A MARCH CHRONICLE. 109 



tree in the woods, that has but a small top. Young, 

 thrifty, thin-skinned trees start up with great spirit, 

 indeed, fairly on a run ; but they do not hold out, 

 and their blood is very diluted. Cattle are very fond 

 of sap ; so are sheep, and will drink enough to kill 

 them. The honey-bees get here their first sweet, and 

 the earliest bug takes up his permanent abode on the 

 " spile." The squirrels also come timidly down the 

 trees, and sip the sweet flow; and occasionally an 

 ugly lizard, just out of its winter-quarters, and in quest 

 of novelties, creeps up into the pan or bucket. Soft 

 maple makes a very fine white sugar, superior in qual- 

 ity, but far less in quantity. 



I think any person who has tried it will agree with 

 me about the charm of sugar-making, though he have 

 no tooth for the sweet itself. It is enough that it is 

 the first spring work, and takes one to the woods. 

 The robins are just arriving, and their merry calls 

 ring through the glades. The squirrels are now vent- 

 uring out, and the woodpeckers and nuthatches run 

 briskly up the trees. The crow begins to caw, with 

 his accustomed heartiness and assurance ; and one 

 sees the white rump and golden shafts of the high- 

 hole as he flits about the open woods. Next week, 

 or the week after, it may be time to begin plowing, 

 and other sober work about the farm ; but this week 

 we will picnic among the maples, and our camp-fire 

 shall be an incense to spring. Ah, I am there now ! 

 I see the woods flooded with sun-light ; I smell the 

 dry leaves, and the mould under them just quickened 



