Chapter 8

Of all that long season of snow, I remember most pleasantly the
days that were sweetened with the sugar-making. When the sun
was lifting his course in the clearing sky, and March had got the
temper of the lamb, and the frozen pulses of the forest had begun
to stir, the great kettle was mounted in the yard and all gave a hand
to the washing of spouts and buckets. Then came tapping time, in
which I helped carry the buckets and tasted the sweet flow that
followed the auger's wound. The woods were merry with our
shouts, and, shortly, one could hear the heart-beat of the maples in
the sounding bucket. It was the reveille of spring. Towering trees
shook down the gathered storms of snow and felt for the sunlight.
The arch and shanty were repaired, the great iron kettle was
scoured and lifted to its place, and then came the boiling. It was a
great, an inestimable privilege to sit on the robes of faded fur, in
the shanty, and hear the fire roaring under the kettle and smell the
sweet odour of the boiling sap. Uncle Eb minded the shanty and
the fire and the woods rang with his merry songs. When I think of
that phase of the sugaring, lam face to face with one of the greatest
perils of my life. My foster father had consented to let me spend a
night with Uncle Eb in the shanty, and I was to sleep on the robes,
where he would be beside me when he was not tending the fire. It
had been a mild, bright day, and David came up with our supper at
sunset. He sat talking with Uncle Eb for an hour or so, and the
woods were darkling when he went away.

When he started on the dark trail that led to the clearing, I
wondered at his courage - it was so black beyond the firelight.
While we sat alone I plead for a story, but the thoughts of Uncle
Eb had gone to roost early in a sort of gloomy meditation.

'Be still, my boy,' said he, 'an' go t' sleep. I ain't agoin' t' tell no
yarns an' git ye all stirred up. Ye go t' sleep. Come mornin' we'll go
down t' the brook an' see if we can't find a mink or tew 'n the traps.'

I remember hearing a great crackling of twigs in the dark wood
before I slept. As I lifted my head, Uncle Eb whispered, 'Hark!' and
we both listened. A bent and aged figure came stalking into the
firelight His long white hair mingled with his beard and covered
his coat collar behind.

'Don't be scairt,' said Uncle Eb. "Tain' no bear. It's nuthin' but a
poet.'

I knew him for a man who wandered much and had a rhyme for
everyone - a kindly man with a reputation for laziness and without
any home.

'Bilin', eh?' said the poet

'Bilin',' said Uncle Eb.

'I'm bilin' over 'n the next bush,' said the poet, sitting down.

'How's everything in Jingleville?' Uncle Eb enquired.