ened with the sugar-making. When the sun was lifting his
course in the clearing sky, and March had got the temper of the lamb,
and the frozen pulses of the forest had begun to stir, the great kettle
was mounted in the yard and all gave a hand to the washing of spouts and
buckets. Then came tapping time, in which I helped carry the buckets and
tasted the sweet flow that followed the auger's wound. The woods were
merry with our shouts, and, shortly, one could hear the heart-beat
of the maples in the sounding bucket. It was the reveille of spring.
Towering trees shook down the gathered storms of snow and felt for the
sunlight. The arch and shanty were repaired, the great iron kettle was
scoured and lifted to its place, and then came the boiling. It was a
great, an inestimable privilege to sit on the robes of faded fur, in the
shanty, and hear the fire roaring under the kettle and smell the sweet
odour of the boiling sap. Uncle Eb minded the shanty and the fire and
the woods rang with his merry songs. When I think of that phase of the
sugaring, lam face to face with one of the greatest perils of my life.
My foster father had consented to let me spend a night with Uncle Eb in
the shanty, and I was to sleep on the robes, where he would be beside
me when he was not tending the fire. It had been a mild, bright day, and
David came up with our supper at sunset. He sat talking with Uncle Eb
for an hour or so, and the woods were darkling when he went away.

When he started on the dark trail that led to the clearing, I wondered
at his courage--it was so black beyond the firelight. While we sat alone
I plead for a story, but the thoughts of Uncle Eb had gone to roost
early in a sort of gloomy meditation.

'Be still, my boy,' said he, 'an' go t' sleep. I ain't agoin' t' tell no
yarns an' git ye all stirred up. Ye go t' sleep. Come mornin' we'll go
down t' the brook an' see if we can't find a mink or tew 'n the traps.'

I remember hearing a great crackling of twigs in the dark wood before
I slept. As I lifted my head, Uncle Eb whispered, 'Hark!' and we both
listened. A bent and aged figure came stalking into the firelight His
long white hair mingled with his beard and covered his coat collar
behind.

'Don't be scairt,' said Uncle Eb. ''Tain' no bear. It's nuthin' but a
poet.'

I knew him for a man who wandered much and had a rhyme for everyone--a
kindly man with a reputation for laziness and without any home.

'Bilin', eh?' said