University of Virginia Library

SPRING, AND THE SUGAR CAMP.

The winter was almost gone. Patches of snow lay on the
northern slopes of the hills: the moss about the roots of the
trees began to grow green again; the buds were swelling in
the lilacs, and the little birds picking up sticks and gathering
shreds of wool from the brier vines, which were reddening more
every day, to build new nests or repair their old ones; and, as
the village maid sits spinning the flax by the window, she sings:

Mr. Claverel has already laid by the coat for the coming
summer, and, with the white sleeves rolled back from the red
ones, is busily at work in the sugar camp. A rudely-built stone
arch stands just in the edge of a hill thickly wooded with maples,
and a great fire is blazing under the half dozen black kettles,
of huge dimensions, filled with their sap. Jets of red
flame issue from the chimney, and clouds of white vapor rise
from the boiling liquid, and blow away toward the south.

Fronting the furnace, is a rudely constructed cabin, of which
the side next the fire is entirely open. It is nicely carpeted
with fresh straw, and furnished with a wooden bench, and a pail
of “sugar water.” From the buckeye logs of which the hut is
composed, fresh twigs are sprouting. How vigorous and thrifty
they look, as if the trunk from which they grow had still its
root in the life-giving soil! Made fast in a crevice of the wall
are two of the late “Republicans,” so that when Mr. Claverel
sits down to rest, he may also be reading a little. Over haste

is over waste, is one of his maxims, and his hard labor is tempered
occasionally with a little respite; and in this way he
learns whose prospects are brightest for the next Presidency,
whose principles are most in accordance with his own, how to
keep flies from plaguing cattle, what is the principle of the last
invented plough, with now and then a certain cure for the rheumatism,
though such things Mr. Claverel always protested were
humbugs, enlarging at the same time on the wonderful virtues
of red flannel, both as a preventive and cure. All these things
he ascertained, and a great many more, that his neighbors, who
did not read the Republican, never knew anything about.

From a deep and dark hollow, away in the thick woods, rung
the axe strokes of David and Oliver, for they had gathered their
books together ten days before the “rewards of merit” were
distributed, and heaped them in the old closet again for a six
months' rest. David had been particularly sorry for this, inasmuch
as the master often selected him to “choose sides,” besides
pointing the younger scholars to him as a worthy example
of steady and patient perseverance. Certainly his hopes of
carrying off the first honor were not without foundation; nevertheless,
when his father said, “I think, boys, to-morrow will be
a good `sugar day,' and, if I could only have you to help,
we might get nicely under way,” it required that he should
say no more. A little sadly, it is true, David went to
the barn and twisted a string of unspun flax, which he managed
to do with his fingers and teeth, musing the while whether John
Hart or Abner Betts would get the first prize. He said nothing
of his reluctance to leave school, however—nothing of his intention
to leave, but at night, when he returned home, he brought
his books with him, tied together with the flaxen string.

Every one said, “David is a good boy;” but every one expected
him to be just as patient and industrious and mild-tempered
as he was; so that he received less credit, perhaps,
than he would have had for but an occasional good act. Even
the heart of his mother remembered Richard first.

Carlo, the house-dog, enjoyed the sugar-making vastly, and
went rambling up and down the woods, now starting a rabbit
from its burrow of leaves, and now barking at the foot of some

tree, from the safe top of which a squirrel is peeping down.
Sometimes Martha and Jane are his companions, and sometimes
they wander off by themselves, gathering curious stones, or
stripping the moss—golden, and green, and brown—from the
decayed logs which lay about the woods; and digging roots
with bits of sticks, which they tie in bunches with dead grass,
and call radishes, parsnips, &c., the while Carlo lies soberly before
the fire, with his nose close to the ground, watching the
jets of flame and the white vapor as it blows away on the wind,
that is sometimes chilling cold as in mid-winter, and sometimes
soft and bland as in April.

From the top of the dead tree in the meadow the crow calls
all day long; and the rivulets, swollen with recent rains, babble
noisily from the hollows, where the violets are sprouting with
their circular and notched leaves, from which no blue flower is
peering yet. There, too, the spotted leaves of the adder's
tongue are thick, and the pale pink shoots of the mandrake are
beginning to push aside the leaves. Soon the daisies will spot
the southern slopes, and the daffodils and purple flags bloom
flauntingly beneath the homestead windows.

The brown tops of the distant woods are all a-glow—for the
sun is going down, and the waters are flashing, and the ragged
shadows are growing longer. Martha and Jane and Carlo linger
yet in the woods, and the ringing strokes of the axes sound yet
from the hollow, and are echoed back from the distant hill. Mr.
Claverel, after heaping the furnace with great logs of hickory,
with heart so hard and red, and tasting the syrup to see how
sweet it is growing, walks slowly homeward, a little bent, for
he is tired, and with his hands crossed behind him, for he is
thoughtful. The ground, which the thaw has made very soft
during the day, stiffens as the sun declines, and, as he comes
near his home, grows quite hard—so hard that its surface is not
broken by the heifer that runs along the lane to meet him,
thinking, perhaps, he has an ear of corn for her. But no—he
does not stop to pat her glossy back, or say, “Get out of my
path, `Bossy;' ” and, lashing her sides with her tail, she stretches
her head and neck to their full extent, and lows to some fellow
across the field.

Mrs. Claverel stands at the door with a bowl of yellow butter
in her hand, which she has just taken from the churn. She
is tired too, but she smiles cheerfully—for she is never too tired
to smile—and says, looking toward the sunset, “I think,
Sammy, we shall have a pleasant day for our visit to-morrow.”

replied Mr. Claverel; and taking up a neatly arranged parcel
from a chair, he seated himself, asking what it was.

Just what he might have known it was—a little present for
Richard; some warm woollen socks, a new handkerchief and
cravat, with two or three shirts, which nobody could make so
well as his mother.

“Really, Dolly, you are always doing some good thing, and
this time I am glad to know Richard deserves your kindness.
I guess, however, he is successful more by hit than good wit,
for he was never the boy to work and wait.”

Mrs. Claverel looked a little saddened and reproachful, but
said nothing, and Mr. Claverel continued, “Well, we shall see
what we shall, to-morrow; and we had best start early, hadn't
we, Dolly?” and having received an affirmative reply to this
suggestion, he set about little preparations for the proposed visit
to Uncle Peter's.