A few years back a very eminent Member of Parliament succeeded to the possession of what was at that time the most perfect mediæval village in England, every cottage dating back to the sixteenth or seventeenth century. I was told of this absolutely unique place and went to see it. To my horror I found a large gang of workmen busy upon what appeared to be wholesale destruction. Upon inquiry I was told that Sir —— —— was such an excellent landlord that he was rebuilding all the houses of his tenants! There appeared to be little reason for this work, as the old cottages which were being pulled down looked as if they would stand quite as long as the new ones, and even if modern requirements were supposed to necessitate different arrangements to those which satisfied our forefathers, the beautiful old gables, with their ornamental oak badge-boards and timber framing, might have been preserved, as the line of frontage was not changed or the street widened. This feeling is, however, by no means universal, and we have known cases where those who have lived in old cottages which have been condemned to destruction have offered to buy the sketch we were making, as a recollection of the “dear old home.” Unfortunately, however, now people have no “homes” for the most part, our population is becoming nomadic, and folks move about every three years. A friend of ours told us that he had “moved” eleven times in ten years! Now what love of his home can a man feel who spends ten months in each house. At Rothenberg in Bavaria, I was buying some bread at a baker’s shop, when I happened to see a carved stone sign over the doorway dated 1590. I remarked to the baker, “It is rather a coincidence that it should have been a baker’s then.” “Oh,” said he, “it has always been a baker’s, and always in the hands of the same family.” What is still more remarkable is the fact that at Mont St. Michel in Normandy, until some three or four years back there was a house which had been for six centuries the home of the same family, but now the last member of the old stock is dead. Now that was indeed a home, but what “rolling stones” we have all become! Our very cats shame us. Pussy often absolutely refuses to move. I once took a house, and the cat belonging to the former tenants insisted upon remaining in the house. They took him away with them, but he came back with the milkman in the morning. We turned him out again, but he took up his residence in an outhouse, and had his eye so fixed upon the back door that the moment it was opened, he found his way in and sat in front of the kitchen fire. In vain did the cook “rout him out,” and declare that he had “no rights in her kitchen.” He maintained his rights, and point-blank refused to budge. At last we absolutely took a great liking to the animal, which showed such an attachment to his home. Directly he gained his way he became very affectionate, and was a most amiable companion to the children.