From the Omaha Daily Bee, March 25, 1913. By Will Chamberlain. Not on the chance acquaintance, Nor yet on the new found friend, When the storms about us gather For comfort may we depend. If I should be permitted, Aside from all light jokes, To choose for you the truest, I would pick the old home folks. From them I would name a husband For the dimpled, would-be bride; A childhood mate or sweetheart, In whom she might confide. The old home folks are surest To notice if we succeed, And they are the first to sorrow With us when our hearts do bleed. So do not be quick in forsaking The faithfully tried for the new, Who may seem so apt and clever When the skies are soft and blue. For tho’ it is said the prophet Has honor except at home, Love blossoms there for the masses— The prophet afar may roam. And when in the fading twilight We put off life’s stern jokes, Those who will stand to us closest Will be the old home folks. While away on their sunny hilltops, By Elysian breezes fanned, God’s own home folks will greet us With a smile and outstretched hand.