The Family Circle

New Zealand Tablet, 1 December 1921, Page 45

The Family Circle

THE THINGS WORTH WHILE. Som'times I get to thinkin'. An' it kind o' seems to me * Th' things worth while in this old world Jest simmers down to three. A lovin' heart's the first .thing, An' the sweetest part o' life Is when you come at end o' clay To kiddies, home, an' wife. Th' appetite fer hard work An' fer trudgin' to'rds th' goal— That's second in my little plan For happiness of soul. An' last a smilin' ccmt'nance Jest to chase away the blues An' paint on other peoples' souls Them shinin' rainbow hues. If you'd make life worth livin' Try these big things worth while; They're three (I'll sum 'em up ag'in) Jest love an' work an' smile. D. T. IS THE WORLD LOSING RESPECT FOR WOMANHOOD ? Correspondence from time to time in the daily papers gives strong grounds for the opinion, that the world is losing respect for womankind. The harrowing experiences of conflict have lulled the finer sensibilities, and the men have lost what Burke called the "chastity of honor" that characterised the day of chivalry. There is much that is true and much that is untrue in this indictment. Surely from signs appearing around us, there has been a sad derogation from the former ideals of men in regard to womankind. -. Woman comes into the world with the dignity of a queen. Her power is boundless if only she will not misuse it. Women who have consistently cherished the ideal of honor will never have to complain that the world is losing its respect for them. The Church places before Catholic women the model of the Blessed Virgin, the sinless one, before whom the world is bowed in admiration. Painters and sculptors have produced the masterpieces of their genius in trying to portray the perfections of her beauty. Poets have sung her praises. The pure in heart of all generations have called her blessed. In her footsteps tread the glorious army of true womanhood. But women who have failed to- grasp the true secret of their power have made shipwreck of their own lives, and have lost the ideal womanhood in depths where a materialistic world seeks to place it. As in other cases, the woman pays the cost every time. She may win the vote, or smoke and drink with her cronies, or dress in the freest pagan styles, but she will find them all Dead Sea fruit if she steps from her place of honor. Catholic Bulletin of St. Paul, U.S.A. ' y HOME. "Mid pleasures and palaoes, though we may roam, Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home." How familiar are the words of the song; how true, how deep, the meaning they convey ? To every heart there are certain places around which cluster memories that endure through life. Foremost and above all there is one place the memory of which never dies; it is the place that bears the simple title of home. What is home? It is the place where one passes life's happiest years, years of childhood, so sweet in their innocence. It is at home that one learns the provident kindness of a father's affection, - and the fathomless depths of a mother's love —an affection and a love of which all others of earth are only a shadow.

The actual surroundings of home do not constitute its happiness; rather is it centred in the depth of love, the warmth of affection which exists between hearts that move within its circle. The angel of happiness lingers dn the home of the poor peasant in the humble cottage away in the secluded valley, on the mountain side, or by the beach where the sweet, sad song of the sea never dies, as often as within the precincts of the home of the rich, furnished with all the luxurious appointments that -wealth and cultured taste can command, but despite these advantages not seldom devoid of the spirit of sweet contentment and happiness that wealth in itself can never give. Home is surely a sacred place. What is it that consoles the poor soldier wounded on the field of battle? Is it not the thought that he may come home once more, and there be nursed back to health with a tenderness and a love that none can equal? What is the gleam of sunshine that illumines the dark cloud of sorrow in the exile's heart, as he utters the parting good-bye to his loved ones, ere he embarks on the great Cunarder at Cobh, for distant Boston or New York? Is it the pleasure that the prospect of "seeing life" affords —is it the hope of success, even fame, in the land of his adoption? Ah! these are but minor and ineffective consolations; the great consolation lies in the hope that some day he will come home again, even if it be but to diethat when life's dream is over his bones will rest in Irish soil, and his dust mingle with the dust of those who were united to him by the closest ties of earth. There are two scenes familiar to the Irish people, particularly those acquainted with Cobh —one, intense in its sadness, the exile's parting; the other, exquisite in/its joy, the exile's return. Oh! the pain of the exile's g\>od-bye, the lingering embrace, the loving kiss, the fond good-bye good-bye for many, alas! until the great reunion after tho Grand Assize. The exile's return! How eagerly the poor wanderer alights from the tender at Cobh; the warm greeting between friend and friend! How sweet to gaze once more on the old familiar scenes, to .cross the threshold of tho old home of long ago! Alas! the loved of old may be no longer there; the parents' hearts are now stilled in death. Ah! it is now the returned exile feels the joy of having sent even a letter, the message of affection binding together hearts severed by distance. How the memory of those letters now arises, and with it the thought that one act of kindness to the living is worth more than a deluge of tears over the dead. Many a home is broken up by death or by adverse fortune, but the memory of the place remains undimmed, and as one grows old there may be no memory so sweet as the memory of the old home, sweet home of childhood's day*. Those who have now no home only really understand what home means — whose years are spent in boardinghouses, which, no matter how comfortably appointed, ever lack the atmosphere of even the humblest home. To the homeless as they see but in dreams childhood's home —dearer now than ever because it has been lost, the value of many a treasure is often realised only in its lossthere remains the consolation that beyond the grave there is a land where none will be homeless, and where the loves of the home of earth will be united again to part no more. Those who are possessed of a happy home should realise that from the treasury of God's best gifts they have been given earth's dearest blessing, for nothing can exceed the blessings found in a happy home.W. Mac Lean, Killorglin, Co. Kerry, in the Irish Catholic. ' A BOY'S PASSPORT. The Germans have a proverb we'd do well to understand; 'Tis this: On can go anywhere, if the hat is in one's hand. Nothing, perhaps, is truer, and the saying* isn't trite, A boy is welcome everywhere, providing he's polite. As well within our country, as in lands beyond the sea, ' Politeness is his passport to good society. . So don't forget the proverb, boys; 'twill stand you well in hand. AH doors will swing wide open, if your hat is in your hand. <hX«X><«X«X» VERY LIKELY. The old gardener had watched the children grow up from the time they first picked his choicest blooms, ran on his borders, and hid his syringe. ■ ~ \

He had his favorites in the family\and when he was told of the engagement of one of the daughters of the house, . his only comment was: "Well, it's as I've always said: it's usually the least loikely as is more loiklier than the most loikliestl" - A GENEROUS OFFER. A farmer went to q. dealer to purchase a horse. "Here's a beauty at thirty-five pund," said the dealer, "and here's another yer can hev for twenty pund. Too much? Step this way, sir. Here's as fine a hanimal as yer ever saw —strong as a helephant. He dragged Wellington's heaviest cannon all over the field of Waterloo, an' he's a bargain at a guinea." "I'll hev him," said the farmer; but gi' me a shillin' back fer luck." "No,"* answered the dealer. "I'll tell yer what I will do, though. I'll gi' yer another boss." THE WOLF AT THE DOOR. An old Scotsman had been ill for a long time, and it was agreed by the family that the minister should be called in. When he came he told the old man he would have to cast his worldly cares aside, and prepare for the terrible visitor who was waiting at the door. "And who's that, minister?" "That greatest enemy of ours, Death." "What a fricht ye gi'ed me," said the patient "Aw thocht it was the wife's mither." A SILLY IDEA. "My dear, don't you intend to invite Mr. and Mrs. Green to your party?" asked Mr. Biller. "Certainly not." "Why not? They are good friends of ours." "What if they are? I am going to invite Mr. and Mrs. Brown." "Well, can't you invite the Greens as well?" "Why, John, you shock me with your taste. Brown and Green in my house together? Why, you'll be asking me to wear blue and yellow next. Men have no idea of harmony." SMILE RAISERS. Caddie (watching unsuccessful golfer miss her third swing): "Wouldn't cost her no more if she played with newlaid eggs." Miss Stevens: "Albert, will you please run up that curtain?" Albert: "I'm not in very good training, but I'll try." sp Mrs. Maggs: "Yes, my husband goes out each evening for a little constitutional. Does yours?" Mrs. Knaggs: "No; he always keeps a drop in the house." . •. «F "Very well, Henry," said Mrs. Newbryde, petulantly, "if you will go skating and you happen to get drowned and are never heard of again, don't come running to me for sympathy." Green: "What did poor old Steve leave his son?" Keen: "Oh, he left him the capacity for. hard work which he himself had inherited from his father. It was quite as good as new; Steve himself had never used it." ,«P ' Mrs. Banks: "Do you think it is right for a wife to go through her husband's pockets?" Mrs. Binks: ""I don't know about it being right, but I do know if all husbands are like mine it is a waste of time."