I was looking out the window while doing dishes Friday morning, pondering a swirl of snow (the rest of the state was getting freezing rain and sleet) and thinking several thoughts: where did January go; why does February have an “r” in it; whether I'll need showshoes for hunting rabbits; why I get scolded for using “rabbit” (ditto for misplacing prepositions).

January went by like a fast train, perhaps because so many people were so busy avoiding the sheriff and bankruptcy. The lack of snow may have been a boon for commuters, but it was a terrible blow for the snowmobiling industry and its thousands of employees and businesses. Almost half of the normal season has been lost, an economic disaster.

As for February, some bookish wag will no doubt let me know about that “r” business, and I could look it up, but just throwing it out there is more fun. But truly, it's almost like the “r” in “library” — some people don't bother with it.

The first two weeks of February are usually deep winter's last gasp, at least for extremely low temperatures. Big snowstorms are not at all unusual in March and even toward the end of April, but even so, the worm has turned.

In mid-February our thoughts turn to hunting rabbits, easier by the day as the snowpack begins to settle. Whenever I've written about this, persnickety readers have wagged a finger for using “rabbit” for snowshoe hare. Well, for Pete's sake, go climb a slippery rope. It's traditional local vernacular, as is “fisher cats” and, by the way, thank you Fisher Cats for vindicating me after all these years of abuse by finger-waggers and the wildlife elite. I've been to a couple of your Manchester games where the atmosphere is great and the level of play, to me, is faster and better than major league baseball.

In late February, Rudy Shatney and I would take turns “pushing” a piece of rabbit cover. Rudy would play the beagle, crashing and yelping through the thick alders and evergreens, while I waited at the other end, shotgun at the ready. “Got one, huh Bub?” he'd say upon emerging, and then it was my turn to plunge in and bay. Rudy did a much better beagle than I did.

This was before the season extended to March 31. Back then, it ended on the 15th, the Ides of March. Easy to remember because it was Caesar's bad day. I'd always wanted to weasel in a bad pun about that, something about a skin disease in the rabbit population and a warning about handling “the Hides of March,” but now it's too late.

As for not ending sentences with prepositions, give me a break. With so much other stuff to worry about, I have to wonder just where the Language Police are coming from, what they're thinking of, and who (ah, what a delight there) they're speaking for.

John Harrigan's column appears weekly in the New Hampshire Sunday News. His address is Box 39, Colebrook 03576. Email him at hooligan@ncia.net.