IN A FISHING COUNTRY 



should become a luxury of the rich. Sucre 

 a la creme was more than a sweetmeat; the 

 confecting of it was a joyous rite, attended 

 with song and dance. At dinner, let us sup- 

 pose (it was then a midday meal, with high 

 tea in the evening) some one utters a word 

 that flies down the long table. Presently 

 all is arranged. A couple are detailed to 

 buy maple sugar in the 'far-village'; anoth- 

 er couple must raid the farm-houses for 

 thick cream, no worse if sour; three or four 

 are charged with making sandwiches, 

 cakes, lemonade; others will bear about the 

 fiery cross, bidding the guests. These ar- 

 rive with the stars, and in their best — no 

 better, I confess, than muslins for the girls, 

 flannels for the boys — to find the flames 

 already licking a huge iron pot. They 

 dispose themselves with rugs and cushions 

 upon the rocks, while the choir gathers 

 round the blaze. Catches and choruses — 

 no limit to the common stock of these — fol- 

 low the sugar through the stages of its boil- 

 ing, till the cold water test is passed. Then 

 the pot heads a musical procession of all 

 hands to the rows of buttered plates in the 

 kitchen, and the cook watches the sugaring 

 with some tremors. For him the truest 

 proof will be in the eating, and the most 

 40 



J 



