Many hands make light work, and Jack, Hernando and Elisha, armed with shovels, soon cleared walks to the street, and then turned toward the barn. Suddenly Jack called out, “Father, there is a flock of your old friends.” Twenty or thirty little black-capped birds were fluttering near the back door, calling “chick-a-dee-dee.” Mr. De Vere laughed heartily, for they brought to mind a picture of his boyhood days; the old school-house in the woods where every known mode of punishment, from “toeing the crack” to flogging, was resorted to, making the woods resound with yells. Then on a Friday afternoon after “spelling down,” the grim old schoolmaster produced a well-preserved accordion, tilted his chair against the wall and held his unwilling audience by “chick-a-dee-dee,” his only tune.
Reaching the barn, they found Reuben busily engaged skinning a half-dozen rabbits which had been caught in his traps the night before, and his mouth watered as he thought of rabbit pot-pie with the white puffy balls “all afloat in brown gravy.” The rabbits had barked several young fruit trees and committed depredations which made Reuben vow he would exterminate the vandals. As the others came up, he exhibited his trophies and exultantly exclaimed, “Dar now, I reckon I’ve settled dem tieves.”
“Are they fat?” inquired Mr. De Vere admiringly.
“Only jes’ tolabl’, Massa John.”
In the village, the male element of the population seemed intent on the one occupation of shovelling his own individual sidewalk. By noon, a heavy body of snow had sunk under the warm rays of the sun and the street was running with slush. Nature was preparing to cast off her winter garments, but in this rugged climate she does so reluctantly. A raw wind still blew from the snowy north, but the sun was too high to expect much more cold weather.
“By the way, Reuben,” called Mr. De Vere, “when have you been at the maple bush?”
“Early dis mawnin’, Massa, an’ de sap buckets was jes’ runnin’ plumb full.”
Mr. De Vere owned an orchard of about one hundred acres on the side of the mountain. His mother had bought the land for a mere song after the timber had all been burned off by forest fires, and had set it out in sugar maples. This was about twenty-five years ago. They had been nourished and protected until now they were an object of much admiration. Mr. De Vere insisted that there was something human in maples, and it was his rule never to bore them until the proper season and then in only one place at a time. The good old days of “sugaring off” were past and his sugar-house was furnished with the most modern appliances.
Sunday passed off very quietly. In the evening, Celeste sang and played for them, and as if by common consent, she and Elisha were left in undisputed possession of the parlor but not, however, until Jack had given his sister a knowing look which sent the blood bounding to her very temples, and she was preparing to follow him when Elisha advanced quickly to her side, encircling her waist with his great strong arm as he drew her down beside him on the settee.
Celeste felt a trifle awed by this great big fellow who idolized the very ground she trod. Other men had confessed their love for her but this one was different, and when he said, “Celeste, I love you. Will you be my wife?” she knew that in that simple declaration was the fidelity of a lifetime.