WLfttvt K Sttttrtelr Wioontvuit 25 



season. To stand in a maple sugar grove, 

 where scores of trees are festooned with 

 the brightly painted buckets, and hear 

 half a hundred sap spouts ticking out 

 their silver drip, drip, drip, is pleasant 

 music. 



To boil sap at the lonely sugar camp 

 is quite as delightful. There is the awe 

 of a winter's night in the woods, when 

 the moonbeams play pranks with trees 

 and bushes, and people the dim ring at 

 the edge of your lantern's light with 

 phantoms and hobgoblins. The wind, 

 too, is full of pranks, and delights to 

 shriek, and moan, like an evil spirit, 

 while the great limbs of the maples 

 grinding together make uncanny sounds. 

 All these things make a boy's blood 

 tingle, and lend mystery and possible 

 adventure to the night's work. 



The dry sugar wood snapping and 



