Miracles on Maple Hill (Harcourt Young Classics) (16 page)

Marly had never seen Mother look so crushed and so hurt. Even when Daddy had been cross and tired all that time. Even when he first came home and was so thin and sad.

"Well, of course Harry must come here, then," Mother said. Her voice was slow but very firm. "I'll go and call Chrissie and tell her so." She went to the telephone and rang the little bell and waited, looking at the floor and listening. Daddy stood where he was, and Joe sat looking at the eggs on his plate. The kitchen was very still. Outside the sun was shining on bright new snow.

It was like last night again, hearing only Mother's end of the conversation. "Chrissie, Joe wants Harry here for Christmas. Please tell him. Yes, Joe insists—and tell him we all want him to come. All of us. Yes. I do, too. Yes—please tell him."

She hung up.

Daddy went over and kissed her square on the mouth. "Merry Christmas, Lee," he said.

Marly felt herself light and strong and happy. It was as if today, which was nothing but the Friday before Christmas, had gone running ahead over the calendar, and it was already Christmas Day.

Mr. Chris said the time between Christmas and spring was always the longest time of the year. It's true, Marly thought, going to school day after day. Snow fell and fell and melted and melted and then fell again. The roads were icy and piled on either side with old drifts as high as the car. Harry had gone again after Christmas, and the new gifts got to be just ordinary things lying around with the things you'd had forever and forever.

Valentine's Day was fun at school, of course, and the windows looked bright with red and white hearts and streamers. Then came the heaviest snow of all, a storm Mr. Chris said was one of the worst in history. The school bus didn't come for four solid days. Wind howled around the house the way it did on the radio for a ghost story, and Marly shivered in bed and covered herself clear to the eyes.

A week after Valentine's Day the sun came out suddenly. The world was a blaze of light, and the snow began to sink into the ground. The tops of the fences appeared again, and Joe measured how much more of the posts he could see every day. The ground appeared, brown, on the south side of the hill. Trees stood bare again, with patches of white snow still lying where their shadows fell.

Then the miracle happened.

One day Marly was on the way home from school and saw Mother coming to meet her down the road. Mother waved and shouted long before Marly could understand what she was saying. But then she heard it:

"Marly, Mr. Chris said to tell you. The sap's up! It's sugaring time again!"

The sap's up!

Sugaring time!

"When do we go over? Now?" Marly cried.

"Fritz came for Daddy, and I'm to bring you and Joe. They need help, hanging buckets." Mother looked all excited herself, her cheeks bright red. "Put on your oldest things—" Marly was already on her way. "And don't forget your boots—and your mittens. Those buckets will be cold."

How familiar the hill was now! Marly knew it as they went in the little old road, every rut of it practically, as she might know the face of an old friend. One year ago she had come along there alone, wondering about everything, and there—there by the woodpile—she had found Mr. Chris. Now a high new pile of wood stood ready, almost as high as the little brown house.

There was no fire yet, this time. The evaporator was being assembled. Long scrubbed pans had been lifted over the firebox. Marly could see the section where the sap would be, first as thin as water, then flowing into the next pan, darker, and the next, darker still. Darker and darker until it was not sap anymore at all. But syrup. Real honest-to-goodness first-run Chris. She was so excited her hands got trembly, and she didn't know whether she was going to be a bit of use. Daddy was piling buckets onto the truck from the lean-to where they'd been stored, upside down, all winter.

It was like seeing the beginning of everything. The very,
very
beginning. Her eyes moved out over the sugarbush; patches of snow and deep brown leaves lay on the ground under the bare trees. Surprises were good, she thought. But a miracle was better when you knew it was coming. This year she knew. She knew exactly where the spring beauties would appear. She knew where hepaticas would turn the ground blue and lavender and pink. She knew where trillium would stand tall, its leaves saying "three" and its petals saying "three." She knew where the bloodroot would light its white Easter candles.

So many things to begin again! She knew how the leaves would come green on the trees, how their flowers would turn the soft maples red along the brook. She knew where water would go tumbling as the snow melted, making waterfalls that were there only in the spring. She lifted her face to the sun and laughed. Spring sparkled already in the sharp air.

There was a sudden whirring among the trees. What was that? Had a sudden army of cicadas arrived already? Mr. Chris was laughing and calling her to come along smart with those buckets. She could hear his voice a long way up the hill.

The whirring came from what Fritz was doing. He had a thing he called a brace and bit, and he and Mr. Chris were going from tree to tree, drilling holes with it. They hammered sharp little drippers they called
spiles
into the holes. Over each of these on a special little hook at the top, Joe and Marly were to hang a bucket and put on each one its little pointed hat of a lid.

Every hole must be in a new and different place from those of last year and the years before. The old ones had grown over like scars on a vaccination. Marly could find on each tree, especially on the biggest ones, where holes had been made for years and years. But Mr. Chris said this never seemed to harm a tree at all. "No more than those little scars you've got from tumbling around when you were little," he said.

The sap was coming so fast that before they got the buckets on the spiles were dripping. At once, into the empty tin pails, the sap began to go plop! plop! plop!

"They'll be full by morning at this rate," Fritz said. "Chris, you don't think it'll freeze?"

"No, this is a prize first run. I can smell it!"

It was fun to walk along behind them and listen to the sugar-talk.

"It's wonderful, an early run like this. It has to be about 40° to bring it up. There've been years when we didn't even open the bush, but not this year, thank goodness, the way we need the cash ... I've known it to stay on cold and stay on cold until it was time to plant the oats." Mr. Chris's voice boomed out among the trees as he talked to Daddy and Mother. "After we start planting, there's no time for sugaring. You plant oats early and you get oats; you plant 'em late and you get nothing but chaff."

This was the way Marly liked Mr. Chris best. Unless it was when he put wood on the fire and sat down and talked while it burned, and the steam began rising in white clouds once more under the little roof. Unless it was when he got that watchful look on his face as he lifted syrup from the last pan into his wooden paddle—and let—it—slowly—drip—to—see—whether—it—was—thick—enough. When he did that, Marly knew she would hold her breath.

Plop! plop! went the sap behind her as she hung one bucket after another. Her hands were cold soon, but she didn't care.

"First time I made sugar in this bush, my father had nothing but one iron kettle. Not much better than the Indians; they're the ones that taught my grandfather, Dale, on this same land. Later we had a half dozen kettles set in a row, with a fire under each. We poured from kettle to kettle as it boiled down—and did we have to hurry with the sugaring-off kettle before it burned! It was set on a sweep-pole we could swing off the fire in a hurry."

"Maybe that's the way I'd better start, on Maple Hill," Daddy said. "Nothing like starting at the beginning."

"No, no, we'll go on over and do your trees as soon as we're through here. We can do it all together and keep track, can't we? You can haul your sap over every time you're filled up."

Joe said, "Maybe we'd better build our own place and do it the old way, Mr. Chris. Harry says syrup's not as good as it used to be when it got all full of twigs and bark and stuff."

"And spiders," said Mr. Chris. "Oh, yes, Harry's right—we're altogether too fussy now. We strain it when we gather and strain it when it goes into the evaporator, and then we filter it again when it comes off the fire."

Dark came too soon. Only five hundred buckets were hung. But thank goodness, Marly thought, tomorrow was Saturday. They could work all day long in the bright sunny air. From the red sunset, Mr. Chris said, you could tell what a good day it was going to be tomorrow.

Going back to the house, walking slowly, Mr. Chris said, "Marly, my Dad used to say me a poem every sugaring time. He said it was so I'd not overdo the tasting part of it. Maybe I'd better give it to you and Joe. It went like this:

"My boyish enjoyment was complete
And once a year my face was sweet!
But woe to him who takes no care,
And lets his taste become his snare!
'Twere well if Eve had tasted less.
And so with me, I must confess.
Eve, I suppose, grew sick at heart,
But I ached in another part!"

Maybe it was good advice. But Marly knew she could hardly wait for the first taste.

Mother called her early the next morning, so early her room was still dark. She was so sleepy she had to fight to unravel her clothes and find where her feet and arms went. But up the stairs came the smell of bacon frying already, and when she almost fell downstairs, the kitchen was bright and full of laughter. Fritz had come already to help tap their trees.

"Sleepyhead!" Joe yelled, and came after her with a cold washcloth. This time she didn't even care, though she squealed and squealed. She felt herself come alive as he splashed cold water over her face.

Outside was the smell of spring.

"We've got an east wind today," Fritz said, sniffing. At his heels, the dog Tony was sniffing the same way. "A north wind will stop a run. And Chris says a south wind blows the sap right back up the spiles."

When they finally got back to Mr. Chris's bush, Marly could hardly wait to see what was in the buckets. She took off the first pointed lid she came to. The bucket was almost full. The sap was as bright and clear as spring water. It didn't taste very sweet when she put a finger in and tasted—only faintly sweet, like something far off that you barely heard, or barely saw. There was no color in it at all—or was there? Just a touch of yellow, maybe, in its brightness? She peered in and thought she must see it, for she knew it was surely there.

In an hour the woods were full of steam again. The smell of woodsmoke drifted down the hill and among the trees. Then came the first smell of sweetness ... Was it?

It's the beginning, Marly thought. Just as Mr. Chris had said, the syrup is spring. It's the heart and blood of the maple trees; it has the gold of the leaves in it and the brown of the bark. It's the sun shining. It's snow melting. It's the bright new air and the earth as it starts pushing—pushing—pushing.

Her arms felt strong. Her heart was light.

"We'll be boiling late tonight," Mr. Chris said.

"We'll come over the way we did last year," Daddy answered. "This time we may be of a little use." From Daddy's voice, the way he said the words, Marly knew he felt all the bright new feelings she felt herself. From Joe's face, she knew he felt it, too.

On such a day, it is hard to believe how quickly every feeling, every goodness, can change and go away. None of them knew how quickly as they sat around again that night, as Daddy sang once more about the foxes, as the fire burned and the miracle of the cream happened all over again. This time Mr. Chris let her make the miracle happen herself, and she felt like a fairy queen with a wand as she made the high bubbles fall back and behave themselves.

But before dawn the next morning, she woke with a start. Fritz was downstairs already. She could hear him talking to Daddy who was only halfway downstairs, still in his pajamas.

"Chrissie came and woke me. About two o'clock it was, I guess. He overdid yesterday—getting that first run out just right. I'll try to get back by afternoon if he's okay. If you can get help with the gathering—but of course it's Sunday..."

If he's okay? Who?

Marly felt her heart sink down. Fritz rushed outside, and she heard the car start with a roar. Joe was standing in the hall when she went out, and Mother, in her robe. Daddy said, "Lee, he said Chris woke with this numbness, and then when he tried to stand, he couldn't. They've got an ambulance coming. Chrissie called the doctor and he said—"

Marly sat down, right on the floor. Everything seemed to go dizzy and ugly and horrible. What was spring? What was anything?

"Do you think we can do it?" Daddy asked.

Mother looked as if she was surprised he could ask such a silly question. "People do what they have to do," she said. "Chris needs this crop, and he's going to get it. Fritz knows
how.
We just need to help him."

"Chris has always done the real job, the finishing," Daddy said.

"Well, now he's sick," Mother said. Her voice sounded impatient, but Marly knew it was because she was so worried. "He's going to need the money from the sugar crop more than ever. The sap's there, the wood's cut, and just look at the help!"

Marly lifted her chin and made her muscles go hard on her arms. Joe got his determined look; it made him look older, almost as if he was ready to be a man already. "Sure we can do it," he said.

"It'll be hard work," Daddy said in a warning voice. He looked at them, first at Marly and then at Joe. "If we start this thing, we finish it. See?"

Joe looked down at his plate and so did Marly. They didn't always like hard work, goodness knows, and sometimes they figured all kinds of ways to get out of it. But that was dishes and wood-chopping and things like that—not sugaring!

"We can do the way Fritz said and just finish off this first run," Daddy said. "Or we can carry on just like Chris has always done himself. He needs the money, the way Mother says. It's some of the cash he depends on. Then—well—" He looked at his plate, too. "It's something we can do that'd make him feel good."