There is an oft–quoted saying attributed to Mark Twain: if you don’t like the weather in New England, wait a minute.  Like most oft–quoted sayings, this is a paraphrase of his more long–winded observation, made before the annual meeting of the New England Society in December, 1876:  I reverently believe that the Maker who made us all makes everything in New England but the weather.  I don’t know who makes that, but I think it must be raw apprentices in the weather-clerk’s factory who experiment and learn how, in New England, for board and clothes, and then are promoted to make weather for countries that require a good article, and will take their custom elsewhere if they don’t get it.  There is a sumptuous variety about the New England weather that compels the stranger’s admiration — and regret.  The weather is always doing something there; always attending strictly to business; always getting up new designs and trying them on the people to see how they will go.  But it gets through more business in SPRING [emphasis mine] than in any other season.  In the spring I have counted one hundred and thirty-six different kinds of weather inside of four-and-twenty hours…

March is certainly the cruelest month in terms of changeability, and to make my case I’ve got a series of photographs taken on Wednesday and Friday last week: a rather sleepless night was rewarded with a beautiful sunrise over Chestnut Street at midweek, and then two days later an unexpected (at least by me) storm dumped 14 inches of wet snow on the same landscape. As I’m writing this several days later, it is 50 degrees out and much of the snow is gone. And what will tomorrow bring?  Rain, of course!