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by Annette Wynne

March is windy, March is wild,
Hurries like an eager child;
Puffing mouth and ruddy face,
Rushing in a windy race;
A breath or two he stops, and then
He's puffing madly off again.

March is windy, March is wild,
A rushing, blowing, puffing child.
And why does March go rushing so?
He's trying to catch spring, you know.

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