My dad sent Bert and I an email yesterday:
My mother bought these ugly ceramic frogs in the summer to hold the doors open and let the breeze in. My dad and I think they are really ugly. Our little pond froze and dad sent one of the frogs out on a mission (with, I surmise, the intention of leting it sink when the weather warms). He sent this poem for the Ravenclaw crowd:
Our frog waits for spring
He yearns in ice not alone
So too does the stone
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