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GLEAXIXGS IN BEE CULTURE. 



Sept. 15 



This short sermon is by our old friend and corres- 

 pondent. Rev. Frank McGlade. A. I. Root is away at 

 present, but he left word that, in case he should not 

 return in time, this appropriate talk on "Our 

 Homes " should be used. It is needless to say that 

 he most emphatically endorses every word. — E. R. R. 



Go home to thy friends, and tell them how great 

 things the Lord hath done for thee. — Mark .5 : 19. 



When Jesus was in the world he was not 

 trying to do good. Omnipotence never tries. 

 He doc^. "God was in Ghrist, " who "went 

 about doing good." 



Having done good to this poor mortal, and 

 finding him "sitting, and clothed, and in his 

 right mind,'" he directs him to "go home." 

 H-o-m-e — a word of only four letters, but 

 the dearest one in the world. There is no 

 place like it. no power like it. It extends 

 its inlinence unto all the creatures which God 

 has made. The dumb brutes have it. and 

 know it. "The foxes have holes, and the 

 birds have nests;" and your horses out there, 

 should they get loose and not be hindered, 

 would "go home." 



You need no admonition to "go home." 

 You do it naturally, instinctively. Home is 

 the best place in the world. You can do 

 things and say things there, not allowed any- 

 where else. Home! I don't believe a person 

 can fully realize what it is who has never 

 been ••homesick." There is no cry so plain- 

 tive and mournful as the wail of the lost 

 ■cMXd,'' I leant to go home!''' 



Then to be homeless — no place to call 

 home, as was true of him who let that love- 

 song. "Home, Sweet Home," "fly from its 

 nest in his heart." It is said he wandered 

 the streets of London homeless, and listened 

 to the sounds of his song fi'om the homes of 

 the rich, and "never till he died had a home 

 of his own." 



There our best friends, our kindred, dwell. 

 There's where father dwells — the one who 

 has provided for us all these years; who has 

 spent his best days and strength to make and 

 "keep a home for us. I have not forgotten 

 the day my father was buried. L^pon enter- 

 ing the house after the funeral I thought. 

 "This is the first time in all my life I ever 

 went home and father was not there to pro- 

 vide a meal for me." Young man, has God 

 spared your father'^ If so, thank him for it, 

 and be kind to him. He may seem stern, 

 severe, or queer, and all that: but rememl^er 

 he is your father, and that one of these days 

 he will be gone from the fireside, gone from 

 the farm, and gone from the neighl^orhood, 

 and you will regret every tinkindness shown 

 him. Be kind to him now, to-day. 



Home is the place where mother dwells — 



the dearest, sweetest soul in the world. 

 There is no love like a mother's. We can 

 always go to mother and find sympathy and 

 a welcome. Mother! A few years ago a 

 man was imprisoned here for a capital crime. 

 I was down in an adjoining State. One 

 morning I had a visit from a woman 71 years 

 old, who, hearing of my presence in the 

 country, had ridden thirteen miles on horse- 

 back to see me and ask me to go and see her 

 boy and tell him I had seen her. I asked 

 her if she was his mother. She replied, " Yes. 

 Jeff's my baby." 



I thought, "Oh, the power of a mother's 

 love I" Prison walls and iron bars couldn't 

 shut it out; the stain of crime could not 

 blight it; floods can not drown it nor fires 

 burn it. 



Down yonder in the southern part of this 

 State lives my mother. She is old and wrin- 

 kled and gray. I can remerat)er when she 

 was young, but I can not i-emember when 

 she was unkind to me. I'm always sure of 

 a royal welcome whenever I go home. She 

 always wants me to stay longer and come 

 oftener, and I knoiv she means it. 



Young lady, is your mother living? If so, 

 bless the dear Lord and put your arms 

 al)out her; kiss her on the cheek; she may be 

 old and queer, and say and do funny things; 

 but she's your mother, all the one you will 

 ever have."^ God can give us but one mother. 

 Be kind to her. When you go away tell her 

 where you are going and when you will I'e- 

 turn. She has a right to know, for her eyes 

 will refuse to close in sleep until she hears 

 you come home, hears your step upon the 

 stair, hears you enter your room, and then, 

 only then, will she close her eyes to catch 

 the'much-needed rest tired nature requires 

 that she may, on the morrow, be able to do 

 something more for you. Be kind to her, 

 for some day when you stand in the room 

 with nothing but the picture of the dear face 

 upon the wall you would give the world to 

 have her back that you might do the things 

 you neglected when she was here. No child 

 can ever do enough to repay one-tenth of a 

 mother's love and devotion. She does it not 

 for pay. If all the silver in the world Avere 

 offered it would be utterly contemned. 

 Mother's chair is sacred. It's a low chair, 

 with rockers. Pa fixed it one rainy day: 

 but she liked it. and we children have learn- 

 ed to revere mother's chair. 



You may have your family reunions and 

 birthday surprises, and bring the fine chairs 

 from town: l)ut after you are all gone away 

 mother will edge around to the old low rock- 

 ing-chair. It's got loose, and "knocks;" but 

 every knock telTs her of the times she kept it 

 going all night when you were sick and like- 

 ly to die. 



Home is the place of huslxand and wife — 

 that strange mysterious relationship, a sym- 

 bol of Christ aiid his church — the bride, the 

 Lamb's wife. "Husbands, love your wives, 

 even as Christ also loved the church, and 

 gave himself for it," for there is nothing bet- 

 ter in this world than to live peaceably with 

 the wife of thy bosom all the days of this 



