A MARCH CHRONICLE 91 



cuts the snow or softens the hard-frozen ground 

 with his beams, and the trees take a fresh start. 

 The boys go through the wood, emptying out the 

 buckets or the pans, and reclaiming those that have 

 blown away, and the delightful work is resumed. 

 But the first run, like first love, is always the best, 

 always the fullest, always the sweetest; while there 

 is a purity and delicacy of flavor about the sugpr 

 that far surpasses any subsequent yield. 



Trees differ much in the quantity as well as in 

 the quality of sap produced in a given season. In- 

 deed, in a bush or orchard of fifty or one hundred 

 trees, as wide a difference may be observed in this 

 respect as among that number of cows in regard to 

 the milk they yield. I have in my mind now a 

 "sugar-bush'* nestled in the lap of a spur of the 

 Catskills, every tree of which is known to me, and 

 assumes a distinct individuality in my thought. I 

 know the look and quality of the whole two hun- 

 dred ; and when on my annual visit to the old home- 

 stead I find one has perished, or fallen before the 

 axe, I feel a personal loss. They are all veterans, 

 and have yielded up their life's blood for the profit 

 of two or three generations. They stand in little 

 groups or couples. One stands at the head of a 

 spring run, and lifts a large dry branch high above 

 the woods, where hawks and crows love to alight. 

 Half a dozen are climbing a little hill; while others 

 stand far out in the field, as if they had come out 

 to get the sun. A file of five or six worthies sentry 

 the woods on the northwest, and confront a steep 



