Every Bird Likes Its Own Nest

It pleases me to see how fond the birds are of their little homes. No doubt each one thinks his own nest is the very best; and so it is for him, just as my home is the best palace for me, even for me King John, the king of the Cottage of Content. I will ask no more if providence only continues to give me—

"A little field well tilled,
A little house well filled,
And a little wife well willed."

An Englishman's house is his castle, and the true Briton is always fond of the old roof-tree. Green grows the house-leek on the thatch, and sweet is the honey-suckle at the porch, and dear are the gilly-flowers in the front garden; but best of all is the good wife within, who keeps all as neat as a new pin. Frenchmen may live in their coffee-houses, but an Englishman's best life is seen at home.

"My own house, though small,
Is the best house of all."

When boys get tired of eating tarts, and maids have done with winning hearts, and lawyers cease to take their fees, and leaves leave off to grow on trees, then will John Ploughman cease to love his own dear home. John likes to hear some sweet voice sing—

"'Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam,
Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home;
A charm from the sky seems to hallow us there,
Which, wherever we rove, is not met with elsewhere.
Home! Home! sweet, sweet home!
There's no place like home!"

People who take no pleasure in their own home are queer folks, and no better than they should be. Every dog is a lion at his own door, and a man should make most of those who make most of him. Women should be house-keepers and keep in the house. That man is to be pitied who has married one of the Miss Gadabouts. Mrs. Cackle and her friend Mrs. Dressemout are enough to drive their husbands into the county jail for shelter: there can be no peace where such a piece of goods as either of them is to be found. Old Tusser said—

"Ill huswifery pricketh
Herself up with pride:
Good huswifery tricketh
Her house as a bride.

"Ill huswifery moveth
With gossip to spend:
Good huswifery loveth
Her household to tend."

The woman whose husband wastes his evenings with low fellows at the beer-shop is as badly off as a slave; and when the Act of Parliament shuts up most of these ruin-houses, it will be an Act of Emancipation for her. Good husbands cannot have too much of their homes, and if their wives make their homes comfortable they will soon grow proud of them. When good fathers get among their children they are as merry as mice in malt. Our Joe Scroggs says he's tired of his house, and the house certainly looks tired of him, for it is all out of windows, and would get out of doors if it knew how. He will never be weary in well doing, for he never began. What a different fellow he would be if he could believe that the best side of the world is a man's own fireside. I know it is so, and so do many more.

"Seek home for rest,
For home is best."

What can it be that so deludes lots of people who ought to know better? They have sweet wives, and nice families, and comfortable houses, and they are several cuts above us poor country bumpkins, and yet they must be out of an evening. What is it for? Surely it can't be the company; for the society of the woman you love, who is the mother of your children, is worth all the companies that ever met together. I fear they are away soaking their clay, and washing all their wits away. If so, it is a great shame, and those who are guilty of it ought to be trounced. O that drink! that drink!

Dear, dear, what stuff people will pour into their insides! Even if I had to be poisoned I should like to know what I was swallowing. A cup of tea at home does people a sight more good than all the mixtures you get abroad. There's nothing like the best home-brewed, and there's no better mash-tub for making it in than the old-fashioned earthenware teapot. Our little children sing, "Please, father, come home," and John Ploughman joins with thousands of little children in that simple prayer which every man who is a man should be glad to answer. I like to see husband and wife longing to see each other.

"An ear that waits to catch,
A hand upon the latch;
A step that hastens its sweet rest to win;
A world of care without,
A world of strife shut out,
A world of love shut in."

Fellow workmen, try to let it be so with you and your wives. Come home, and bring your wages with you, and make yourselves happy by making everyone happy around you.

My printer jogs my elbow, and says, "That will do: I can't get any more in." Then, Mr. Passmore, I must pass over many things, but I cannot leave off without praising God for his goodness to me and mine, and all my brother ploughmen, for it is of his great mercy that he lets us live in this dear old country and loads us with so many benefits.

This bit of poetry shall be my finish: I mean every word of it. Let us sing it together.

"What pleasant groves, what goodly fields!
What fruitful hills and vales have we!
How sweet an air our climate yields!
How blest with flocks and herds we be!
How milk and honey doth o'erflow!
How clear and wholesome are our springs!
How safe from ravenous beasts we go!
And, oh, how free from poisonous things!

"For these, and for our grass, our corn;
For all that springs from blade or bough;
For all those blessings that adorn,
Both wood and field, this kingdom through;
For all of these, thy praise we sing;
And humbly, Lord, entreat thee too,
That fruit to thee we forth may bring,
As unto us thy creatures do."