central fire in the heart of it; how its timbers creaked as if in the
contracting pinch of the frost; what a rattling there was of windows,
what a concerted attack upon the clapboards; how the floors squeaked,
and what gusts from round corners came to snatch the feeble flame of
the candle from the boy's hand! How he shivered, as he paused at the
staircase window to look out upon the great fields of snow, upon the
stripped forest, through which he could hear the wind raving in a kind
of fury, and up at the black flying clouds, amid which the young moon
was dashing and driven on like a frail shallop at sea! And his teeth
chattered more than ever when he got into the icy sheets, and drew
himself up into a ball in his flannel nightgown, like a fox in his hole.
For a little time he could hear the noises downstairs, and an
occasional laugh; he could guess that now they were having cider, and
now apples were going round; and he could feel the wind tugging at the
house, even sometimes shaking the bed. But this did not last long. He
soon went away into a country he always delighted to be in; a calm
place where the wind never blew, and no one dictated the time of going
to bed to any one else. I like to think of him sleeping there, in such
rude surroundings, ingenuous, innocent, mischievous, with no thought
of the buffeting he is to get from a world that has a good many worse
places for a boy than the hearth of an old farm-house, and the sweet
though undemonstrative affection of its family life.
But there were other evenings in the boy's life that were different
from these at home, and one of them he will never forget. It opened
a new world to John, and set him into a great flutter. It produced a
revolution in his mind in regard to neckties; it made him wonder if
greased boots were quite the thing compared with blacked boots; and he
wished he had a long looking-glass, so that he could see, as he walked
away from it, what was the effect of round patches on the portion of
his trousers he could not see except in a mirror; and if patches were
quite stylish, even on everyday trousers. And he began to be very much
troubled about the parting of his hair, and how to find out on which
side was the natural part.
The evening to which I refer was that of John's first party. He knew
the girls at school, and he was interested in some of them with a
different interest from that he took in the boys. He never wanted to
"take it out" with one of them, for an insult, in a stand-up fight,
and he instinctively softened a boy's natural rudeness when he was
with them. He would help a timid little girl to stand erect and slide;
he would draw her on his sled, till his hands were stiff with cold,
without a murmur; he would generously give her red apples into which
he longed to set his own sharp teeth; and he would cut in two his
lead-pencil for a girl, when he would not for a boy. Had he not some of
the beautiful auburn tresses of Cynthia Rudd in his skate, spruce-gum,
and wintergreen box at home? And yet the grand sentiment of life was
little awakened in John. He liked best to be with boys, and their
rough play suited him better than the amusements of the shrinking,
fluttering, timid, and sensitive little girls. John had not learned
then that a spider-web is stronger than a cable; or that a pretty
little girl could turn him round her finger a great deal easier than a
big bully of a boy could make him cry "enough."
John had indeed been at spelling-schools, and had accomplished the
feat of "going home with a girl" afterwards; and he had been growing
into the habit of looking around in meeting on Sunday, and noticing
how Cynthia was dressed, and not enjoying the service quite as much if
Cynthia was absent as when she was present. But there was very little
sentiment in all this, and nothing whatever to make John blush at
hearing her name.
But now John was invited to a regular party. There was the invitation,
in a three-cornered billet, sealed with a transparent wafer: "Miss C.
Rudd requests the pleasure of the company of," etc., all in blue ink,
and the finest kind of pin-scratching writing. What a precious document
it was to John! It even exhaled a faint sort of perfume, whether of
lavender or caraway-seed he could not tell. He read it over a hundred
times, and showed it confidentially to his favorite cousin, who had
beaux of her own, and had even "sat up" with them in the parlor. And
from this sympathetic cousin John got advice as to what he should wear
and how he should conduct himself at the party.
XIII
JOHN'S FIRST PARTY
It turned out that John did not go after all to Cynthia Rudd's party,
having broken through the ice on the river when he was skating that
day, and, as the boy who pulled him out said, "come within an inch of
his life." But he took care not to tumble into anything that should
keep him from the next party, which was given with due formality by
Melinda Mayhew.
John had been many a time to the house of Deacon Mayhew, and
never with any hesitation, even if he knew that both the deacon's
daughters—Melinda and Sophronia—were at home. The only fear he had
felt was of the deacon's big dog, who always surlily watched him as
he came up the tanbark walk, and made a rush at him if he showed the
least sign of wavering. But upon the night of the party his courage
vanished, and he thought he would rather face all the dogs in town than
knock at the front door.
The parlor was lighted up, and as John stood on the broad flagging
before the front door, by the lilac-bush, he could hear the sound of
voices—girls' voices—which set his heart in a flutter. He could
face the whole district school of girls without flinching,—he didn't
mind 'em in the meeting-house in their Sunday best; but he began to
be conscious that now he was passing to a new sphere, where the girls
are supreme and superior, and he began to feel for the first time that
he was an awkward boy. The girl takes to society as naturally as a
duckling does to the placid pond, but with a semblance of sly timidity;
the boy plunges in with a great splash, and hides his shy awkwardness
in noise and commotion.
When John entered, the company had nearly all come. He knew them every
one, and yet there was something about them strange and unfamiliar.
They were all a little afraid of each other, as people are apt to be
when they are well dressed and met together for social purposes in the
country. To be at a real party was a novel thing for most of them,
and put a constraint upon them which they could not at once overcome.
Perhaps it was because they were in the awful parlor, that carpeted
room of haircloth furniture, which was so seldom opened. Upon the
wall hung two certificates framed in black,—one certifying that, by
the payment of fifty dollars, Deacon Mayhew was a life member of the
American Tract Society; and the other that, by a like outlay of bread
cast upon the waters, his wife was a life member of the A. B. C. F. M.,
a portion of the alphabet which has an awful significance to all New
England childhood. These certificates are a sort of receipt in full for
charity, and are a constant and consoling reminder to the farmer that
he has discharged his religious duties.
There was a fire on the broad hearth, and that, with the tallow candles
on the mantelpiece, made quite an illumination in the room, and enabled
the boys, who were mostly on one side of the room, to see the girls,
who were on the other, quite plainly. How sweet and demure the girls
looked, to be sure! Every boy was thinking if his hair was slick, and
feeling the full embarrassment of his entrance into fashionable life.
It was queer that these children, who were so free everywhere else,
should be so constrained now, and not know what to do with themselves.
The shooting of a spark out upon the carpet was a great relief, and was
accompanied by a deal of scrambling to throw it back into the fire, and
caused much giggling. It was only gradually that the formality was at
all broken, and the young people got together and found their tongues.
John at length found himself with Cynthia Rudd, to his great delight
and considerable embarrassment, for Cynthia, who was older than John,
never looked so pretty. To his surprise he had nothing to say to her.
They had always found plenty to talk about before, but now nothing that
he could think of seemed worth saying at a party.
"It is a pleasant evening," said John.
"It is quite so," replied Cynthia.
"Did you come in a cutter?" asked John, anxiously.
"No; I walked on the crust, and it was perfectly lovely walking," said
Cynthia, in a burst of confidence.
"Was it slippery?" continued John.
"Not very."
John hoped it would be slippery—very—when he walked home with
Cynthia, as he determined to do, but he did not dare to say so, and the
conversation ran aground again. John thought about his dog and his sled
and his yoke of steers, but he didn't see any way to bring them into
conversation. Had she read the "Swiss Family Robinson"? Only a little
ways. John said it was splendid, and he would lend it to her, for which
she thanked him, and said, with such a sweet expression, she should be
so glad to have it from him. That was encouraging.
And then John asked Cynthia if she had seen Sally Hawkes since the
husking at their house, when Sally found so many red ears; and didn't
she think she was a real pretty girl?
"Yes, she was right pretty;" and Cynthia guessed that Sally knew it
pretty well. But did John like the color of her eyes?
No; John didn't like the color of her eyes exactly.
"Her mouth would be well enough if she didn't laugh so much and show
her teeth."
John said her mouth was her worst feature.
"Oh no," said Cynthia, warmly; "her mouth is better than her nose."
John didn't know but it was better than her nose, and he should like
her looks better if her hair wasn't so dreadful black.
But Cynthia, who could afford to be generous now, said she liked black
hair, and she wished hers was dark. Whereupon John protested that he
liked light hair—auburn hair—of all things.
And Cynthia said that Sally was a dear, good girl, and she didn't
believe one word of the story that she only really found one red ear at
the husking that night, and hid that and kept pulling it out as if it
were a new one.
And so the conversation, once started, went on as briskly as
possible about the paring-bee and the spelling-school, and the new
singing-master who was coming, and how Jack Thompson had gone to
Northampton to be a clerk in a store, and how Elvira Reddington, in
the geography class at school, was asked what was the capital of
Massachusetts, and had answered "Northampton," and all the school
laughed. John enjoyed the conversation amazingly, and he half wished
that he and Cynthia were the whole of the party.
But the party had meantime got into operation, and the formality was
broken up when the boys and girls had ventured out of the parlor into
the more comfortable living-room, with its easy-chairs and everyday
things, and even gone so far as to penetrate the kitchen in their
frolic. As soon as they forgot they were a party, they began to enjoy
themselves.
But the real pleasure only began with the games. The party was nothing
without the games, and indeed it was made for the games. Very likely
it was one of the timid girls who proposed to play something, and when
the ice was once broken, the whole company went into the business
enthusiastically. There was no dancing. We should hope not. Not in
the deacon's house; not with the deacon's daughters, nor anywhere in
this good Puritanic society. Dancing was a sin in itself, and no one
could tell what it would lead to. But there was no reason why the boys
and girls shouldn't come together and kiss each other during a whole
evening occasionally. Kissing was a sign of peace, and was not at all
like taking hold of hands and skipping about to the scraping of a
wicked fiddle.
In the games there was a great deal of clasping hands, of going round
in a circle, of passing under each other's elevated arms, of singing
about my true love, and the end was kisses distributed with more or
less partiality according to the rules of the play; but, thank Heaven,
there was no fiddler. John liked it all, and was quite brave about
paying all the forfeits imposed on him, even to the kissing all the
girls in the room; but he thought he could have amended that by kissing
a few of them a good many times instead of kissing them all once.
But John was destined to have a damper put upon his enjoyment. They
were playing a most fascinating game, in which they all stand in a
circle and sing a philandering song, except one who is in the centre
of the ring and holds a cushion. At a certain word in the song, the
one in the centre throws the cushion at the feet of some one in the
ring, indicating thereby the choice of a mate, and then the two sweetly
kneel upon the cushion, like two meek angels, and—and so forth. Then
the chosen one takes the cushion and the delightful play goes on. It
is very easy, as it will be seen, to learn how to play it. Cynthia was
holding the cushion, and at the fatal word she threw it down,—not
before John, but in front of Ephraim Leggett. And they two kneeled, and
so forth. John was astounded. He had never conceived of such perfidy
in the female heart. He felt like wiping Ephraim off the face of the
earth, only Ephraim was older and bigger than he. When it came his
turn at length—thanks to a plain little girl for whose admiration he
didn't care a straw—he threw the cushion down before Melinda Mayhew
with all the devotion he could muster, and a dagger look at Cynthia.
And Cynthia's perfidious smile only enraged him the more. John felt
wronged, and worked himself up to pass a wretched evening.
When supper came he never went near Cynthia, and busied himself in
carrying different kinds of pie and cake, and red apples and cider,
to the girls he liked the least. He shunned Cynthia, and when he was
accidentally near her, and she asked him if he would get her a glass of
cider, he rudely told her—like a goose as he was—that she had better
ask Ephraim. That seemed to him very smart; but he got more and more
miserable, and began to feel that he was making himself ridiculous.
Girls have a great deal more good sense in such matters than boys.
Cynthia went to John, at length, and asked him simply what the
matter was. John blushed, and said that nothing was the matter. Cynthia
said that it wouldn't do for two people always to be together at a
party; and so they made up, and John obtained permission to "see"
Cynthia home.
[Illustration: GOING HOME WITH CYNTHIA]
It was after half past nine when the great festivities at the Deacon's
broke up, and John walked home with Cynthia over the shining crust and
under the stars. It was mostly a silent walk, for this was also an
occasion when it is difficult to find anything fit to say. And John
was thinking all the way how he should bid Cynthia goodnight; whether
it would do and whether it wouldn't do, this not being a game, and
no forfeits attaching to it. When they reached the gate there was an
awkward little pause. John said the stars were uncommonly bright.
Cynthia did not deny it, but waited a minute and then turned abruptly
away, with "Good-night, John!"
"Good-night, Cynthia!"
And the party was over, and Cynthia was gone, and John went home in a
kind of dissatisfaction with himself.
It was long before he could go to sleep for thinking of the new world
opened to him, and imagining how he would act under a hundred different
circumstances, and what he would say, and what Cynthia would say; but a
dream at length came, and led him away to a great city and a brilliant
house; and while he was there he heard a loud rapping on the under
floor, and saw that it was daylight.
XIV
THE SUGAR CAMP
I think there is no part of farming the boy enjoys more than the making
of maple sugar; it is better than "blackberrying," and nearly as good
as fishing. And one reason he likes this work is that somebody else
does the most of it. It is a sort of work in which he can appear to be
very active and yet not do much.
And it exactly suits the temperament of a real boy to be very busy
about nothing. If the power, for instance, that is expended in play
by a boy between the ages of eight and fourteen could be applied to
some industry, we should see wonderful results. But a boy is like a
galvanic battery that is not in connection with anything: he generates
electricity and plays it off into the air with the most reckless
prodigality. And I, for one, wouldn't have it otherwise. It is as much
a boy's business to play off his energies into space as it is for a
flower to blow, or a catbird to sing snatches of the tunes of all the
other birds.
In my day, maple-sugar making used to be something between picnicking
and being shipwrecked on a fertile island where one should save from
the wreck tubs and augers, and great kettles and pork, and hen's-eggs
and rye-and-indian bread, and begin at once to lead the sweetest life
in the world. I am told that it is something different nowadays, and
that there is more desire to save the sap, and make good, pure sugar,
and sell it for a large price, than there used to be, and that the
old fun and picturesqueness of the business are pretty much gone. I
am told that it is the custom to carefully collect the sap and bring
it to the house, where there are built brick arches, over which it is
evaporated in shallow pans; and that pains is taken to keep the leaves,
sticks, and ashes and coals out of it; and that the sugar is clarified;
and that, in short, it is a money-making business, in which there is
very little fun, and that the boy is not allowed to dip his paddle
into the kettle of boiling sugar and lick off the delicious sirup. The
prohibition may improve the sugar, but it is cruel to the boy.
As I remember the New England boy (and I am very intimate with one),
he used to be on the _qui vive_ in the spring for the sap to begin
running. I think he discovered it as soon as anybody. Perhaps he knew
it by a feeling of something starting in his own veins,—a sort of
spring stir in his legs and arms, which tempted him to stand on his
head, or throw a handspring, if he could find a spot of ground from
which the snow had melted. The sap stirs early in the legs of a country
boy, and shows itself in uneasiness in the toes, which get tired of
boots, and want to come out and touch the soil just as soon as the sun
has warmed it a little. The country boy goes barefoot just as naturally
as the trees burst their buds, which were packed and varnished over in
the fall to keep the water and the frost out. Perhaps the boy has been
out digging into the maple-trees with his jack-knife; at any rate, he
is pretty sure to announce the discovery as he comes running into the
house in a great state of excitement—as if he had heard a hen cackle
in the barn—with, "Sap's runnin'!"
And then, indeed, the stir and excitement begin. The sap-buckets,
which have been stored in the garret over the woodhouse, and which
the boy has occasionally climbed up to look at with another boy, for
they are full of sweet suggestions of the annual spring frolic,—the
sap-buckets are brought down and set out on the south side of the
house and scalded. The snow is still a foot or two feet deep in the
woods, and the ox-sled is got out to make a road to the sugar camp,
and the campaign begins. The boy is everywhere present, superintending
everything, 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 almost unobstructedly
into the forest, for there are only naked branches to bar it; the snow
is soft and beginning to sink down, leaving the young bushes spindling
up everywhere; the snow-birds are twittering about, and the noise
of shouting and of the blows of the axe echoes far and wide. This is
spring, and the boy can scarcely contain his delight that his outdoor
life is about to begin again.
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 in 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. Forked sticks are set at each end,
and a long pole is laid on them, and on this are hung the great caldron
kettles. The huge hogsheads are turned right side up, and cleaned out
to receive the sap that is gathered. And now, if there is a good "sap
run," the establishment is under full headway.
The great fire that is kindled up is never let out, night or day, as
long as the season lasts. Somebody is always cutting wood to feed
it; somebody is busy most of the time gathering in the sap; somebody
is required to watch the kettles that they do not boil over, and to
fill them. It is not the boy, however; he is too busy with things in
general to be of any use in details. He has his own little sap-yoke
and small pails, with which he gathers the sweet liquid. He has a
little boiling-place of his own, with small logs and a tiny kettle. In
the great kettles the boiling goes on slowly, and the liquid, as it
thickens, is dipped from one to another, until in the end kettle it is
reduced to sirup, and is taken out to cool and settle, until enough is
made to "sugar off." To "sugar off" is to boil the sirup until it is
thick enough to crystallize into sugar. This is the grand event, and
it is only done once in two or three days.
[Illustration: A YOUNG SUGAR-MAKER]
But the boy's desire is to "sugar off" perpetually. He boils his kettle
down as rapidly as possible; he is not particular about chips, scum, or
ashes; he is apt to burn his sugar; but if he can get enough to make a
little wax on the snow, or to scrape from the bottom of the kettle with
his wooden paddle, he is happy. A good deal is wasted on his hands and
the outside of his face and on his clothes, but he does not care; he is
not stingy.
To watch the operations of the big fire gives him constant pleasure.
Sometimes he is left to watch the boiling kettles, with a piece of
pork tied on the end of a stick, which he dips into the boiling mass
when it threatens to go over. He is constantly tasting of it, however,
to see if it is not almost sirup. He has a long round stick, whittled
smooth at one end, which he uses for this purpose, at the constant
risk of burning his tongue. The smoke blows in his face; he is grimy
with ashes; he is altogether such a mass of dirt, stickiness, and
sweetness, that his own mother wouldn't know him.
He likes to boil eggs with the hired man in the hot sap; he likes to
roast potatoes in the ashes, and he would live in the camp day and
night if he were permitted. Some of the hired men sleep in the bough
shanty and keep the fire blazing all night. To sleep there with them,
and awake in the night and hear the wind in the trees, and see the
sparks fly up to the sky, is a perfect realization of all the stories
of adventures he has ever read. He tells the other boys afterwards that
he heard something in the night that sounded very much like a bear. The
hired man says that he was very much scared by the hooting of an owl.