More Jonathan Papers | Page 8

the pan--now a
heaving, frothing mass of sap-about-to-be-syrup, sending clouds of
white steam down the wind. As he looked at the oven walls, I fancied
his fingers ached to get at them, but he offered no criticism, seeing that
they worked.
The next day began overcast, but Providence was merely preparing for
me a special little gift in the form of a miniature snowstorm. It was
quite real while it lasted. It whitened the grass and the road, it piled
itself softly among the clusters of swelling buds on the apple trees, and
made the orchard look as though it had burst into bloom in an hour.
Then the sun came out, there were a few dazzling moments when the
world was all blue and silver, and then the whiteness faded.
And the sap! How it dripped! Once an hour I had to make the rounds,
bringing back gallons each time, and the fire under my pan was kept up
so that the boiling down might keep pace with the new supply.
"They do say snow makes it run," shouted a passer-by, and another
called, "You want to keep skimmin'!" Whereupon I seized my
long-handled skimmer and fell to work. Southern Connecticut does not
know much about syrup, but by the avenue of the road I was gradually
accumulating such wisdom as it possessed.
The syrup was made. No worse accident befell than the occasional
overflowing of a pail too long neglected. The syrup was made, and
bottled, and distributed to friends, and was the pride of the household
through the year.
* * * * *
"This time I will go early," I said to Jonathan; "they say the late
running is never quite so good."

It was early March when I got up there this time--early March after a
winter whose rigor had known practically no break. Again Jonathan
could not come, but Cousin Janet could, and we met at the little station,
where Hiram was waiting with Kit and the surrey. The sun was warm,
but the air was keen and the woods hardly showed spring at all yet,
even in that first token of it, the slight thickening of their millions of
little tips, through the swelling of the buds. The city trees already
showed this, but the country ones still kept their wintry penciling of
vanishing lines.
Spring was in the road, however. "There ain't no bottom to this road
now, it's just dropped clean out," remarked a fellow teamster as we
wallowed along companionably through the woods. But, somehow, we
reached the farm. Again we bored our holes, and again I was thrilled as
the first bright drops slipped out and jeweled the ends of the spouts. I
watched Janet. She was interested but calm, classing herself at once
with Hiram and Jonathan. We unearthed last year's oven and dug out its
inner depths--leaves and dirt and apples and ashes--it was like
excavating through the seven Troys to get to bottom. We brought down
the big pan, now clothed in the honors of a season's use, and cleaned
off the cobwebs incident to a year's sojourn in the attic. By sunset we
had a panful of sap boiling merrily and already taking on a distinctly
golden tinge. We tasted it. It was very syrupy. Letting the fire die down,
we went in to get supper in the utmost content of spirit.
"It's so much simpler than last year," I said, as we sat over our cozy
"tea,"--"having the pan and the oven ready-made, and all--"
"You don't suppose anything could happen to it while we're in here?"
suggested Janet. "Shan't I just run out and see?"
"No, sit still. What could happen? The fire's going out."
"Yes, I know." But her voice was uncertain.
"You see, I've been all through it once," I reassured her.
As we rose, Janet said, "Let's go out before we do the dishes." And to

humor her I agreed. We lighted the lantern and stepped out on the back
porch. It was quite dark, and as we looked off toward the fireplace we
saw gleams of red.
"How funny!" I murmured. "I didn't think there was so much fire left."
We felt our way over, through the yielding mud of the orchard, and as I
raised the lantern we stared in dazed astonishment. The pan was a
blackened mass, lit up by winking red eyes of fire. I held the lantern
more closely. I seized a stick and poked--the crisp black stuff broke and
crumbled into an empty and blackening pan. A curious odor arose.
"It couldn't have!" gasped Janet.
"It couldn't--but it has!" I said.
It was a matter for tears, or rage, or laughter. And laughter won. When
we recovered a little we took up the black shell of