"The house looked wretched and woe-begone: Its desolate windows wept With a dew that forever dripped and crept From the moss-grown eaves: and ever anon Some idle wind, with a passing slap, Made rickety shutter or shingle flap." MARCH had gone out like a roaring lion, and April had slipped demurely in, armed with a pot of green paint and a scrubbing brush. There was not much to paint in Cherry Street. A few sparse blades of grass, tenacious of life, clung here and there to curbstone and dooryard; but there was plenty to scrub, and the Spring maid fell to with a will.…
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