Page:Ballinger Price--Fortune of the Indies.djvu/56



EBRUARY melted into March—melted, truly—and Chesley Street ran rivers, and the wide cornice of the Ingram house dripped rain upon the waiting daffodil-beds beneath. What was left of the winter's scant snow and ice vanished in swiftly-shrinking gray patches here and there about tree roots, and the earth reasserted itself, thinly skimmed with mud above its frozen layers. Tall winds from the sea rose and grew mighty, roaring about the roofs and buffeting the elms till they strewed Chesley Street with wet, crooked twigs. Now and again in the midst of this would come a day unbelievable, when no wind stirred, and the haze across the harbor lay still and blue, and you almost expected crocuses to leap out jubilantly from the borders. But these days were not many and held the false promise of a 40