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 time when a hole is bored into a tree that the sap
would spout out in a stream, as it does when a cider-barrel is tapped.
But it never does, it only drops, sometimes almost in a stream, but on
the whole slowly, and the boy learns that the sweet things of the world
have to be patiently waited for, and do not usually come otherwise than
drop by drop.
Then the camp is to be cleared of snow. The shanty is re-covered with
boughs. In front of it two enormous logs are rolled nearly together, and
a fire is built between them.
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