170 LITERARY PILGRIMAGES 



rapid drip into the buckets, some of which were 

 a third full already. It looked like water, this 

 new-born sap, as clear as that from the finest 

 spring, yet to my eye it seemed to have a certain 

 radiance, not a sparkle like an effervescent liquid, 

 but something purer and more effulgent, as if the 

 nascent life in it touched something in you 

 by nerves dormant to ordinary sensations. The 

 sugar cane gives up its juice only to force. It 

 must be crushed and pressed. But here is a 

 sweetness which the tree almost bursts to deliver, 

 which will not only drip from every wound, but 

 will force its way with overmastering prodigality. 

 If instead of putting a hollow oaken tap into the 

 three-eighths inch auger hole bored through the 

 bark you drive in a solid plug, the sap will push 

 through the very pores of the oak wood. No 

 wonder when it reaches the twig tips the buds 

 are driven into action and the blossoms burst 

 with astonishing vigor that nothing can delay. 

 There is little sweetness of taste to this wine of 

 the wood gods, but a cool, delectable refreshment 

 that is born of the free winds and mountain air. 

 It tempts you to drink deep and often, and I sus- 



