Spring got lost yesterday and wound up on our doorstep. As much as we love her, I must admit her arrival left us less than thrilled. She was a bit too early and, like anyone who has an unexpected guest would do, we entertained her, but grudgingly. We opened the windows and watched the curtains billow in and out; we nodded over our books in her sun—all the while thinking how entirely inappropriate the situation was. She, however, either did not notice or did not care, for she flaunted her warmth and blew kisses through the barren trees and across the dried grass like a guest who shows up to the party two hours early and settles so comfortably in your house that you begin to question who it really belongs to. But as her hosts, we said nothing, waiting for her to traipse out the door and proceed to a new collection of unsuspecting souls who had, like we, been reveling in winter—which she did at approximately seven-thirty this morning. We will certainly be glad to see her in a few months, but plan on sending her a copy of Emily Post to occupy herself in the interim.