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!