Martha's Vineyard in March, the turn of a new season. Henry Beetle Hough said it best: If a Vineyarder should be confined in a dark room with the windows closed and the shades drawn, he would still know that it was March. On this Island one need not pursue nature with a net or put on fancy dress and invade the countryside to find out how it looks and feels. The imprint of the day and all its natural doings is struck firmly and clearly upon every perceptive spirit. Just now there is a March sound somewhere in the far-off sky, and the ground —though it is still sodden — has drawn a breath.