WITH the first March thaw the thoughts of the Indian women of my
childhood days turned promptly to the annual sugarmaking. This industry
was chiefly followed by the old men and women and the children. The rest
of the tribe went out upon the spring fur-hunt at this season, leaving
us at home to make the sugar.
The first and most important of the necessary utensils were the huge
iron and brass kettles for boiling. Everything else could be made, but
these must be bought, begged or borrowed. A maple tree was felled and
a log canoe hollowed out, into which the sap was to be gathered. Little
troughs of basswood and birchen basins were also made to receive the
sweet drops as they trickled from the tree.
As soon as these labors were accomplished, we all proceeded to the bark
sugar house, which stood in the midst of a fine grove of maples on the
bank of the Minnesota river. We found this hut partially filled with the
snows of winter and the withered leaves of the preceding autumn, and it
must be cleared for our use. In the meantime a tent was pitched outside
for a few days’ occupancy. The snow was still deep in the woods, with a
solid crust upon which we could easily walk; for we usually moved to the
sugar house before the sap had actually started, the better to complete
our preparations.
My grandmother worked like a beaver in these days (or rather like
a muskrat, as the Indians say; for this industrious little animal
sometimes collects as many as six or eight bushels of edible roots for
the winter, only to be robbed of his store by some of our people). If
there was prospect of a good sugaring season, she now made a second
and even a third canoe to contain the sap. These canoes were afterward
utilized by the hunters for their proper purpose.
During our last sugar-making in Minnesota, before the “outbreak,” my
grandmother was at work upon a canoe with her axe, while a young aunt
of mine stood by. We boys were congregated within the large, oval
sugar house, busily engaged in making arrows for the destruction of the
rabbits and chipmunks which we knew would come in numbers to drink the
sap. The birds also were beginning to return, and the cold storms of
March would drive them to our door. I was then too young to do much
except look on; but I fully entered into the spirit of the occasion,
and rejoiced to see the bigger boys industriously sharpen their arrows,
resting them against the ends of the long sticks which were burning
in the fire, and occasionally cutting a chip from the stick. In their
eagerness they paid little attention to this circumstance, although they
well knew that it was strictly forbidden to touch a knife to a burning
ember.
Suddenly loud screams were heard from without and we all rushed out to
see what was the matter. It was a serious affair. My grandmother’s axe
had slipped, and by an upward stroke nearly severed three of the fingers
of my aunt, who stood looking on, with her hands folded upon her waist.
As we ran out the old lady, who had already noticed and reproved our
carelessness in regard to the burning embers, pursued us with loud
reproaches and threats of a whipping. This will seem mysterious to my
readers, but is easily explained by the Indian superstition, which holds
that such an offense as we had committed is invariably punished by the
accidental cutting of some one of the family.
My grandmother did not confine herself to canoe-making. She also
collected a good supply of fuel for the fires, for she would not have
much time to gather wood when the sap began to flow. Presently the
weather moderated and the snow began to melt. The month of April brought
showers which carried most of it off into the Minnesota river. Now the
women began to test the trees-moving leisurely among them, axe in hand,
and striking a single quick blow, to see if the sap would appear. The
trees, like people, have their individual characters; some were ready to
yield up their life-blood, while others were more reluctant. Now one of
the birchen basins was set under each tree, and a hardwood chip driven
deep into the cut which the axe had made. From the corners of this
chip--at first drop by drop, then more freely-the sap trickled into the
little dishes.
It is usual to make sugar from maples, but several other trees were also
tapped by the Indians. From the birch and ash was made a dark-colored
sugar, with a somewhat bitter taste, which was used for medicinal
purposes. The box-elder yielded a beautiful white sugar, whose only
fault was that there was never enough of it!
A long fire was now made in the sugar house, and a row of brass kettles
suspended over the blaze. The sap was collected by the women in tin or
birchen buckets and poured into the canoes, from which the kettles
were kept filled. The hearts of the boys beat high with pleasant
anticipations when they heard the welcome hissing sound of the boiling
sap! Each boy claimed one kettle for his especial charge. It was his
duty to see that the fire was kept up under it, to watch lest it boil
over, and finally, when the sap became sirup, to test it upon the snow,
dipping it out with a wooden paddle. So frequent were these tests that
for the first day or two we consumed nearly all that could be made; and
it was not until the sweetness began to pall that my grandmother set
herself in earnest to store up sugar for future use. She made it into
cakes of various forms, in birchen molds, and sometimes in hollow canes
or reeds, and the bills of ducks and geese. Some of it was pulverized
and packed in rawhide cases. Being a prudent woman, she did not give it
to us after the first month or so, except upon special occasions, and it
was thus made to last almost the year around. The smaller candies were
reserved as an occasional treat for the little fellows, and the sugar
was eaten at feasts with wild rice or parched corn, and also with
pounded dried meat. Coffee and tea, with their substitutes, were all
unknown to us in those days.
Every pursuit has its trials and anxieties. My grandmother’s special
tribulations, during the sugaring season, were the upsetting and gnawing
of holes in her birch-bark pans. The transgressors were the rabbit and
squirrel tribes, and we little boys for once became useful, in shooting
them with our bows and arrows. We hunted all over the sugar camp,
until the little creatures were fairly driven out of the neighborhood.
Occasionally one of my older brothers brought home a rabbit or two, and
then we had a feast.
The sugaring season extended well into April, and the returning birds
made the precincts of our camp joyful with their songs. I often followed
my older brothers into the woods, although I was then but four or five
years old. Upon one of these excursions they went so far that I ventured
back alone. When within sight of our hut, I saw a chipmunk sitting upon
a log, and uttering the sound he makes when he calls to his mate. How
glorious it would be, I thought, if I could shoot him with my tiny bow
and arrows! Stealthily and cautiously I approached, keeping my eyes upon
the pretty little animal, and just as I was about to let fly my shaft,
I heard a hissing noise at my feet. There lay a horrid snake, coiled and
ready to spring! Forgetful that I was a warrior, I gave a loud scream
and started backward; but soon recollecting myself, looked down with
shame, although no one was near. However, I retreated to the inclined
trunk of a fallen tree, and there, as I have often been told, was
overheard soliloquizing in the following words: “I wonder if a snake can
climb a tree!”
I remember on this occasion of our last sugar bush in Minnesota, that
I stood one day outside of our hut and watched the approach of a
visitor--a bent old man, his hair almost white, and carrying on his back
a large bundle of red willow, or kinnikinick, which the Indians use for
smoking. He threw down his load at the door and thus saluted us: “You
have indeed perfect weather for sugar-making.”
It was my great-grandfather, Cloud Man, whose original village was on
the shores of Lakes Calhoun and Harriet, now in the suburbs of the city
of Minneapolis. He was the first Sioux chief to welcome the Protestant
missionaries among his people, and a well-known character in those
pioneer days. He brought us word that some of the peaceful sugar-makers
near us on the river had been attacked and murdered by roving Ojibways.
This news disturbed us not a little, for we realized that we too might
become the victims of an Ojibway war party. Therefore we all felt some
uneasiness from this time until we returned heavy laden to our village.