MEMORIES OF THE 



"I did, but it kept coming up again." 



*' When did you syrup off? " 



'< Only a little while ago." I had to say this, for the sap in 

 the pan did not show that it had boiled any great length of time. 

 It was lucky that we had a nice lot of syrup to show, although 

 the quantity was not what it should have been. 



These and a half-dozen other questions, not actuated by any 

 suspicion, but right straight to the point, he put to me, and to 

 every one got a good square lie, and every time I plumped out 

 a lie it seemed to make it necessary that three or four more 

 should be told in support of that one. He talked about it more 

 or less all day — about the singularity of the matter — and I 

 helped along with all kinds of suggestions. 



It was early in the season and none of the buckets or tubs 

 were sour, although I had told him that I thought some of them 

 were a little off. He did not talk with Birney about it, and 

 Birney, much to my comfort, did not say a word, although he 

 looked pitifully at me as one not fit to associate with. 



That, as I supposed, ended it. But a day or two afterwards, 

 before starting for the woods, mother began to question me and 

 asked me what was the matter with that last batch of syrup 

 which came down from the woods. I answered that I did not 

 know that anything was the matter. 



"Oh, yes," she said; ''it was black and full of scales and 

 ashes, and I never saw such a mass of stuff in any strainer since 

 I have made sugar." 



I then told her that the ashes and stuff were probably blown 

 into it, as it was very windy the night we boiled and the door 

 was open most of the time. The boiling over did not account 

 for the black, bitter stuff, so I had to invent another story for 

 her. I answered her three or four questions with as rank lies 



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