The Passing Throng

They're Waiting Over There

They're waiting for us over there; The young, the beautiful and fair Who left us, oh, so long ago, Lonely and hurt on earth below, Are waiting bravely, never fear, Until our faces shall appear.

Then, when our journey here is done, And we set out to follow on Through the great, heavy mantled door Which leads to rest forevermore, They will be there to laugh away The loneliness we feel to-day.

They'll welcome us with wondrous grace, And show us all about the place; They'll take us gently by the hand And guide us through that radiant land; They'll tell us all they've learned and seen Through the long absence that has been.

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."

"'Twas months before he came," says Ma. "'Twas after he was born," says Pa; "I rather think I ought to know Just when it was I suffered so." "Maybe you ought," says Ma, "but still, I saw you tumble down the hill, And it was March with snow drifts high-- Bud wasn't born till next July."

"I'd walk him round the floor," says Pa. "You're all mixed up again," says Ma. "We'll ask Aunt Lizzie, she was there, She'd come to help." Says Ma: "I swear You're just as crazy as a loon, Aunt Lizzie didn't come till June. To argue on is most absurd, Bud wasn't born when that occurred."

I wish I knew just what is what Or whether I was born or not, But I'll just have to sit and wait Until Pa gets his story straight; And I have never heard at all Just how it was he chanced to fall, For Pa and Ma can't yet agree Which one came first--the fall or me.

The Spirit of the Home

Dishes to wash and clothes to mend, And always another meal to plan, Never the tasks of a mother end And oh, so early her day began! Floors to sweep and the pies to bake, And chairs to dust and the beds to make.

Oh, the home is fair when you come at night And the meal is good and the children gay, And the kettle sings in its glad delight And the mother smiles in her gentle way; So great her love that you seldom see Or catch a hint of the drudgery.

Home, you say, when the day is done, Home to comfort and peace and rest; Home, where the children romp and run-- There is the place that you love the best! Yet what would the home be like if you Had all of its endless tasks to do?

Would it be home if she were not there, Brave and gentle and fond and true? Could you so fragrant a meal prepare? Could you the numberless duties do? What were the home that you love so much, Lacking her presence and gracious touch?

She is the spirit of all that's fair; She is the home that you think you build; She is the beauty you dream of there; She is the laughter with which it's filled-- She, with her love and her gentle smile, Is all that maketh the home worth while.

If I Were Sending My Boy Afar

If I were sending my boy afar To live and labor where strangers are, I should hold him close till the time to go, Telling him things which he ought to know; I should whisper counsel and caution wise, Hinting of dangers which might arise, And tell him the things I have learned from life, Of its bitter pain and its cruel strife And the sore temptations which men beset, And then add this: "Boy, don't forget When your strength gives out and your hope grows dim, Your father will help if you'll come to him."

If I were sending a boy away, I should hold him close on the parting day And give him my trust. Through thick and thin I should tell him I counted on him to win, To keep his word at whatever cost, To play the man though his fight be lost. But beyond all that I should whisper low: "If trouble comes, let your father know; Come to him, son, as you used to do When you were little--he'll see you through. I am trusting you in a distant land. You trust your father to understand.

"Trust me wherever you chance to be, Know there is nothing to hide from me, Tell me it all--your tale of woe, The sting of failure that hurts you so. Never, whatever your plight may be, Think it something to hide from me; Come to me first in your hour of need, Come though you know that my heart will bleed! Boy, when the shadows of trouble fall, Come to your father first of all."

The White Oak

The white oak keeps its leaves till spring when other trees are bare, And who will take the time to look, will find the young bud there; The young bud nestled snug and warm against the winter's cold; The young bud being sheltered by the knowledge of the old.

And when the spring shall come again--and gentle turns the day, The youthful bud will swell with strength and thrust the old away; The youthful bud will seek the breeze and hunger for the sun, And down to earth will fall the old with all its duty done.

Then, heedless of the parent leaf, the youthful bud will grow And watch the robins build their nests and watch the robins go. Then something strange will come to it when that young leaf grows old, It, too, will want to shield its babe against the winter's cold.

It, too, will cling unto the tree through many a dreary day Until the spring-time comes again and it is thrust away; Then it will flutter down to earth with all its duty done, And leave behind its happy child to drink the morning sun.

How like man's life from birth to close! How like the white oak tree Which keeps a shelter for its young against the storms, are we! We guard our children through the night and watch them through the day, And when at last our work is done, like leaves, we fall away.

Dirty Hands

I have to wash myself at night before I go to bed, An' wash again when I get up, and wash before I'm fed, An' Ma inspects my neck an' ears an' Pa my hands an' shirt-- They seem to wonder why it is that I'm so fond of dirt. But Bill--my chum--an' I agree that we have never seen A feller doing anything whose hands were white an' clean.

Bill's mother scolds the same as mine an' calls him in from play To make him wash his face an' hands a dozen times a day. Dirt seems to worry mothers so. But when the plumber comes To fix the pipes, it's plain to see he never scrubs his thumbs; His clothes are always thick with grease, his face is smeared with dirt, An' he is not ashamed to show the smudges on his shirt.

The motorman who runs the car has hands much worse than mine, An' I have noticed when we ride there's dirt in every line. The carpenter who works around our house can mend a chair Or put up shelves or fix the floor, an' mother doesn't care That he's not in his Sunday best; she never interferes An' makes him stop his work to go upstairs to wash his ears.

The fellers really doing things, as far as I can see. Have hands and necks and ears that are as dirty as can be. The man who fixes father's car when he can't make it go, Most always has a smudgy face--his hands aren't white as snow. But I must wash an' wash an' wash while everybody knows The most important men in town have dirty hands and clo'es.