begin to swell and thrill with the new
life, and when it is broad noon, all through the woods a thousand voices
pass the glad word that winter's day is gone and that all living things
are free. But when night draws up over the treetops, and the shadows
steal down the forest aisles, the jubilant voices die down and a chill
fear creeps over all the gleeful, swelling buds that they have been
too sure and too happy; and all the more if, from the northeast, there
sweeps down, as often happens, a stinging storm of sleet and snow,
winter's last savage slap. But what matters that? The very next
day, when the bright, warm rays trickle down through the interlacing
branches, bathing the buds and twigs and limbs and trunks and flooding
all the woods, the world grows surer of its new joy. And so, in
alternating hope and fear, the days and nights go by, till an evening
falls when the air is languid and a soft rain comes up from the south,
falling all night long over the buds and trees like warm, loving
fingers. Then the buds break for very joy, and timid green things push
up through the leaf-mold; and from the swamps the little frogs begin
to pipe, at first in solo, but soon in exultant chorus, till the whole
moist night is vocal, and then every one knows that the sugar time is
over, and troughs and spiles are gathered up, and with sap-barrels and
kettles, are stored in the back shed for another year.

But no rain came before the night fixed for the sugaring-off. It was a
perfect sugar day, warm, bright, and still, following a night of sharp
frost. The long sunny afternoon was deepening into twilight when the
Camerons drove up to the sugar-camp in their big sleigh, bringing with
them the manse party. Ranald and Don, with Aunt Kirsty, were there to
receive them. It was one of those rare evenings of the early Canadian
spring. The bare woods were filled with the tangled rays of light from
the setting sun. Here and there a hillside facing the east lay in
shadow that grew black where the balsams and cedars stood in clumps. But
everywhere else the light fell sweet and silent about the bare trunks,
filling the long avenues under the arching maple limbs with a yellow
haze.

In front of the shanty the kettles hung over the fire on a long pole
which stood in an upright crutch at either end. Under the big kettle the
fire was roaring high, for the fresh sap needed much boiling before the
syrup and taffy could come. But under the little kettle t