Home and Household

In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit. Nota nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down onor to eat: it was a hobbit-hole, and that means comfort.

 

The man who thinks his wife, his baby, his house, his horse, his dog, and himself severally unequalled, is almost sure to he a good-humored person, though liable to be tedious at times.

His house was perfect, whether you liked food, or sleep, or work, or story-telling, or singing, or just sitting and thinking, best, or a pleasant mixture of them all. J. R. R.

 

In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit.

 

A man travels the world in search of what he needs and returns home to find it.

 

We said there warn’t no home like a raft, afterall. Other places do seem so cramped up andsmothery, but a raft don’t. You feel mighty free and easy and comfortable on a raft.

Do you know what it means to come home at night to a woman who'll give you a little love, a little affection, a little tenderness? It means you're in the wrong house, that's what it means.

Where we love is home—home that our feet may leave, but not our hearts.

The strength of a nation derives from the integrity of the home.

The home is not the one tame place in the world of adventure. It is the one wild place in the world of rules and set tasks.

One of the oldest human needs is having someone to wonder where you are when you don’t come home at night.

The family is the country of the heart.

A house that has a library in it has a soul.

Home is where you come to when you have nothing better to do.

To acquire the habit of reading is to construct for yourself a refuge from almost all of the miseries of life.

There is scarcely any less bother in the running of a family than in that of an entire state. And domestic business is no less importunate for being less important.

The great advantage of a hotel is that it’s a refuge from home life.

Such is the patriot’s boast, where’er we roam,

It is a most miserable thing to feel ashamed of home.

My heart’s in the Highlands, my heart is not here;

The Stately Homes of England,

Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, baker’s man, Bake me a cake as fast as you can; Pat it and prick it, and mark it with B, Put it in the oven for baby and me.

In his library he had been always sure of leisure and tranquillity; and though prepared … to meet with folly and conceit in every other room in the house, he was used to be free of them there.

Home is so sad. It stays as it was left, Shaped to the comfort of the last to go As if to win them back.