Abstract
April, they say, is the cruelest month. It is the time of wild barometric swings and violent meteorologic wars. Ulcers bleed and tornadoes hopscotch across the prairies. In England, April is Chaucer's tale and Browning's sickness. Here, April is, as all Americans know, the time to pay their taxes. It is the time to sign the lease for May, or pack up and move. It is the time to be wherever, at this point in time, one is not. April is the only month with an entire day set aside especially for fools. April is brilliant and loud and unpredictable. It is pregnant with showers and snow. In April one goes to work on a spring morning and comes home through the heaviest blizzard of all the winter. April is the new winter coat gone suddenly shabby. It is the saucy crocus in the compost pile who doesn't believe it's
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