“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.”