94 WINTER SUNSHINE 



stand thickly about; I see the brimming pans and 

 buckets, always on the sunny side of the trees, and 

 hear the musical dropping of the sap; the "boiling- 

 place," with its delightful camp features, is just be 

 yond the first line, with its great arch looking to the 

 southwest. The sound of its axe rings through the 

 woods. Its huge kettles or broad pans boil and 

 foam; and I ask no other delight than to watch and 

 tend them all day, to dip the sap from the great 

 casks into them, and to replenish the fire with the 

 newly-cut birch and beech wood. A slight breeze 

 is blowing from the west; I catch the glint here 

 and there in the afternoon sun of the little rills and 

 creeks coursing down the sides of the hills; the 

 awakening sounds about the farm and the woods 

 reach my ear; and every rustle or movement of the 

 air or on the earth seems like a pulse of returning 

 life in nature. I sympathize with that verdant 

 Hibernian who liked sugar-making so well that he 

 thought he should follow it the whole year. I 

 should at least be tempted to follow the season up 

 the mountains, camping this week on one terrace, 

 next week on one farther up, keeping just on the 

 hem of Winter's garment, and just in advance of 

 the swelling buds, until my smoke went up through 

 the last growth of maple that surrounds the summit. 

 Maple sugar is peculiarly an American product, 

 the discovery of it dating back into the early history 

 of New England. The first settlers usually caught 

 the sap in rude troughs, and boiled it down in ket 

 tles slung to a pole by a chain, the fire being built 



