It is difficult to believe, in the midst of a dismal winter which seems to have been with us forever, that Spring will ever come. Even the stupendous piles of snow from January's superstorm, against which we groaned and protested so vigorously for so many weeks, have shrunk to drab, gray, dirty little mounds which are now merely a nuisance and a sore reminder that, while winter may no longer be white, spring is not yet green. There is little to give us courage. It is the dreary time of nonseason when a vacation would do everyone some good.
Some cities and towns have props to remind them that, in spite of the fact that winter is still on the ground, spring is not far behind. Nearly every year since 1776 the monks at the old mission of San Juan Capistrano, Calif, have welcomed back the swallows on St. Joseph's