作者：
Eleanor H. Porter
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英文小说
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MARCH had gone out like a roaring lion, and April had slipped demurely in, armed with a pot of green paint and a scrubbing brush. There was not much to paint in Cherry Street. A few sparse blades of g...
MARCH had gone out like a roaring lion, and April had slipped demurely in, armed with a pot of green paint and a scrubbing brush. There was not much to paint in Cherry Street. A few sparse blades of grass, tenacious of life, clung here and there to curbstone and dooryard; but there was plenty to scrub, and the Spring maid fell to with a will.
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