"Raindrops keep falling on my head." A line not limited to the bluesy baritone of B. J. Thomas. We have all sung the blues in April. T. S. Eliot, writing in the disillusioned years after World War I, lamented:

April is the cruelest month
breeding lilacs out of the dead land
mixing memory and desire
stirring dull roots with spring rain.

The Ides of April demand a wampum payment to our rich uncle in Washington. Except for a dynamic duo in the N.C.A.A. basketball championship game, a nation of basketball fans are singing a dirge about, "Wait until next year." Our east coast lies battered and broken in the wake of stormy fury. Though April showers may bring May flowers, that does not help much when you stand sopping wet in the middle of a cold Ohio Valley spring. The word "April" comes from …