no 



A MARCH CHRONICLE. 



and buckets, always on the sunny side of the trees, and 

 hear the musical dropping of the sap ; the u boiling- 

 place," with its delightful camp-features, is just beyond 

 the first line, with its great arch looking to the south- 

 west. 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 j 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 return- 

 ing 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 mount- 

 ains, camping this week on one terrace, next week on 

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

 garment, 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, the 

 discovery of it dating back into the early history of 

 New England. The first settlers usually caught the 

 sap in rude troughs, and boiled it down in kettles slung 

 to a pole by a chain, the fire being built around them. 



