ce, at what period the
sparkling sap began to mount up from the curly roots of our maples, and
vivify the trunk, twigs, and branches of that noble tree.

I understood his meaning, delicately veiled as it was. He wished to
reveal his contempt of young saplings compared to the vigorous tree. It
was a poetic way of comparing young snips of things with whole-souled
girls, who had all the bloom of youth, and all the strength of maturity.

I spoke my mind on the subject. I said that strength, greenness, a
full-grown trunk were necessary before sweet wholesome sap could
circulate from root to top of a sugar maple. That saplings amounted to
just nothing at all. In fact, they kept absorbing, but gave forth
nothing; that a rich maturity was desirable before the maple became
important as a forest-tree or an object of wealth.

I think he understood me--or rather he understood that I, with the
exquisite intuition of genius, understood him. For right off, on that,
he said that he would like to live in Vermont, and own maple-trees
himself; that native sugar was a sweet business, and must have a
softening tendency upon those who entered into it.

He sometimes bought it of little boys in the cars, and always felt a
soothing influence after eating it, that made him long to drink the
native sap fresh from the tree. In fact, he took a deep interest in
Vermont and all its institutions.

While we were talking on these sweet subjects, quite a breeze sprang up
from the water.

Things brighten around us. The sky looked blue. The heaving waves of the
ocean began to swell and sparkle as if a diamond mine were breaking up
in their depths. I am satisfied that Long Branch is all that it has been
cracked up to be--and more too, when kindred souls meet on its sandy
shores.

"How bright! how beautiful!" says he, backing off suddenly from the
maple question, which had covered a world of hidden meaning, and looking
out to sea, with a delicate wish, no doubt, to spare my blushes.

"Some persons have been kind enough to think so," says I, "but it isn't
for me to say."

"I love the fitful changes--the soft transparency: nothing can be more
lovely," says he.

The occasion required downcast eyes and shrinking silence. I gave him
both. There could be no better answer for a speech so personal and yet
so poetic.

"I hope you share my feelings in this."

That moment--that precious, precious moment--was broken in upon in a way
that makes me clench