Froggy

Froggy by F. E. Valetta

Every froggy every spring,

Every eve must shrilly sing;

Froggy, froggy, chirp your 

fill.

We'll all listen - sure we

will.

Froggy, froggy, don't you

know,

Old Jack Frost will nip a toe

If you don't keep in your

nose

While old Jackie's north

wind blows?

Froggy, froggy, bide a wee,

Till greening sward and 

budding tree

And April's warm, life-giving

rain

Make your coming safe 

again.

The Easter Promenade

 

 

Easter Promenade
It's Easter in Washington, late though it comes,
So blare on the trumpets and beat on the drums,
And pin on the orchids so fragile and scentless,
The Easter paraders will move on relentless.
Three hundred and sixty-four days we've been striding
Because of an A card that won't permit riding,
But prop up our feet today? We will have none of it!
Easter's for walking-and just for the fun of it!
Forego that long hike and stay home to put soup on?
Conserve precious leather and 17 coupon?
Ah, no, let us join the Sunday morn marches.
Up with the chins, girls, and down with the arches.
On with the dress with the frou-frou upon it
On with the maddest of mad Easter bonnets.
Add all the touches to prove that we know style,
Watch for the cameraman-give him the profile.
For it's Easter in Washington-on with the strolling.
It's for the pedestrians bells will be tolling.
H.V.

At Easter

At Easter by Kate A. Bradley

I wonder if the anguished moon looked
down
Through all that long last night
And buried in her scarred breast, lean and
brown,
The memory of that sight!
I wonder of th' uneasy birds awoke
As glowed that strange, great light
Which paled the purple east where morn-
ing broke.
And sang, inspired by God's own breath,
"There is no death! There is no death!" 

There is no death, O hearts that throb in

vain

With longing, pulsing tide,

Or in love's fullness, nigh akin to pain,

Unfearing abide;

There is no death, O soul whom niggard

fate

Has left unsatisfied.

The cycles swing and joy those lips await

Who oft have sung on earth in pain,

"I rise again! I rise again!"

No sacrifice, O Self, can blot thee out,

Or satisfy the debt

Which binds thee to the usurer of doubt

With interest of regret!

Still is not life to even thee denied:

One way remaineth yet-

As was thy Christ, must thou be crucified.

But with those wounds in hands and feet,

E'en Self finds resurrection sweet!

Rejoice, O soul whose work is just begun,

That all time lies before!

Rejoice, O heart whose treasure all have

won

That dimmer, farther shore!

The stone that angels moved away that

night

Was rolled from Heaven's door;

Awake and stand forth in hope's sudden

 light,

And sing as sang the birds that morn:

"There is no death, for Life is born!"

The Risen Life

        Easter is a season of joy and flowers-let it be also a time for spiritual awakening and the growth of faiths; it is a season when joyful chorals are sung on every hand - let it be also marked by generous charities and Christ-like ministries to those who now sit in the shadow of death, or who pine in the desserts of a religionless experience. Resurrection should not all of it be postponed until the last day - much of it may take place on earth in redeemed hearts and evangelized society. It should be remembered that the Lord is even now by his spirit converting hearts to the likeness of a higher life. Resurrection thus becomes a continual process, consummated at last in the skies, where it reaches the plane of a perfect life. The Lord, if we believe and are faithful, will perfect that which concerneth us. 

"Why Come Ye At Break of Morning?"

A nostalgic cross stitch by Helen Grant

       This design by Helen Grant includes: old-fashioned children (the boy with a hoop and girl with bonnet), birds, roses, peacocks, butterfly and cat. Find more patterns by her in the links below.

• The Crisscross Kids Cross Stitch
• Learn more about needlework samplers by young girls
• A Sampler from 1927 by Helen Grant 

        The text on this needle point pattern reads:

"My portion is not large indeed, 
But then how little do I need? 
For Nature's calls are few-
In this the art of living lies:
To want no more than my suffice,
And make that little do. 
wrought by "

Pussy Willow Poem

Illustrated "Pussy Willows" by Cora M V Preble.

The little pussy willows
Upon the small, brown trees
Lie sleeping in their cradles,
Arocking in the breeze.

And every pussy willow,
So fat and round and small,
Is dreaming in the sunshine,
And curled up in a ball.

Such funny little fellows
In fuzzy coats of fur-
I wonder, if I stroked them,
Would pussy willows purr?