1 8 Introductory 



drip, drip, drip, of s the sap into the pails. 

 This was what I called " The Song of the 

 Sap." To make the picture complete how- 

 ever, I had to imagine white clouds of smoke 

 and steam pouring from the sugar house, and 

 this was difficult on a hot summer's day. 



The sugar orchard was the home of the 

 gray squirrels, and it was a delight to sit per- 

 fectly still upon an old log and see if one 

 could discover a squirrel dropping down 

 maple seeds, and if so to spy out the gray 

 fellow high up in the treetop balancing him- 

 self nicely upon a small limb, getting his 

 breakfast. 



In hot weather it was so cool and sweet in 

 the slumbrous aisles of the maple grove that 

 there was always a temptation to linger, while 

 the silver-footed moments of summertime 

 sped by. 



The trail to the waters was out in the 

 meadow in front of the old farmhouse in 

 which I lived. But the trail did not start 

 there. 



One day I took my lunch and followed the 



