I am going to stop editing and go outside and dig up the vegetable plot and clean out flowerbeds and just possibly plant something or other. I tried to consult The Golden Bough on some appropriate planting ceremonies, but nothing came to hand quickly--especially once I got distracted by the custom "at Braunrode, in the Harz Mountains, . . . to burn squirrels in the Easter bonfire." So I will merely leave you with this ambiguous remark:

When a Catholic priest remonstrated with the Indians of the Oronoco on allowing their women to sow the fields in the blazing sun, with infants at their breasts, the men answered, "Father, you don't understand these things, and that is why they vex you."

Meanwhile, one of my sons and his best friend are in the kitchen mixing up a batch of fake blood, while the other son is sound asleep on the couch after one of those all-night carouses known as a sleepover. In other news, I'm still reading The Good Soldier and still on writing hiatus as I try to finish this editing project. Small heaps of dirty snow linger in dim corners of my yard, but the first daffodils are blooming, the white forsythia is opening, the frogs are singing in the pond, and tomorrow it's supposed to be 75 degrees. Blackflies are sure to follow: nothing beautiful can last.

Dinner tonight: I don't exactly know, but dandelion greens, chives, and roasted onions will surely be involved.