Marchy

But halfway through, this stateliness devolves into the kind of marchy clatter that Wagner’s Italian counterparts were writing.

Not now, but soon, and in a very few weeks, the Marchy winds already blowing, Mr. Eldredge of Mystic will be putting fatherlily his matchless peas in the frost-rid ground—after smoothing over the old ground-mole holes—and our friends in far, fair Florida, may safely move them to return.