In the home there is unselfishness, thoughtfulness, and love expressed. Meal time is joy time; it's the get-together period of smiling faces.
In the house the breakfast table is merely a lunch station in the hurried trip from the bedroom to the office.
The sensitive wife of the house gets stinging remarks that abide with her after the lord and master of the house has departed.
In the home the family gets up plenty early enough, songs and jokes, kisses and love pats are found, the family is on time, and there is happiness all around.
Homes are sweet, because love is present. Houses built by gold are just hotels.
I've noticed the difference when a friend invites me to come to his home or his house; the word he uses, home or house, indicates to me what I will find when I go there.
In the house I meet a maid or butler at the door. I see conventional furniture, conventional rooms. I am shown into a conventional waiting room, and I wait conventionally for the hostess to come forward with a stiff backbone, a forced smile, and a languid hand shake.
When I go to a home built with love, I find a tidy dressed wife at the door, rosy children, and I get a warm old-fashioned hand clasp, and a beaming smiling face that spells welcome.
And the dinner, that too, tells the difference between the "depend-on-the-cook" housewife and the "wife-who-is-the-boss" home.
At the house is formality and frigidity; at the home is ease and enjoyment. The children of the home make breaks and we love them for it; it's natural instinct and frankness.