A MARCH CHRONICLE. 107 



ently the sun rises clear again, and cuts the snow or 

 softens the hard frozen ground with his beams, and 

 the trees take a fresh start. The boys go through 

 the wood, emptying out the buckets or the pans, and 

 reclaiming those that have blown away, and the de- 

 lightful work is resumed. But the first run, like first 

 love, is always the best, always the* fullest, always the 

 sweetest ; while there is a purity and delicacy of 

 flavor about the sugar that far surpasses any sub- 

 sequent yield. 



Trees differ much in the quantity as well as in the 

 quality of sap produced in a given season. Indeed, in 

 a bush or orchard of fifty or one hundred trees, as 

 wide a difference may be observed in this respect as 

 among that number of cows in regard to the milk 

 they yield. I have in my mind now a " sugar-bush " 

 nestled in the lap of a spur of the Catskills, every 

 tree of which is known to me, and assumes a distinct 

 individuality in my thought. I know the look and 

 quality of the whole two hundred ; and when on my 

 annual visit to the old homestead I find one has per- 

 ished, or fallen before the axe, I feel a personal loss. 

 They are all veterans, and have yielded up their life's 

 blood for the profit of two or three generations. 

 They stand in little groups or couples. One stands 

 at the head of a spring-run, and lifts a large dry 

 branch high above the woods, where hawks and crows 

 love to alight. Half a dozen are climbing a little 

 hill ; while others stand far out in the field, as if they 

 had come out to get the sun. A file of five or six 



