We'll meet the friends who have been kind To them the while we stayed behind-- Angels who long have dwelt above, Who welcomed them with arms of love, And sheltered them the long years through, Just as we'd prayed for them to do. Though now you mourn, who stay behind, How sad 'twould be to leave, and find Upon that distant other shore No loved one who had gone before-- The gates of Heaven to enter through With no one there to welcome you. As now, when some long journey ends And we're received by smiling friends Who've watched and waited for our train, So shall they welcome us again; The young, the beautiful and fair Will all be waiting for us there. _Visitors_ We've had a lot of visitors, it seems, for weeks an' weeks, And Pa is gettin' all run down. Ma says that when he speaks He isn't civil any more. He mopes around the place And always seems to wear a look of sadness on his face. And yesterday he said to Ma when she began to fuss: "I wonder when they're going to quit an' leave the home to us. "It's nice to have your people come, but some of them should go; Instead of that they're sticking here like bull dogs at a show. 'The more the merrier,' they shout, as other ones drop in. I'm getting so I cannot stand to see your cousins grin And, what is more, I'm getting tired of driving folks about And mighty tired of visitors who must be taken out. "Night after night when I've come home I've hauled them near and far, You'd think I was the driver of a town sight-seeing car. I've hauled them up to factories and monuments and parks, Museums and aquariums; I've shown 'em seals and sharks And bears and wolves and elephants; and now I want to quit. I know they'd do the same for me, but I am sick of it. "I wouldn't say a word at all about your folks, I know They're just as nice as they can be, but still I wish they'd go. I'm tired of all the buzz and talk, the tales of those who've died; I'm tired of seeing all our chairs forever occupied." "And I am tired myself," said Ma, "as tired as I can be, You're only on the job at night, but it's all day long for me." _When Father Broke His Arm_ Pa never gets a story straight. He's always mixed about the date, Or where it was, or what occurred, Or who related what he heard; And every time he starts to tell Some little story he knows well, Ma says: "No, Pa, as I recall, That isn't how it was at all." "Remember when I broke my arm," Says Pa, "when we were on the farm And I went out that slippery morn A few days after Bud was born, To get some wood"--and Ma says then: "Oh, Pa, don't tell that tale again! And anyhow, I know right well Bud wasn't born the day you fell."