Pebbles and Shells (Hawkes collection)/Bilin' Sap
BILIN' SAP
You boys all know how 1in the airly Spring,Wal, say about the time the bluebird comes,How 'tis the groun' begins ter thaw an' freezeAlong the sunny slopes beside the woods, An' how the sap goes creepin' up by dayInter the limbs an' shoots upon the treesAn' how the cold at night will send it backAgin a-racin' down into the rootsTer keep all snug and warm till mornin' comes.The snow aint gone 'cept here an' there a bitUpon the hills that look all bare and burntInstead o' cold an' kinder lonesome too,Like some poor robin that yer see in fallAfter the rest have gone an' snow has come,A-hoppin' round upon a leafless limbPerkin' his feathers up an' makin' b'lieveThat he aint cold an" mighty lonesome too.It aint so piercin' cold these days exceptBy spells, but now an' then the rough March windGits on a rampage an' careers aboutAn' howls in at the cracks an' shakes the houseLike he was mad,—That's Winter's dyin' kick.
Wal, jest about this time it gits ter lookLike sugarin', so when the wind gits rightAn' it will freeze by night an' thaw by day,Then boys look out fer jest a rush o' sap;'Tis then we git the spiles an' buckets outAn' set the camp. I tell you what 'tis funThis tappin' trees, sendin' the gleamin' bitInter the wood, seein' the shavin's creepOut on the bit an' fall upon the snow Wet with the life blood of the mighty trec;An' then ter see the sap come spirtin' outAs bright and sparklin' as the mornin' dew,An' then ter hear it drop into the pailAs stiddy as an ole-time wooden clock—A kinder sayin'—drink, drink, drink;A drop aint much yer say, wal, no, but thenWhen you've a thousand trees a-tickin' soYou'll find out soon it piles the sap up fast,An' that's jest what this tale is comin' to.When sap has been a-runnin' for a weekRight smart, that is it does not run much nights,The storage tubs an' pans git brimmin' fullAn' runnin' over too, 'tis then the boysGo up ter camp ter bile the sap at night.But they are used to that 'ere kind o' thingAn' there aint nuthin' they would ruther do.
They git a peck o' apples from the bin,Some but'nuts an' some chestnuts from up stairs,An' half a dozen ears of popcorn too,An' p'raps a dozen eggs to help along,An' then they start up to the sugar house;The moon is mebbe three hours high by thenAn' jest a-smilin' out her purtiest,Turnin' the snow to sparklin' diamondsAn' makin' gloomy shadows 'hind the trees.The sugar house looks cheerfuller than homeWith its great fire a-glowin' in the arch, An' steam a-steamin' out through every crack.Wal, fust they set ter work ter fill the panAn' git the fire to goin' good an' hotAn' then they try to have a little fun.The eggs are dropped inter the hoppin' sapAn' biled, the apples toasted by the coals,The chestnuts roasted hot, and but nuts cracked,An' then they spread some blankets on the floorBefore the glowin' arch where it is warm,An' set down for a feast an' story tell.
Aud sech tales as them country boys can tellThings that they've read out of the garret storeOf books an' papers on a winter's night.Stories of Injun fightin' on the plains,An' huntin' grizzlies on the mountain wildsAn' trackin' antelopes across the snow,With jungle tales an' stories of the east,An' hand ter hand encounters with the lion,An' tigers mad with hunger and with wounds,Of buried treasures in the mountain's side,An' pirate raids upon the open sea.An' all the time the fitful firelight gleamsAn' dances in the arch, sendin' its glowFar out inter the gloom, then sinkin' lowLeaves all the scene in dark mysterious shade.
An' ev'ry now and then the howlin' windShrieks in the trees like witches ridin' by, Or makes the big old maple limbs ter squeakAn' groan, then in some sudden lull the crustWill crack an' snap like ter the sharp reportO' that dread rifle that the red man bears,An' owls with hideous hoots fill up the gaps.An' as each tale grows skeerier than the lastThe boys draw nearer to the cheerful fireAn' peer inter the gloom with frightened eyes;An' so they pass the cold un'arthly nightA-chankin' apples an' a-spinnin' yarnsAn' skeerin' one another nigh to deathUntil the gleamin' stars begin to fadeAn' in the east there comes a yaller streak.An' then they pour the syrup in a tub,Then hitch it tight upon the ol' hand sledAn' draw it home jest as the breakin' dayBegins to chase the shadows o'er the snow.