No one doubted that March would come in like a lion, roaring from the northeast and spewing snow through its sharp teeth.

And, here we are, hunkered down again to watch the world outside swirling in white, to hear the wind howling around the woodshed and the clanking of the snowplow scraping the rutted roads.

Just last week, neighbors Down East bragged about having “broken the back of winter,” with February coming to a close, they said, and the ice giving way along the shoreline. With the sun riding higher in the sky, the sunsets spilling red over the bay, surely Old Man Winter would be in retreat, they reasoned. But not quite yet.

Not “till we climb March hill,” quipped an old-timer in the back booth of the restaurant.

So we start our climb – albeit on snowshoes – as we search for the first pussywillow and the trickling of a thawed brook. And as we await the spring equinox and an end to gale winds that knock icicles off the eaves and rattle the storm windows; winds so strong, they tell, the preacher can’t keep a crease in his pants on such a day.

When you think about, this winter hasn’t been too bad. Not as cold as some, nor as snowy as others. February, for instance, saw 2.37 inches of snow around these parts compared with 2.44 inches, which is normal for the month. According to the local almanac, the year to date has had 4.90 inches of precipitation while the normal year to date totals 5.78 inches.

We’ve had just enough snow for Sugarloaf and Sunday River slopes to thrive, just enough cold for Sebago Lake ice fishing derbies, just enough old-fashioned winter for snowmobiling in Jackman or mushing or cross-country skiing or sledding or ice skating.

It won’t be long before the sap begins to rise toward the sun in the awakening sugar maples or before our long underwear can be laid away with the boiled mittens.

It won’t be long before March goes out like a lamb, as the saying goes.

‘Course there’s another phrase we hate to mention but probably should if we can believe an author by the name of Charles Haywood, who wrote “Yankee Dictionary,” published in 1963 by Jackson & Phillips, Inc., of Lynn, Mass. (It was minus 17 degrees on the last day of February in 1963, so no wonder Haywood was a tad pessimistic.)

“Six weeks sleighing in April” describes one of those mean spring seasons that is not spring at all, Haywood writes, “but a time of disappointment and frustration when winter frequently revisits those of us who are fools enough to keep on living up this way.

“Many a man can recall a sleigh ride on Easter Sunday – bright sunlight, the snow drifts flecked with the red of the fallen husks from bursting maple buds and bare ground under the runners by noontime. In such a season there still are drifts of dirty corn snow along the hill and country roads in the last week of April, nobody can put in his early planting of peas, and even the peepers in the swamps are late getting started.”

That description comes from someone living in Massachusetts, at least three weeks ahead of us into spring. Imagine what six weeks sleighing in April would mean around here.

On second thought, let’s not imagine.