London, March 25.
We are just now waiting for the annual snowstorm. It always comes about Easter, and is a little late this year. All our tame meteorologists are working out elaborate explanations to show that something must have gone wrong with the Universe since the storm has got rather behind time, and instead we are having an almost unbroken run of spring weather—105 in the sun and about 65 in the shade, and this about the middle of March. We always pay for this sort of thing later on, 80 while everybody looks} bright and buoyant and the newspapers devote elaborate articles to demonstrating, the effect of sunshine on temperament, the farmer begins to wonder whether the frost' with which he has certainly not yet finished will come along and damage: his crops and put the greater part of his fruit trees out of business. If, however, it does come, its effects will not be' so serious now, as the greater part of the fruit is actually' formed on the trees.
Of course, the entire community, regardless for the most part of the adage—"Neer cast a clout till May be out," has suddenly dropped overcoats, whilst I saw to-day in the City, where the young man always likes to disport himself in festive attire, several straw hats. They must have been pre-war because it wants about 9 week's wages to buy a good one now.
Text read from the printed page and cleaned; old type leaves the occasional error.