Dr<?am pox 



IT was the first week of March. 

 Time for the grass to be greening 

 along the edges of springy meadows, 

 for the Pussy-willows to stretch out 

 their silver-furred paws, time for 

 the cheerful little Marsh Frogs to tune up toward 

 sunseto But instead of these spring signs and 

 sounds, snow was falling around Happy Hall, as 

 it had done for two whole days, until the paths 

 were quite buried. Great drifts swept over the 

 violet frames, and clung to the woodshed roof. 

 The pines and spruces at the north of the house 



