A MARCH CHRONICLE. lof 



a fresh start. The boys go through the wood, empty- 

 ing out the buckets or the pans, and reclaiming those 

 that have blown away, and the delightful work is re- 

 sumed. 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 sugar 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. Indeed, 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 hundred ; and when on my annual visit to the old 

 homestead 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 j 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 side hill where sheep 

 and cattle graze. An equal number crowd up to the 



