Probably everybody notices, from time to time, how things which would
seem to be trifling in themselves bring about results which are
anything but trifling. Paul Varley’s interest in sugar making was to
prove a case in point.
If Varley had not been with the Safety First Club that day, it is
altogether likely that the trip to the maple groves would have been
omitted. The big dinner, with Sam’s wonderful mince pie as its climax,
left the Grants’ guests very well pleased with the world in general but
not at all disposed to exertion, especially as the weather showed no
improvement. Back in the great living-room the party settled down in a
semicircle before the open fireplace, where now a cheery little pile of
birch was blazing.
“We’ll have it for company, anyway,” Mrs. Grant explained, as she
touched a match to the kindling. “The steam keeps us warm enough--and
some to spare--days like this, but I must say I like the sparkle and
crackle. Kind of sociable like, ain’t it?”
“Yes’m--makes me think of a lively widow next door!” chuckled Lon.
“Hm-m! Don’t see as you’ve got any call, Lon Gates, to make jokes about
widows,” said Mrs. Grant with spirit. “None of ’em’s got you yet.”
“Well, you never can tell, ma’am. I’m young yet.”
Mrs. Grant shook her head, half reprovingly. “I believe you are, Lon.
Still, I remember when----”
“When I could eat a meal like these youngsters have just stowed away,”
Lon put in. “Yes’m, yes’m; that’s so. But I’ll say this, ma’am: I
didn’t get many such chances in my time to treat myself like an
anacondy snake same as these youngsters have.”
“Nonsense! They’ve just nice, wholesome appetites.”
Lon chuckled again. “Well, maybe you’re right, at that. Fillin’ a
growin’ boy is a good deal like pourin’ water into a sieve. But jest
for the time bein’, I’d say, you’ve got this crowd full to the brim.”
The Shark rose rather jerkily, and walked up to the profile map. He
regarded it with a fascination like that the ill-omened vase at the
hotel had had for Poke. Mr. Grant joined him.
“My father made that,” said the farmer. “You see, it was this way: One
winter he was laid up with a broken leg, and wanted to have something
to keep him busy. He’d done some work on the big map at the state
house--he was a surveyor, among other things, you understand--and it
struck him he’d fix up this affair for our valley. It happened he’d run
levels all over it, and had his records; so he had plenty to go by. And
they do say this is amazing accurate. Why, when the government men came
through here a few years back----”
“I know--they mapped all this region,” the Shark interrupted. “Computed
elevations, set monuments, all that sort of thing.”
“Well, they found father had hit mighty close to the mark. And their
monuments--that’s your word for ’em, eh?--you can find three-four of
’em scattered around. Mostly they’re on the hills, but down by the
river they set one on a little rise. If ’twa’n’t for the snow you could
find it easily.”
The Shark ran his eye over the map. “The valley’s really like a big
bowl,” said he, meditatively. “And that’s a mighty narrow outlet--place
we came through, where the bridges are--more like the neck of a bottle.
I should think the ice would jam there. Then if there should be a
flood--say, things would happen!”
“So they would. But the big dam up above’ll hold, I guess. You see,
years ago there was a scheme to turn the whole valley into a reservoir,
but it’d have taken more money than the folks could raise. So they went
up-stream a few miles, and put in their dam there. But we ain’t had any
floods in Sugar Valley, for all the mouth of it’s like the mouth of a
bottle, as you were saying.”
“Exactly!” quoth the Shark, but kept his gaze upon the map. “And so
there is a government marker down by the river--on a little rise?
Wonder if it isn’t about there?”
Mr. Grant looked at the spot to which the Shark pointed. “You’ve hit it
close, young man,” he declared.
A very slight, but very satisfied, smile lessened the severity of
the Shark’s expression. “I felt pretty sure I had,” he remarked
complacently.
Mrs. Grant turned from poking the fire and mounding the birch logs to
her fancy.
“No; we don’t have floods often in Sugar Valley,” she observed, “though
anybody might think we would. Somehow, the river takes care of the
water. Of course, ’way back in Dominie Pike’s time, they did have some
amazing freshets--he told about ’em in his diary, you know.”
Tom Orkney bent forward. “Then you’ve seen the diary, ma’am?” he
inquired eagerly.
Mrs. Grant laughed. “Bless your heart, no! It disappeared years before
I happened along.”
“Oh!” There was a disappointment in Tom’s tone, which didn’t escape
Mrs. Grant’s attention.
“It is an awful pity!” she said. “The Dominie, I guess, put down ’most
everything that happened, and if folks could find his book now, they
could settle a lot of points they’re disputing. But seventy-five or
eighty years ago people didn’t set such store by old things--they were
too glad to get new ones, maybe--and so lots of stuff was lost that
would bring high prices nowadays. Why, the diary just knocked about,
as you might say--or part of it did. Mr. Grant’s grandfather always
insisted that the Dominie filled three or four note-books, and that the
one folks saw--that’s the one, by the way, all the stories told now
are based on--why, he always argued that that was the last, or next to
the last, of the set. ’Tis a fact it didn’t tell much about the very
earliest days of the settlement--I’ve heard that point spoken of. But,
anyway, it passed from hand to hand in the family, and was borrowed by
neighbors, and got all thumbed and dog-eared, and worn and tattered;
and, finally, it just dropped out of sight. Too bad, but that’s what
happened.”
“Nobody copied it?” asked Tom.
“Why--why, yes and no. Nobody copied it all--nobody thought it worth
the trouble in those days. I’ve seen in old letters lots of references
to it and its stories, and once or twice I’ve come across short
quotations from it. But there’s another mix-up--in trying to find out
about it now, I mean. You see, along about 1800 there was a Grant who
was a great practical joker, and sort of a bookish fellow, too; and,
somehow, the combination set him to writing a burlesque diary. It was
about people of his time, but he imitated the Dominie’s style, and he
was a clever hand at it; and what with most of the family names around
here being the same as in the Dominie’s day and the imitation being so
good--well, after a while even folks who’d read both got sort of mixed
as to what was in which. So now nobody really knows where truth ends
and jokes begin in half the traditions of the town. What makes it worse
is that the Grant diary disappeared, too. Very likely the man who wrote
it destroyed it, when he got older, and took a more serious view of
life.”
“Oh!” said Orkney again. There was still disappointment in his tone.
“We’ve looked high and low for both books, of course; but I guess
they’re lost for good. This valley, you know, was where the Dominie
settled. He gave it the name it’s had ever since--Sugar Valley. That
was because he found the Indians here were making sugar. Mighty poor
stuff it was, probably, and more than half dirt. But it was sweet,
and real sugar was hard to get. Maybe that was one reason the Dominie
stayed here, and built a cabin, and then a house, and finally a better
house. Oh, it was quite a mansion, that last house of his was--a sort
of show place, though I guess there weren’t many people to show it
to. But it was made of sawed boards instead of logs, and there was a
wonderful great chimney, and the fireplaces were as big as some rooms
are nowadays. Yes, and one of the up-stairs rooms had a fireplace; and
that, I guess, was a sort of eighth wonder of the world--this part of
the world, anyway. But here I am, talking as if you couldn’t see the
place for yourselves, if you want to.”
“Then it still stands?” Orkney asked.
“Indeed it does! Nobody has lived in it for years and years, but it’s
still there--nearly a mile from here, and close to the river. Of
course, it’s rickety, but it doesn’t tumble down, and I don’t see any
signs that it’s likely to. Once or twice we’ve talked about restoring
it, and fixing it up, but we’ve never got around to do it; though some
folks say we ought to turn it into a sort of historical museum. But, as
I say, we haven’t got to it. And as for exploring the old place--why,
why--a miserable day like this----”
Mrs. Grant hesitated. As she chanced to be looking at Varley, it was he
who made answer to her unfinished question.
“Oh, another time will do just as well. And it was the sugar making
that we’d especially like to see, you know.”
“You’re interested in that, then?”
“Very interested; it’ll be all new to me. And--and”--Paul smiled
engagingly--“and your maple fluff, Mrs. Grant, was awfully good. It
made a fellow all the more anxious to find out about the flavoring.”
Mrs. Grant was pleased, and showed it. “So you liked it, then? Well,
’tis kind of tasty, though there’s really nothing to it but whipped
white of egg, and just a mite of cream, and a dash of maple. But put it
on mince pie----”
“Geeminy, but it’s cracking good!” Step interrupted.
“Why, I’d call it grand,” quoth Poke solemnly, and licked his lips
reminiscently.
Then Mrs. Grant laughed. “Ha, ha, ha! I vow, but there’d be some
satisfaction in cooking for a lot of folks like you boys! But if you
want to see where the maple comes from--why, I don’t want to turn you
out in the wet, but you ought to be looking around while the light’s as
good as it’s likely to be this day. And so, if Mr. Grant is ready, and
you’re ready to start--why, that’s just what I’d do if I were you.”
Now, probably there was nobody concerned--except Varley, of course--who
wouldn’t have been willing to omit the expedition. But Paul was
genuinely interested, and so evident was this fact that none of
the others were willing to offer objection. Caps and overcoats and
overshoes were brought out and donned, and with Mr. Grant in the lead
the party streamed out of the house.
“Don’t stay too long!” Mrs. Grant called after them. “My, but it’s
getting to be weepy weather! Well, I’ll have something warm and
comforting waiting for you when you come back.”
“Weepy weather,” indeed, fitted the case. The air was milder than ever,
and more charged with moisture. Eaves were dripping, and little streams
trickled down the trunks of the trees; under foot the melting snow lay
in a dwindling, soggy mass. What was more, a thin drizzle was falling,
hardly to be called a rain, but curiously searching and penetrating in
its dampness.
Mr. Grant glanced at the leaden sky, and shook his head.
“Well, if I had to guess, I’d say things were going to be worse before
they’re better,” he remarked. “Way the wind’s been hanging in the
east----”
“More southeast, ain’t it?” Lon inquired.
“In-between. Vane on the barn ain’t hardly wiggled all day. And it’s
pointing right to where our big rains hail from. Funny we haven’t had
it harder. Up-river they’ve been getting a reg’lar downpour, accordin’
to what they’re telephoning.”
“Umph!” said Lon. “Then you’ll be havin’ a sight o’ water for this
river o’ yourn to take care of, won’t you?”
“Well, it’s done just that every spring,” said Mr. Grant.
“Mebbe. Only I’ve got kinder a notion from the feel o’ things that
there’s a reg’lar weather buster brewin’.”
“My notion ain’t so far from yours,” Mr. Grant agreed. Then he turned
to the boys. “We’ll take a look at what we call the ‘Island’--that’s
where we make most of our sugar. Got some trees tapped already, though
the season ain’t really begun yet. But it’ll be easier to show you than
to tell you about it. So come along!”
They followed him, in Indian file, along a well-beaten path through
the snow, a path that wound and twisted to avoid groves and patches of
thicket. The floor of the valley seemed to be almost level, after the
descent from the natural terrace on which the house stood; but, plainly
enough, not much of the land was under cultivation. Except for the fact
that their course was generally toward the river, the boys had little
idea of their destination, and Sam, with the teachings of Safety First
in mind, remarked to himself that here was a stretch of country in
which a fellow might very easily lose his bearings. Not that he had any
thought of danger. Even if anybody lost his way, temporarily, he could
steer for the hills and so, sooner or later, come to higher ground and
the road. So he trudged along, digging his chin deep in his upturned
collar, and making the best of unpleasant conditions.
Sam noticed, presently, that one at least of his companions was showing
signs of losing heart. Poke had started out near the head of the line,
and, comforted by food and warmth, had appeared to be in excellent
spirits. Very soon, however, the melancholy weather had its effect.
Probably it reminded him of his gloomy prospects and the staggering
bill for the big vase. At any rate, his steps lagged. One after another
passed him, until he was the last straggler in the line. As it proved,
he was far behind the rest of the party when they came to the “Island.”
As has been said, this was not an island, but a low knoll, covered by a
fine growth of maples. On one side stood a small building, half house,
half shed; and here was an equipment of great kettles for “boiling
down” the collected sap. There was an orderly pile of new cans, in
which the syrup would be shipped, and there were boxes awaiting the
sugar, to which part of the yield of the grove would be reduced.
“I hear they’ve got a lot of newfangled modern improvements,” Mr.
Grant remarked, “but we stick to the old ways. Of course, we ain’t
big producers and shippers, but we manage ’most every season to do
something of a trade. And now I’ll show you how we do it.”
With that he took Varley in hand. He displayed the little spouts which
were placed in holes in the maple trunks, and along which the sap ran
to pails. Then he showed big buckets, into which collectors emptied
the contents of the pails, and which brought their gallons and gallons
of the thin sap to the kettles, there to be reduced in volume and
increased in density until the required standard for syrup was reached.
“This isn’t a big plant,” he explained, “but, after all, we’re pretty
busy around here, when things get going. Fires have to be kept up,
and sap has to be brought in; and of course it’s a short season,
at the best, and so there has to be a hustle. When the sap starts
running--why, we have to run, too.”
“Then it hasn’t started yet?” Varley asked.
“It’s starting--the warm spell sets it going. But ’tain’t a full flow
yet. You can see we’ve got some trees tapped”--he pointed to a near-by
part of the grove--“and if a freeze don’t come to check things, we’ll
be in full swing a good deal quicker than I’d care to be. Somehow,
I don’t like the looks of the weather, or the feel of it, for that
matter.”
Varley was quite ready to agree with Mr. Grant on this score. The
dismal day was growing more dismal still; the drizzle was heavier; the
dense gray clouds seemed to hang lower. The other boys, to whom a sugar
camp was an old story, were huddling in the lee of the house. Varley
noticed that Poke, most sorrowful of face, was in low-toned talk with
Step, who seemed rapidly to be becoming as melancholy as his chum. Then
Sam joined the pair, and the whispered conversation went on, with no
sign of rising spirits.
Varley was clever enough to make a shrewd guess at the situation.
Doubtless, sooner or later, he would hear all about it, but just now
the club was keeping its own counsel. So he remained near Mr. Grant
until the latter was called into the house by his hired man, who seemed
to be unable to find a big ladle, of which he announced himself in
search.
Left alone, Paul took note that the Shark, who was peering at the lower
ground about the “Island” and mumbling to himself in dissatisfied
fashion, appeared to be on the point of starting on some small
expedition of his own. Paul crossed to him.
“What’s up?” he inquired. “Looking for something?”
The Shark merely grunted.
“What is it?”
“The marker.”
“Eh?” Paul had not been especially impressed by the map or the talk
about it.
“Can’t you hear?” snapped the Shark. “Marker, I said--marker the
government surveyors left. Bet you I know where it is!”
“Oh! do you?” said Varley, a little vaguely.
The Shark snorted. “Huh! Sure I know--if the survey and the map match.
Ought to be out there.” And he pointed into the mists toward the river.
“Oh, had it?”
“Of course it had! And I’m going to find it.”
“I’ll help you,” said Varley readily.
“Shucks! You don’t know how,” said the Shark bluntly.
Varley was good-natured. Moreover, the youthful mathematician appealed
to his sense of humor.
“Well, maybe you can show me how.”
“That’s so,” the Shark admitted.
“Then I may come along?”
“If you’d like to,” quoth the Shark, half-grudgingly, and started off.
Varley followed him. Mr. Grant and his helper were still in the house,
and the other boys were grouped about Poke. None of them, as it
happened, observed the departure of the two.