MERRY’S MUSEUM.
Vol. VII MARCH, 1844. No. 3.
March—the blusterer—is here! It is a capricious month, often coming in like a lion and going out like a lamb; to-day it brings us sleet and tempest,—to-morrow, smiling sunshine and gentle showers. It appears to be a mixture of all the seasons—winter, spring, summer and autumn—yet not having the agreeable qualities of either. It is a sort of Jack-at-all-trades, yet good at none. Of all the months, it is the least of a favorite.
We are speaking, however, of our New England March; in the sunny south, it is otherwise. There it is a month of real spring; there it calls forth the buds and blossoms, and bids nature to assume her loveliest robes of azure, green and purple. At Charleston, in South Carolina, the people are regaling themselves with roses, lilacs and green peas, while we in the Bay State are shivering in the raw, cutting gales that come from the north-east, and bite as if dipped in acid. Well, never mind, we must button up our coats close for a few weeks longer; spring will come at last, and we shall enjoy the delights of that charming season. Let old Boreas roar, if he will; his time is nearly out for the season; he is fast retreating to Greenland, where he will have to stay till December, when we shall welcome him back, with his ice and snow.