It seems a long time since I have talked with you. The Mother's Day column had to be laid aside for a week, due to necessary political advertising. In the interim I grew lazy, and allowed a mean sore throat to be suffiicent excuse to play hooky another week. Now a heat wave has come - one of Old Nick's best allies in laying low anyone's ambition. But my good friends have come to the rescue with interesting and helpful material. I am receiving marvelous news about the progress of the Memorial Fund. The fine spirit of cooperation is most gratifying. It would seem that the Drama Club and the Music Club were positively inspired in their recent efforts - so enthusiastic are the personal accounts both of "Ladies in Retirement" and the lovely musicale in which about 60 school children took part. My correspondents who saw it are agreed that the latter was the loveliest, most colorful, entertainment that has ever come to Saltsburg. The two projects will net over $200, all of which goes to the Memorial Fund. have you noticed that God gives His special blessing to an unselfish endeavor? May Saltsburg continue to grow and prosper. Somewhere in my crowded and untidy desk is a lovely poem written by Mayme Whitesell, sent to me at my request, which I want to share with you when I find it. Last month my friend Paul Lowman sent me some poems, one of which I would like to share with you. Collecting poems is Paul's hobby. The author for the following is unknown,
Last eve I paused beside a blacksmith's door
And heard the anvil ring the vesper chime;
Then looking in, I saw upon the floor
Old hammers worn with beating years of time.
"How many anvils have you had?" said I,
"To wear and batter all these hammers so?"
"Just one," he answered, then, with twinkling eye,
"The anvil wears the hammers out, you know."
And so, I thought, the anvil of God's word
For ages skeptic blows have beat upon,
Yet, though the noise of falling blows were heard,
The anvil is unworn - the hammers gone.
Today a little story - a true story - appeared in our morning newspaper. I hope you get the kick out of it that I did. One of our very nice Cleveland mothers has a frisky son who attends a parochial kindergarten. One day when she visited the school, and found the pleasant young sister in charge of his class standing by the outside door laughing so hard she could hardly speak. "Your son drew this," said the sister, holding up a brightly-colored picture. The mother didn't see anything so funny about it. It showed a car, whose driver had a flowing beard. In the back seat were a man and a woman. "The children have been hearing Bible stories," the sister explained, "and this morning I told them to draw a picture about some story. Guess what this one illustrated?" The mother couldn't. (Can you?) It was supposed to be God driving Adam and Eve out of the Garden of Eden. Well, here comes Father Time, driving me up to that mail box - and not in a car - for ours has had another breakdown.
Florence B. Taylor.
Next - 6/20/46 - Dianne Elizabeth Young
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