San Antonio daily light. [volume] (San Antonio, Tex.) 1886-1907, 1896-12-20
HOMEMADE, JUST HOMEMADE.

noisy city. Throngs hurry to and fro
as If the fate of nation hung upon
minutes of time There is no respect
Of person. Youth jostles age and
rags brush silken garments. In and
out under the noses of champing
horses, or between the wheels of
numbering drays, the street crossers
dodge and escape as by miracle. A
restlessness is on every face. Care
and deep anxiety on some. dissipa-
ton and detection on others. Some
are wistful, some wicked. Some are
pinched and some are pampered. but
all are restless. There is no repose
in the movement of any. The very
horses catch the spirit, and they too
are restless, excited, the more nervous
of them fairly quivering with sup
pressed feeling. The hot sun shines
upon it all. There is no shade. save
in the shadows Of some tall build
ings. Modern towers of Babel that
shut out the sun and the sky.
There is one exception to. all this
hurry, and excitement, and confus-
ion, and hustle, and drive A tall well
formed, i'll dressed youth, out of tune
with the music of the street, out Of
time with the rush of it's movement.
There is 9, moderation in his gait, not
Of the town. In his eye look of be-
wilderment, but little excitement In
his carelessness of the elbows of 9TH
ers, an Indifference all his own. In the
strong step, slightly shutting, a sense
Of sinew in his legs. He may be out
of place, but he feels at home He is
too young to understand that though
in the town he is not of the town.
Upon him is the breath of the fields
on which he has just turned his hack
Within him sense of the largeness
of things, but confused. He feels,
but dimly, that God made the country
and man made the town, but he feels
1t. He is dumb in words in the pres
ence of SO much. He feels home
made.
He is homemade. Home is written
all over him in box car letters. A
country home, not a town one. 1t is
in his uniting garments; in his baggy
pants and wrinkled coat; in his coars-
er clothing; in everything he has; in
everything he is; in himself. He is
homemade. The passers by, with all
their hurry and fret, take him in at a
glance and know that he is home.
made. 70 some he is an object of
amusement, they laugh, at his home
spun. To others a subject of Jest
and they air their wit at his uncouth-
ness; to Others a curiosity, and they
impertinently take an inventory of
his ensemble. To others he is an OBJ
ject of pity, for they know what tri-
ais lie before him in the new sphere
of existence. To all he is homemade
The LONELINESS of his attire, the
freshness of his country face, the lack
of hardenss in his eye, all these pro.
claim him homemade. He soon recog,
nizes it himself. Is it for good or fol
evil?
For good, If he prizes the home out
of which he came, with it's simplicity
and sterling forth; for evil if he de
spises these. For good, if he make il
good; for evil. IL he takes light, the
light of home, for darkness. For good
IL he stands. fast in the integrity OF
his birth, as son of the soil, an6
cOntemns not the source of his sterl
ing virtues; for evil If he grow,
ashamed of his own, and esteem.
their hOmely ways a reproach. II
some it is a glory to turn in though
to their humble home circles. and t,
others 1t is a shame. These first ar,
never the children of little ness. The,
were born on broad foundations. liv,
on broad ground, breathe in high at
m0spheres and know not littleness
The others are measley minded. Moth
er and father and sister and brothei
are only names and not holy relation
ships. 1t may be fault of the HON.
out of which they came. 1t may b,
their own. 1t is fatal inheritance.
But how is it with our homemad,
youth on the street He seems to b,
homemade of the right stamp. Moth
ing shoddy about those homemade
clothes. That homemade travelin,
bag is sound homemade goods As h,
shields himself from the sun in tn
shadow of that tall building. just out
side the rush of the street, the luncl
that he takes from his pocket is
homemade one. Mother made it. VIII
he prize it the more on that account
This boy does. for as he eats his sim
pie fare he shows his home though
Ia his moistened eyes, in the trembl
of his sensitive lip in the gravity 0
his sobered face. AS he eats there re
turns to him the familiar faces Of tn
home group Us they now surroun
the home table. He is not there, bu
he knows that he is not forgotten. III
softly murmurs. do they miss me