The Washington herald., 1914-03-23
SWEET MEMORIES.
BY EMORY ,. HAYNES.

maple begins to pulse again, after the
Information of winter. As the sap rises
the spigot tap" catches some of it for
the suspended pail. As the sap retreats
at sundown again the wound bleeds
sweetness into the bucket
Saturday afternoon was the time for
us village urchins to go up to the sugar
camps on the Vermont hills. The crust
on the snow was strong as pavement,
every boy had his sled. We walked up,
but we coasted down in the evening
sugar filled like so many gum drops.
The trees were giant tall. They were
very old. The tapping of generations
had not harmed them. The smoke oi
the sugar camp hardly ever reached their
lofty crowns. The rude and weather
hiackened sheds, where the pans of sap
were boiling, had been bandaged with Sc
many seasons of sweet steam that you
could taste the sweetness in the boards.
The stones of the freplaces were var
nished with sugar. Very old sugar, to
be sure, but better stuff even at that
than the city boy buys for maple. The
ground was stiff with sugar. The OK
sled was painted with the sugar of ages.
And who shall tell of the ladies, the
buckets, the pans, the kettles though
polished to begin the season, as they soon
appeared in their garments of amber
sugar? Look where you will, boys,
maple sugar is everywhere. The axe
handle is sticky, the wooden spoons are
vanished with the thrilling stuff. The
benches, the snow outside, all were gar
nished with maple sugar more or less.
Our boyish eyes bulgcd out at sight
of it. Enough sugar at last. No limit
And without penny. And we need not
go home till night. Think of that! |
wish l was that boy again now. And
that group of boys, whose faces | can
see, the memory of you all is more de-
licious than the sugar.
We gently poured dippers full of the
hot stuff on the virgin snow. This
formed my leather apron" for one
could lift the yellow mass like an apron
One could not eat so much No doubt
We devoured it with our eyes. We filed
dishes and stirred the molten mass till
it "sugarcd off," that is, crystalized.
The crystals We must also have eaten
with our eyes, for the abundance was
overwhelming. Dare / tell how some
boys could drink the syrup from a dip
per? There was a difference in capacity.
We went forth on the chariot of the
woods, the oxsled, which carried hogs
head. We helped gather the sap, tree
by tree, pouring it into the big reccp-
taclcs. These oxslcds were more won
derful than aeroplanes. for they never
tipped clean over. No, not quite over.
but very near it on the steep hillsides.
1t was needfui to stand from under.
Would you be drowned in maple sap?
There were always narrowing tales of
how this one and that, unlucky farmers,
had been swept away in a food of sap,
dying the death of sweetness.
Flocks of ravens, larger than crows,
hung high above the camp. A great
gray hawk or two, hunger driven, sailed
about and lodged the ravens. These
black knights of the air hate the hawks.
and there was always the war cry in
the treetops. The hawk was a coward
and generally attempted to flee his tor
Not so, an occasional eagle.
He resembled the hawk, he was fire.
quently no larger. Yet he was an eagle
He dehed the sky full of crows, till they
found out their mistake and left him to
his solemn roost. 1t is doubtful if these
winged creatures ate sugar. The leav-
Ings of the camp attracted them, scraps
Of luncheon, and scattered corn where
the oxen dined. Did any one ever know
birds to eat sugar?
Now the day is done. Our bags are
filed with cakes OF sugar, from neat
nolds. The sleds are poised for the
ong coast over the shining crust. The
noon moves upward through the inter-
ocking branches of the aged forest.
Wherever the moonbeams fall they
show, along the FURNISHED snow crust,
/ lane of reflected light, like the wake
Of ship at sea.
Swiftly down falls the cold, now that
he sun is down. 1t will be very cold in |
hese woods before morning. The sap
boilers, at their all-night task, will hug
he fires, great blazing sticks of hard |
wood, as they boil down" the sap gath
red by day. These men are whittlers |
md make wooden spoons, wooden puz-
lies, carved heads of walking sticks to |
'e sold to the city man next summer.
They work in watches of four hours
.ach, and the sleeper rolls himself up
n bear skins. his bed a woodpile under
he shelter of the shack, but open to the
ire. Than which nothing could be more
,ozy.
The deep darkness is pierced by scar