dollars for ourselves, inwould come the little yellow slip informing us that the thirty days'grace expired on the fifth. 

But the home-of-our-own was still in our dreams. We were happy, but wewere going to be still happier. If ever we could get rid of thosefurniture installments we could start saving for the kind of home wewanted. 

Then, one evening, Mother whispered the happiest message a wife evertells a husband. We were no longer to live merely for ourselves; therewas to be another soon, who should bind us closer together and fill ourlives with gladness. 

But--and many a night we sat for hours and planned and talked andwondered--_how_ were we to meet the expense? There was nothing in thesavings bank, and much was needed there. Mother had cherished for yearsher ideas for her baby's outfit. They would cost money; and I would beno miserly father, either! My child should have the best of everything, somehow. It was up to me to get it, somehow, to. .. . If only thatfurniture were paid for!

Then a curious event occurred. I owed little bills amounting to abouttwenty-one dollars. This sum included the gas, electric light, andtelephone bills, on which an added sum was charged if unpaid before thetenth of the month. I had no money to meet them. I was worried anddiscouraged. To borrow that sum would have been easy, but to pay it backwould have been difficult. 

That very morning, into the office came the press agent of a localtheatre, accompanied by Mr. Henry Dixey, the well-known actor. Mr. Dixeywanted two lyrics for songs. He had the ideas which he wished expressedin rhyme, and wondered whether or not I would attempt them. I promisedhim that I would, and on the spot he handed me twenty-five dollars incash to bind the bargain. If those songs proved successful I should havemore. 

The way out had been provided! From Mr. Dixey's point of view, thosesongs were not a success; but from mine they were, for they bridged meover a chasm I had thought I could not leap. I never heard from thatpair of songs afterward; but neither Mother nor I will ever forget theday they were written. 

It meant more than the mere paying of bills, too. It taught us to havefaith--faith in ourselves and faith in the future. There is always a wayout of the difficulties. Even though we cannot see or guess what thatway is to be, it will be provided. Since then we have gone togetherthrough many dark days and cruel hurts and bitter disappointments, butalways to come out stronger for the test. 

The next few months were devoted to preparations for the baby, and ourfinancial reckonings had to be readjusted. I had to find ways of makinga little more money. I was not after much money, but I must have more. All I had to sell was what I could write. Where was a quick market for apoor newspaper man's wares?

My experience with Mr. Dixey turned me to the vaudeville stage. I couldwrite playlets, I thought. So while Mother was busy sewing at nights Idevoted myself to writing. And at last the first sketch was finished. Atthe Temple Theatre that week was the popular character actor, William H. Thompson. To him I showed the manuscript of the sketch, which was called"The Matchmaker. " Mr. Thompson took it on Tuesday; and on Friday he sentword that he wished to see me. Into his dressing-room I went, almostafraid to face him. 

"It's a bully little sketch, " said he, as I sat on his trunk, "and I'dlike to buy it from you. I can't pay as much as I should like; but ifyou care to let me have it I'll give you two hundred and fiftydollars--one hundred and fifty dollars now, and the remaining hundrednext week. "

I tried to appear indifferent, but the heart of me was almost burstingwith excitement. It meant that the furniture bill was as good as paid!And there would be money in the bank for the first time since we weremarried! The deal was made, and I left the theatre with the largest sumof money I had ever made all at once. Later someone said to me that Iwas foolish to sell that sketch outright for so little money. 

"Foolish!" said I. "That two hundred and fifty dollars looked bigger tome than the promise of a thousand some day in the future!"

Once more the way out had been provided. 

And then came the baby--a glorious little girl--and the home had begunto be worth-while. There was a new charm to the walls and halls. The oaktable and the green plush settee took on a new glory. 

I was the usual proud father, with added variations of my own. One of mypet illusions was that none, save Mother and me, was to be trusted tohold our little one. When others _would_ take her, I stood guard tocatch her if in some careless moment they should let her fall. 

As she grew older, my collars became finger-marked where her littlehands had touched them. We had pictures on our walls, of course, andtrinkets on the mantelpiece, and a large glass mirror which had been oneof our wedding gifts. These things had become commonplace to us--untilthe baby began to notice them! Night after night, I would take her in myarms and show her the sheep in one of the pictures, and talk to herabout them, and she would coo delightedly. The trinkets on themantelpiece became dearer to us because she loved to handle them. Thehome was being sanctified by her presence. We had come into a new realmof happiness. 

But a home cannot be builded always on happiness. We were to learn thatthrough bitter experience. We had seen white crepe on other doors, without ever thinking that some day it might flutter on our own. We hadwitnessed sorrow, but had never suffered it. Our home had welcomed manya gay and smiling visitor; but there was a grim and sinister one tocome, against whom no door can be barred. 

After thirteen months of perfect happiness, its planning and dreaming, the baby was taken from us. 

The blow fell without warning. I left home that morning, with Mother andthe baby waving their usual farewells to me from the window. Early thatafternoon, contrary to my usual custom, I decided to go home in advanceof my regular time. I had no reason for doing this, aside from a strangeunwillingness to continue at work. I recalled later that I cleaned up mydesk and put away a number of things, as though I were going away forsome time. I never before had done that, and nothing had occurred whichmight make me think I should not be back at my desk as usual. 

When I reached home the baby was suffering from a slight fever, andMother already had called the doctor in. He diagnosed it as only aslight disturbance. During dinner, I thought baby's breathing was not asregular as it should be, and I summoned the doctor immediately. Hercondition grew rapidly worse, and a second physician was called; but itwas not in human skill to save her. At eleven o'clock that night she wastaken from us. 

It is needless to dwell here upon the agony of that first dark timethrough which we passed. That such a blow could leave loveliness in itspath, and add a touch of beauty to our dwelling place, seemedunbelievable at the time. Yet to-day our first baby still lives with us, as wonderful as she was in those glad thirteen months. She has not grownolder, as have we, but smiles that same sweet baby smile of hers upon usas of old. We can talk of her now bravely and proudly; and we have cometo understand that it was a privilege to have had her, even for thosebrief thirteen months. 

To have joys in common is the dream of man and wife. We had supposedthat love was based on mutual _happiness_. And Mother and I had beenhappy together; we had been walking arm in arm under blue skies, and weknew how much we meant to each other. But just how much we _needed_ eachother neither of us really knew--until we had to share a common sorrow. 

To be partners in a sacred memory is a divine bond. To be partners in alittle mound, in one of God's silent gardens, is the closestrelationship which man and woman can know on this earth. Our lives hadbeen happy before; now they had been made beautiful. 

So it was with the home. It began to mean more to us, as we began eachto mean more to the other. The bedroom in which our baby fell asleepseemed glorified. Of course there were the lonely days and weeks andmonths when everything we touched or saw brought back the memory of her. I came home many an evening to find on Mother's face the mark of tears;and I knew she had been living over by herself the sorrow of it all. 

I learned how much braver the woman has to be than the man. I could gointo town, where there was the contagion of good cheer; and where mywork absorbed my thoughts and helped to shut out grief. But not so withMother! She must live day by day and hour by hour amid the scenes of heranguish. No matter where she turned, something reminded her of the joywe had known and lost. Even the striking clock called back to her mindthe hour when something should have been done for the baby. 

"I _must_ have another little girl, " she sobbed night after night. "I_must_ have another little girl!"

And once more the way out was provided. We heard of a little girl whowas to be put out for adoption; she was of good but unfortunate parents. We proposed to adopt her. 

I have heard many arguments against adopting children, but I have neverheard a good one. Even the infant doomed to die could enrich, if onlyfor a few weeks, the lives of a childless couple, and they would behappier for the rest of their days in the knowledge that they had triedto do something worthy in this world and had made comfortable the brieflife of a little one. 

"What if the child should turn out wrong?" I hear often from the lips ofmen and women. 

"What of that?" I reply. "You can at least be happy in the thought thatyou have tried to do something for another. "

To childless couples everywhere I would say with all the force I canemploy, _adopt a baby_! If you would make glorious the home you arebuilding; if you would fill its rooms with laughter and contentment; ifyou would make your house more than a place in which to eat and sleep;if you would fill it with happy memories and come yourselves into acloser and more perfect union, adopt a baby! Then, in a year or two, adopt another. He who spends money on a little child is investing it toreal purpose; and the dividends it pays in pride and happiness andcontentment are beyond computation. 

Marjorie came to us when she was three years old. She bubbled over withmirth and laughter and soothed the ache in our hearts. She filled thelittle niches and comers of our lives with her sweetness, and became notonly ours in name, but ours also in love and its actualities. 

There were those who suggested that we were too young to adopt a child. They told us that the other children would undoubtedly be sent to us astime went on. I have neither the space here nor the inclination to listthe imaginary difficulties outlined to us as the possibilities ofadoption. 

But Mother and I talked it all over one evening. And we decided that weneeded Marjorie, and Marjorie needed us. As to the financial side of thequestion, I smiled. 

"I never heard of anyone going to the poorhouse, or into bankruptcy, " Isaid, "because of the money spent on a child. I fancy I can pay thebills. "

That settled it. The next evening when I came home, down the stairwayleading to our flat came the cry, "Hello, Daddy!" from one of thesweetest little faces I have ever seen. And from that day, until Godneeded her more and called her home, that "Hello, Daddy" greeted me andmade every care worth while. 

The little home had begun to grow in beauty once more. That firstshopping tour for Marjorie stands out as an epoch in our lives. I am notof the right sex to describe it. Marjorie came to us with only suchclothing as a poor mother could provide. She must be outfitted anew fromhead to toe, and she was. The next evening, when she greeted me, she wasthe proud possessor of more lovely things than she had ever knownbefore. But, beautiful as the little face appeared to me then, morebeautiful was the look in Mother's face. There had come into her eyes alook of happiness which had been absent for many months. I learned then, and I state it now as a positive fact, that a woman's greatesthappiness comes from dressing a little girl. Mothers may like prettyclothes for themselves; but to put pretty things on a little girl is aninfinitely greater pleasure. More than once Mother went down-town forsomething for herself--only to return without it, but with something forMarjorie!

We pledged to ourselves at the very beginning that we would makeMarjorie ours; not only to ourselves but to others. Our friends wereasked never to refer in her presence to the fact that she was adopted. As far as we were concerned it was dismissed from our minds. She wasthree years old when she was born to us, and from then on we were herfather and her mother. To many who knew her and loved her, this articlewill be the first intimation they ever have received that Marjorie wasnot our own flesh and blood. It was her pride and boast that she waslike her mother, but had her father's eyes. Both her mother and I havesmiled hundreds of times, as people meeting her for the first time wouldsay, "Anyone would know she belonged to you. She looks exactly likeyou!"

Marjorie made a difference in our way of living. A second-story flat, comfortable though it was, was not a good place to bring up a littlegirl. More than ever, we needed a home of our own. But to need and toprovide are two different propositions. We needed a back yard; but backyards are expensive; and though newspapermen may make good husbands theyseldom make "good money. "

One evening Mother announced to me that she had seen the house we oughtto have. It had just been completed, had everything in it her heart hadwished for, and could be bought for forty-two hundred dollars. The pricewas just forty-two hundred dollars more than I had!

All I did have was the wish to own a home of my own. But four years ofour married life had gone, and I was no nearer the first payment on ahouse than when we began as man and wife. However, I investigated andfound that I could get this particular house by paying five hundreddollars down and agreeing to pay thirty-five a month on the balance. Icould swing thirty-five a month, but the five hundred was a highbarrier. 

Then I made my first wise business move. I went to Julius Haass, president of the Wayne County and Home Savings Bank, who always had beenmy friend, and explained to him my difficulties. He loaned me that fivehundred dollars for the first payment--I to pay it back twenty-fivedollars monthly--and the house was ours. 

We had become land owners overnight. My income had increased, of course;but so had my liabilities. The first few years of that new house taxedour ingenuity more than once. We spent now and then, not money which wehad, but money which we were _going to get_; but it was buyinghappiness. If ever a couple have found real happiness in this world wefound it under the roof of that Leicester Court home. 

There nearly all that has brought joy and peace and contentment into ourlives was born to us. It was from there I began to progress; it wasthere my publishers found me; and it was there little Bud was born tous. We are out of it now. We left it for a big reason; but we drive byit often just to see it; for it is still ours in the precious memory ofthe years we spent within its walls. 

Still, in the beginning, it was just a house! It had no associations andno history. It had been built to sell. The people who paid for itsconstruction saw in its growing walls and rooftree only the few hundreddollars they hoped to gain. It was left to us to change that _house_into a _home. It sounds preachy, I know, to say that all buildingsdepend for their real beauty upon the spirit of the people who inhabitthem. But it is true. 

As the weeks and months slipped by, the new house began to soften andmellow under Mother's gentle touches. The living-room assumed an air ofcomfort; my books now had a real corner of their own; theguest-chamber--or, rather, the little spare-room--already hadentertained its transient tenants; and as our friends came and went thewalls caught something from them all, to remind us of their presence. 

I took to gardening. The grounds were small, but they were large enoughto teach me the joy of an intimate friendship with growing things. To-day, in my somewhat larger garden, I have more than one hundred andfifty rosebushes, and twenty or thirty peony clumps, and I know theirnames and their habits. The garden has become a part of the home. It isnot yet the garden I dream of, nor even the garden which I think it willbe next year; but it is the place where play divides the ground withbeauty. What Bud doesn't require for a baseball diamond the rosespossess. 

Early one morning in July, Bud came to us. Immediately, the characterof that front bedroom was changed. It was no longer just "our bedroom;"it was "the room where Bud was born. " Of all the rooms in all the housesof all the world, there is none so gloriously treasured in the memoriesof man and woman as those wherein their children have come to birth. 

I have had many fine things happen to me: Friends have borne me high onkindly shoulders; out of the depths of their generous hearts they havegiven me honors which I have not deserved; I have more than once comehome proud in the possession of some new joy, or of some taskaccomplished; but I have never known, and never shall know, a thrill ofhappiness to equal that which followed good old Doctor Gordon's briefannouncement: "It's a Boy!"

"It's a Boy!" All that day and the next I fairly shouted it to friendsand strangers. To Marjorie's sweetness, and to the radiant loveliness ofthe little baby which was ours for so brief a time, had been added thestrength and roguishness of a boy. 

The next five years saw the walls of our home change in character. Finger marks and hammer marks began to appear. When Bud had reached thestage where he could walk, calamity began to follow in his trail. Oncehe tugged at a table cover and the open bottle of ink fell upon the rug. There was a great splotch of ink forever to be visible to all whoentered that living-room! Yet even that black stain became in time apart of us. We grew even to boast of it. We pointed it out to newacquaintances as the place where Bud spilled the ink. It was an evidenceof his health and his natural tendencies. It proved to all the worldthat in Bud we had a real boy; an honest-to-goodness boy who could spillink--and _would_, if you didn't keep a close watch on him. 

Then came the toy period of our development. The once tidy house becamea place where angels would have feared to tread in the dark. Buildingblocks and trains of cars and fire engines and a rocking horse wereeverywhere, to trip the feet of the unwary. Mother scolded about it, attimes; and I fear I myself have muttered harsh things when, late atnight, I have entered the house only to stumble against the tin sides ofan express wagon. 

But I have come to see that toys in a house are its real adornments. There is no pleasanter sight within the front door of any man's castlethan the strewn and disordered evidences that children there abide. Thehouse seems unfurnished without them. 

This chaos still exists in our house to-day. Mother says I encourage it. Perhaps I do. I know that I dread the coming day when the home shallbecome neat and orderly and silent and precise. What is more, I live inhorror of the day when I shall have to sit down to a meal and not send acertain little fellow away from the table to wash his hands. That hasbecome a part of the ceremonial of my life. When the evening comes thathe will appear for dinner, clean and immaculate, his shirt buttonedproperly and his hair nicely brushed, perhaps Mother will be proud ofhim; but as for me, there will be a lump in my throat--for I shall knowthat he has grown up. 

Financially, we were progressing. We had a little more "to do with, " asMother expressed it; but sorrow and grief and anxiety were not throughwith us. 

We were not to be one hundred per cent happy. No one ever is. Marjoriewas stricken with typhoid fever, and for fourteen weeks we fought thatbattle; saw her sink almost into the very arms of death; and watched herpale and wasted body day by day, until at last the fever broke and shewas spared to us. 

Another bedroom assumed a new meaning to us both. We knew it as it wasin the dark hours of night; we saw the morning sun break through itswindows. It was the first room I visited in the morning and the last Iwent to every night. Coming home, I never stopped in hall orliving-room, but hurried straight to her. All there was in that homethen was Marjorie's room! We lived our lives within it. And gradually, her strength returned and we were happy again. 

But only for a brief time. .. . Early the following summer I was calledhome by Doctor Johnson. When I reached there, he met me at the frontdoor, smiling as though to reassure me. 

"You and Bud are going to get out, " said he. "Marjorie has scarletfever. "

Bud had already been sent to his aunt Florence's. I was to gather whatclothing I should need for six weeks, and depart. 

If I had been fond of that home before, I grew fonder of it as the dayswent by. I think I never knew how much I valued it until I was shut outfrom it. I could see Mother and Marjorie through the window, but I wasnot to enter. And I grew hungry for a sight of the walls with theirfinger marks, and of the ink spot on the rug. We had been six years inthe building of that home. Somehow, a part of us had been woven intoevery nook and corner of it. 

But Marjorie was not thriving. Her cheeks were pale and slightlyflushed. The removal of tonsils didn't help. Followed a visit to mydentist. Perhaps a tooth was spreading poison through her system. Helooked at her, and after a few minutes took me alone into his privateoffice. 

"I'm sorry, Eddie, " he said. "I am afraid it isn't teeth. You have along, hard fight to make--if it is what I think it is. "

Tuberculosis had entered our home. It had come by way of typhoid andscarlet fevers. The specialist confirmed Doctor Oakman's suspicions, andour battle began. The little home could serve us no longer. It was notthe place for such a fight for life as we were to make. Marjorie musthave a wide-open sleeping porch; and the house lacked that, nor couldone be built upon it. 

And so we found our present home. It was for sale at a price I thoughtthen I should never be able to pay. We could have it by making a downpayment of seventy-five hundred dollars, the balance to be covered by amortgage. But I neither had that much, nor owned securities for even asmall fraction of it. 

But I did have a friend: a rich, but generous friend! I told him what Iwanted; and he seemed more grieved at my burden than concerned with myrequest. He talked only of Marjorie and her chances; he put his armabout my shoulders, and I knew he was with me. 

"What do you need?" he asked. 

"Seventy-five hundred dollars in cash. "

He smiled. 

"Have a lawyer examine the abstract to the property, and if it is allright come back to me. "

In two days I was back. The title to the house was clear. He smiledagain, and handed me his check for the amount, with not a scratch ofthe paper between us. 

I suggested something of that sort to him. 

"The important thing is to get the house, " he said. "When that is doneand you have the deed to it and the papers all fixed up, you come backand we'll fix up our little matter. " And that is how it was done. 

So into our present home we moved. We had a bigger and a better and acostlier dwelling place. We were climbing upward. But we were alsobeginning once more with just a house. Just a house--but founded on amighty purpose! It was to become home to us, even more dearly loved thanthe one we were leaving. 

For four years it has grown in our affections. Hope has been ours. Wehave lived and laughed and sung and progressed. .. . But we have also weptand grieved. 

Twice the doctor had said we were to conquer. Then came last spring andthe end of hope. Week after week, Marjorie saw the sunbeams filterthrough the windows of her open porch; near by, a pair of robins builttheir nest; she watched them and knew them and named them. We plannedgreat things together and great journeys we should make. That they werenot to be she never knew. .. . And then she fell asleep. .. . 

Her little life had fulfilled its mission. She had brought joy andbeauty and faith into our hearts; she had comforted us in our hours ofloneliness and despair; she had been the little cheerful builder of ourhome--and perhaps God needed her. 

She continued to sleep for three days, only for those three days her sunporch was a bower of roses. On Memorial Day, Mother and I stood oncemore together beside a little mound where God had led us. Late thatafternoon we returned to the home to which Marjorie had taken us. It hadgrown more lovely with the beauty which has been ours, because of her. 

 * * * * *

The home is not yet completed. We still cherish our dreams of what it isto be. We would change this and that. But, after all, what the home isto be is not within our power to say. We hope to go forward together, building and changing and improving it. To-morrow shall see somethingthat was not there yesterday. But through sun and shade, through trialand through days of ease and of peace, it is our hope that something ofour best shall still remain. Whatever happens, it is our hope that whatmay be "just a house" to many shall be to us the home we have beenbuilding for the last fifteen years. 

HOME

By Edgar A. Guest

 It takes a heap o' livin' in a house t' make it home, A heap o' sun an' shadder, an' ye sometimes have t' roam Afore ye really 'preciate the things ye lef' behind, An' hunger fer 'em somehow, with 'em allus on yer mind. It don't make any differunce how rich ye get t' be, How much yer chairs an' tables cost, how great yer luxury; It ain't home t' ye, though it be the palace of a king, Until somehow yer soul is sort o' wrapped round everything. 

 Home ain't a place that gold can buy or get up in a minute; Afore it's home there's got t' be a heap o' livin' in it; Within the walls there's got t' be some babies born, and then Right there ye've got t' bring 'em up t' women good, an' men; And gradjerly, as time goes on, ye find ye wouldn't part With anything they ever used--they've grown into yer heart: The old high chairs, the playthings, too, the little shoes they wore

 Ye hoard; an' if ye could ye'd keep the thumbmarks on the door. Ye've got t' weep t' make it home, ye've got t' sit an' sigh An' watch beside a loved one's bed, an' know that Death is nigh; An' in the stillness o' the night t' see Death's angel come, An' close the eyes o' her that smiled, an' leave her sweet voice dumb. Fer these are scenes that grip the heart, an' when yer tears are dried, Ye find the home is dearer than it was, an' sanctified; An' tuggin' at ye always are the pleasant memories O' her that was an' is no more--ye can't escape from these. 

 Ye've got t' sing an' dance fer years, ye've got t' romp an' play, An' learn t' love the things ye have by usin' 'em each day; Even the roses 'round the porch must blossom year by year Afore they 'come a part o' ye, suggestin' someone dear Who used t' love 'em long ago, an' trained 'em jes' t' run The way they do, so's they would get the early mornin' sun; Ye've got t' love each brick an' stone from cellar up t' dome: It takes a heap o' livin' in a house t' make it home. 

[_From "A Heap o' Livin'"_]