110 A MARCH CHRONICLE. 



by the warmth ; the long-trunked maples in theii 

 gray rough liveries stand thickly about ; I see the 

 brimming pans and buckets, always on the sunny side 

 of the trees, and hear the musical dropping of the 

 sap ; the " boiling-place," with its delightful camp- 

 features, is just beyond the first line, with its great 

 arch looking to the southwest. The sound of its axe 

 rings through the woods. Its huge kettles or broad 

 pans boil and foam ; and I ask no other delight than 

 to watch and tend them all day, to dip the sap from 

 the great casks into them, and to replenish the fire 

 with the newly-cut birch and beech wood. A slight 

 breeze is blowing from the west ; I catch the glint 

 here and there in the afternoon sun of the little rills 

 and creeks, coursing down the sides of the hills ; the 

 awakening sounds about the farm and the woods reach 

 my ear ; and every rustle or movement of the air or 

 on the earth seems like a pulse of returning life in 

 Nature. I sympathize with that verdant Hibernian 

 who liked sugar-making so well, that he thought he 

 should follow it the whole year. I should at least 

 be tempted to follow the season up the mountains, 

 camping this week on one terrace, next week on one 

 farther up, keeping just on the hem of Winter's gar- 

 ment, and just in advance of the swelling buds, until 

 my smoke went up through the last growth of maple 

 that surrounds the summit. 



Maple sugar is peculiarly an American product, 

 $he discovery of it dating back into the early history 

 f New England. The first settlers usually caught 



