save the sap, and make good, pure sugar, and sell it for
a large price.

I am told that it is the custom to carefully collect the sap and bring
it to the house, where there are built brick arches, over which it is
evaporated in shallow pans, and that pains are taken to keep the leaves,
sticks, ashes and coals out of it, and that the sugar is clarified.

In short, that it is a money-making business, in which there is very
little fun, and that the boy is not allowed to dip his paddle into the
kettle of boiling sugar and lick off the delicious syrup.

As I remember, the country boy used to be on the lookout in the spring
for the sap to begin running. I think he discovered it as soon as
anybody.

Perhaps he knew it by a feeling of something starting in his own
veins--a sort of spring stir in his legs and arms, which tempted him to
stand on his head, or throw a handspring, if he could find a spot of
ground from which the snow had melted.

The sap stirs early in the legs of a country boy, and shows itself in
uneasiness in the toes, which, get tired of boots, and want to come out
and touch the soil just as soon as the sun has warmed it a little.

The country boy goes barefoot just as naturally as the trees burst their
buds, which were packed and varnished over in the fall to keep the water
and the frost out.

Perhaps the boy has been out digging into the maple-trees with his
jack-knife; at any rate, he is pretty sure to announce the discovery as
he comes running into the house in a state of great excitement, with
"Sap's runnin'!"

And then, indeed, the stir and excitement begin. The sap-buckets, which
have been stored in the wood-house, are brought down and set out on the
south side of the house and scalded.

The snow is still a foot or more deep in the woods, and the ox-sled is
got out to make a road to the sugar camp. The boy is every-where
present, superintending every thing, asking questions, and filled with a
desire to help the excitement.

It is a great day when the cart is loaded with the buckets, and the
procession starts into the woods. The sun shines brightly; the snow is
soft and beginning to sink down; the snow-birds are twittering about,
and the noise of shouting and of the blows of the axe echoes far and
wide.

In the first place the men go about and tap the trees, drive in the
spouts, and hang the buckets under. The boy watches all these operations
with the greatest interest.

He wishes that some