OH, Home! It is a sacred place—or was, in olden days, before the people
learned to chase to moving picture plays; to tango dances and such
things, to skating on a floor; and now the youthful laughter rings
within the Home no more. You will recall, old men and dames, the homes
of long ago, and you’ll recall the fireside games the children used to
know. The neighbors’ kids would come along with your own kids to play,
and merry as a bridal song the evening passed away. An evening spent
away from home in olden days was rare; the children hadn’t learned to
roam for pleasure everywhere. But now your house is but a shell where
children sleep and eat; it serves that purpose very well—their home is
on the street. Their home is where the lights are bright, where ragtime
music flows; their noon’s the middle of the night, their friends
are—Lord, who knows? The windows of your home are dark, and silence
broods o’er all; you call it Home—God save the mark! ’Tis but a sty or
stall!
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