Half-A-Dozen Housekeepers — Kate Douglas Wiggin

MARCH had come in like a lion, and showed no sign of going out like a lamb. The pussy willows knew that it was, or ought to be, spring, but although it takes a deal to discourage a New England pussy willow, they shivered in their brown skins and despaired of making their annual appearance even by April Fool's Hay. The swallows still lingered in the South, having received private advices from the snow-birds that State o' Maine weather, in the present season, was only fitted for Arctic explorers. The air was keen and nipping and the wind blew steadily from the north and howled about the chimneys until one hardly knew whether to hug the warmth of the open fire or to go out and battle with the elements. Little did the rosy girls of the Wareham Female Seminary (girls were still "young females" when all this happened)-little did they care about snow and sleet and ice. Studies went on all the better with the afternoon skating and sliding to look forward to. What joy to perch in the window-seat with your volume of Virgil, and translate "Hoc opus hic labor est" with half an eye on the gleaming ice of the pond, or the glittering crust of the hillsides What fun to slip on your rubber boots, muffle yourself in your warm coat (made out of mother's old mink cape), and run across the way to the Academy for recitations in mathematics or philosophy