Part 15

It was far easier walking through the woods than it had been in the winter. The guide was in jovial spirits, and constantly called the attention of his companions to the many signs of awakening life about them. At one sandy place beneath the pines he stopped and sniffed the air suggestively.

“What is it?” asked Ed; for he and George detected a delicious sweet-scented perfume mingled with that from the evergreens.

“Arbutus,” said Ben, dropping to his knee and pointing to small clusters of delicate pink-and-white flowers, which showed forth from a mass of green, rubber-like leaves. He pulled a few bunches of the blossoms and handed them to the boys to smell.

“Um, that’s fine!” they declared, as they buried their noses in the little bouquets and inhaled long breaths of exquisite perfume.

“What do you call it?” again inquired Ed, stooping and gathering more of the dainty plant.

“Arbutus, or mayflower,” said Ben, placing a tiny bunch of them in the band of his hat. “They’re my favorites.”

The guide told how this hardy little plant sometimes bloomed beneath a foot or more of snow. He said all woodsmen were partial to it, and eagerly looked for its flowers as the real harbingers of spring.

On all sides they beheld evidences of nature awakening from her long winter sleep. Ben drew their attention to these things, and explained just what was happening, and the reason for it. He showed them other delicate blossoms brought forth by the warm sunshine, while the woods themselves were bare; called to their notice the newly born or early awakened insects buzzing about in the sunny places, and made known the calls and names of feathered songsters returned from the South. They became so interested that they were at the maple grove before they knew it.

“Look over at that third tree to the right, on the upper side of the first limb,” cautioned the guide, quietly.

The lads looked where he told them to, but for several seconds they could discern nothing out of the ordinary. All that time Ben stood watching them closely, the faintest trace of a smile on his face.

“I see it!” cried Ed, finally. “It’s a red squirrel, and he’s lying flat along the top of the branch.”

“I see it, too,” said George, a moment later. “I must have seen it all the time and thought it was a knot.”

“That’s better,” laughed the guide, pleased at the sharp eyesight of the boys. “When you see him there it means that the sap is running.”

They looked at him in astonishment. What possible connection could the presence of a lazy little red squirrel, sprawled indolently along the limb, have to do with the rising of the sap in the tree?

“What do you mean?” asked George.

“Why, that little ‘sweet-tooth’ over there has gnawed a hole in the upper side of the limb, and then stretched himself out to watch it fill with sap. When it’s full he quickly sucks it out and waits patiently till another cupful is ready. It’s an old trick of his, and you may be sure, when you find him at it, that it’s time to tap the trees. Well, let’s begin,” said the guide, as he pulled off his coat.

Ben took the auger and bored a hole into the trunk of a near-by tree. He explained that he tapped the tree on the south side, as, that being the warmer side, the sap would run more freely there. Ben also explained that one must not bore too deep. He said he tapped a tree once in two years. The tree he now tapped had not been touched the season previous, and would not be again until the second season following. Having bored the hole to the proper depth, he whittled and inserted a grooved, trough-like plug, which protruded from the trunk far enough to hold the pail, which was promptly hung upon it.

While Ben went to the next tree to repeat the operation the boys stood before the one he had just tapped. They watched the sap ooze slowly forward from the wound and trickle down the plug, to drip, drop by drop, into the suspended bucket.

Ed, unable longer to resist the temptation, dipped his finger in the sticky fluid and touched it to his tongue.

“No wonder the red squirrel likes it,” he laughed; whereupon George also sampled some.

“Hey, you fellows, scat out of there!” yelled Ben, with pretended fierceness.

At sound of his voice the squirrel abandoned its perch, and, mounting to the top of the tree, proceeded to scold the intruders.

“Guess he thought I meant him,” laughed Ben, when the boys walked over to where he had tapped another tree. “Well, how did you like it?”

“Fine,” they declared.

“Wait till we get it boiled down; then you’ll taste real maple-syrup. We’ll make some sugar, too.”

When he had hung the last of his pails, Ben proceeded to make several troughs from logs cut and split for the purpose. He placed them on the ground beneath the spigots in the trees for which he had no buckets. By the time he had finished tapping all of the trees selected, it was past noon. Seating themselves in a sunny spot, the “sugarers” enjoyed their lunch.

The smell of escaping sap soon enticed bees and early insects to the vicinity. But the sticky sap clogged their wings, and the boys had much sport freeing them from their predicament with twigs, and watching while the confused little honey-gatherers cleaned themselves.

They were also much interested in a pair of big, black, pileated woodpeckers, with large crests of scarlet feathers on top of their heads. Ben said the woodsmen called them “Cock of the Woods,” and declared they were becoming very scarce. The birds alighted against the trunk of a tree, from which, after having carefully examined it, they began to chisel great pieces with their powerful bills. The guide said it was the way they excavated a cavity in which to lay their eggs.

Late in the afternoon Ben gathered the sap and, assisted by the boys, carried it home to boil. It was placed in a big iron kettle and boiled over a hardwood fire. Ed and George were kept busy stirring and skimming, and, as the “sugaring” was continued for several days, their job became a steady one. Ben taught them how to do the boiling, while he tended the trees and brought in the sap. When the job was finished they had a large quantity of golden syrup and many tempting cakes of appetizing brown sugar to reward them for their labor.

Then they awoke one morning to find the exact sort of a day they had been wishing for. It was bright and warm, without the slightest trace of a breeze to stir the placid, mirror-like surface of the lake. If it continued so until darkness, the boys knew they would realize the anticipation of weeks. On such a night Ben had promised to take them on the lake to spear eels and suckers. He had carefully stipulated that the night must be calm, otherwise the expedition would be useless. The slightest rippling of the water would prevent them from seeing into it along shore and discovering their finny prey.

“If it’s calm to-night, how about spearing?” asked Ed, hopefully, when they were at dinner.

“I’ve just been thinking about that,” laughed Ben. “I guess we can go to-night, from the way things look now. We’ll go out, presently, and cut some pine knots. Then, if we don’t go, we’ll have them on hand for the next time.”

“Hurrah!” cried Ed. “Now for some fun.”

When the table had been cleared and things tidied up after the meal, Ben stood on a chair and reached aloft among the cross-logs near the roof. He brought down two long poles, each of them tapered at one end to fit into an iron socket which had four sharply pointed prongs, or spear-points.

He placed the poles against the outside of the cabin, and, bidding the boys fetch two sacks, strode away into the woods, ax in hand. He searched until he found the kind of log he wanted. This chanced to be a fallen pitch-pine. Making his way to it, Ben began chopping out the knots.

“I’m taking the fat off,” he laughed.

The lads were at a loss to understand, until he explained that the oily pitch, or resin, collected at the knots, and was known to woodsmen as “fat.” He said it was highly inflammable, and was used for torches and brilliant fires. Ben showed them how to distinguish a “fat” knot from a dry or “lean” one, and pointed out the differences by which they might know one variety of dead tree from another.

Ed and George gathered the knots and placed them in the bags. They staggered gamely along under their loads, until Ben declared they had sufficient knots for their purpose. Then they returned to the cabin, and dropped their burdens thankfully before the door.

All day they anxiously scanned the sky, the trees, and the surface of the water for signs of the dreaded breeze. When the sun finally set and twilight fell, while still the bosom of the lake lay smooth and unruffled, they began to feel easier.

At supper Ben gave them a dreadful fright when he suddenly ceased eating and, with a look of disgust on his face, cried, “Hear the wind howl!”

The boys rose and darted to the door; but, discovering the hoax, came back to find the guide chuckling gleefully.

“It’s all right, you needn’t worry; there’ll be no wind to-night,” he said; and, greatly relieved by the prophecy, the lads finished their meal in peace.

When they were ready to start, Ben produced a large, open-work iron basket welded to a long iron rod. He said it was to hold the burning pine knots. The guide also carried a small can of kerosene with which to start the fire.

Eagerly the boys followed him to the edge of the lake. To their surprise, he pointed to a log raft on rollers a short distance from the water. Ben declared it to be far safer than the canoe for the work in hand. The boys helped him drag it to the edge of the lake and set it afloat.

Then he fitted the rod with the iron basket, or cage, into a hole in the front end of one of the logs. From the bushes he brought a long push-pole shod on the end with a blunt iron point or “shoe.”

“My, the birds are making an awful racket to-night. I didn’t know they called much after dark,” said Ed, when Ben was arranging the pine knots.

“I’ve been listening to them, too. What are they?” asked George.

Ben laughed softly to himself at the question. Then he turned soberly to address his questioners.

“They are ‘peepers’--birds without feathers.

“Birds without feathers!” they repeated, incredulously.

“Yes, they live in the water most of the time,” laughed Ben, enjoying the joke on the boys.

The night fairly rang with the shrill, bird-like peeps which seemed to come from the borders of the lake. Ed and George listened, unable to guess what made the piping sounds.

“That noise is made by little frogs--‘peepers,’ we call them,” said Ben. “You’ll hear them in the daytime, too, for the next few weeks; and if you sneak up carefully you can see them singing. They puff their throats out into a round, white ball.”

“Do you really mean that?” asked Ed, seriously.

“Give you my word,” replied Ben.

“Well, that is something worth learning,” declared George. “Ed, we must take a picture of one singing.”

“Wouldn’t it make a dandy?” cried Ed.

Ben had meantime arranged the pine knots to his satisfaction. Dashing some kerosene over them, he applied a match. Instantly they flared up and began blazing fiercely.

“All aboard!” he cried. “And mind you, don’t fall overboard.”

He had swung the head of the raft from shore, and was standing at the stern end, pole in hand, ready to push off.

The boys found places quickly, one on either side of the iron rod which supported the basket of blazing pine. The knots were hissing, snapping, and sending forth a constant star-like shower of sparks.

Ben pushed from shore and poled slowly along in about three or four feet of water. By aid of the glare from the flaming beacon above them the young spearmen were enabled to see down through the placid depths to the muddy bottom. They crouched, spear in hand, ready to impale the first victim that showed itself.

When they were well under way Ben began to issue instructions.

“See anything yet?” he inquired.

“Nothing but some sticks and stones,” replied Ed.

“Wait a minute! There--goes--something!” And George made a wild jab into the water.

“Hold on there; that won’t do!” said Ben. “You’ll break the pole or throw yourself overboard. When you see something, lower the point of your spear gradually till you get it two or three inches over your fish. Then give a short, quick jab and you’ll get him.”

“I see an eel!” cried Ed, lowering his spear as Ben had directed. “I’ve got him!” he declared, exultantly, and raised his spear and displayed a three-foot eel wriggling on the tines. He was about to drop his prize on the raft when the guide interrupted.

“Here, take this,” he said, and pushed forward the box on which he had been sitting. “Put them in that; otherwise they’ll flop overboard. Now take your knife and stick him behind the head. In the future, spear them there, and you’ll kill them at once.”

George made another jab and brought up a good-sized sucker, which he was careful to shake into the box. A few moments later he speared an eel; but it was a large one, and he was unable to bring it to the surface. Ed instantly went to his assistance, and between them they managed to secure the prize. It was four feet or more in length and about four inches in circumference.

“You fellows keep sharp watch ahead; I’m traveling pretty close to shore. We don’t want to get hung up on a rock,” Ben warned.

“What’s that?” cried Ed, as an animal turned from the edge of the water and crashed away through the woods.

“Deer,” said the guide, quietly.

Then the very thing he had warned them against happened. The forward end of the raft ran on a submerged rock and stuck fast. The force of the impact threw Ed over backward into the fish-box, and George within an inch or two of the water. A veritable hail of sparks descended upon them, and, warned by a cry from the guide, George discovered that the wool lining of his hunting-coat was smoldering. Scrambling hastily to his feet, he shed the garment in record time, and soon extinguished the blaze.

It required much hard work to free the raft, and the boys worked desperately, for they felt guilty in having allowed the accident to happen. When they finally floated free and went ahead, they looked out more keenly, determined to guard against a repetition of the mishap.

They heard many strange sounds as they floated quietly along, preceded by the small circle of light from the roaring fire of snapping pine knots. The deep, animal-like baying of bullfrogs sounded from the center of the marshy swamp. Ducks were calling from the middle of the lake. Drowsy birds fluttered uncertainly from the tree-tops along the shore. Ben called their attention to the distant yapping of a fox. They heard deer or moose several times.

“Look!” cried George, pointing excitedly toward the edge of the forest. “What is it? Oh, see its eyes!”

“Quick, Ben, look at it--it’s moving!” said Ed, having caught sight of the two shining spots of bright green fire.

The guide laughed.

“That’s ‘fox-fire,’ or phosphorus. An old decayed log, or stick, becomes coated with it, and after a rain, or down where it’s damp, glows like that. It scares ‘tenderfeet’ out of their wits,” he laughed. “Some call it ‘will-o’-the-wisp,’ ’cause they imagine it moves along through the woods. Fact is, just like now, you’re moving and watching it at the same time, and, of course, you think it’s following you.”

“My, it’s ‘spooky’ looking,” said Ed.

The boys became so skilled in the use of their spears that they took all the fish they could use in a very short time. Then Ben made them stop, and allowed the pine knots to die down, until the dull glow gave forth only a feeble light.

In returning to the starting-point he wisely sought deeper water, for he was fearful of again running aground. He beached the raft, and the boys carried the catch ashore, well pleased with their sport.

It was late when they reached the cabin, and Ben threw the fish into a pan of water until the morning. As to the eels, the boys learned that the strange creatures are born in the sea, and after they are a year old run up the freshwater rivers and streams into the lakes, where they remain during the summer. In the fall the eels leave these lakes and retrace the journey to the sea, where they finally die.

XXII TREED!

The boys heard a grouse drumming in the woods back of the cabin one morning, and decided to try the experiment of walking up to it. Taking the camera, they waited until they heard the beginning of its tattoo, and then started off in its direction. When it ceased they halted abruptly and waited for a repetition. Then, as it again echoed through the woods, they hurried on. These manœuvers were repeated until the lads found themselves close upon the unsuspecting drummer.

“Thud-thud-thud-thud-thud; thud, thud, thud, thud-r-r-r-r,” the muffled sound rose near at hand, reverberated in their ears, and died away.

“I think he just hopped down from that old log over there,” said George, in a low whisper, as he and Ed lay behind a great lichen-covered boulder.

Again the sound came to them, and, peering at the log, they saw the drummer at work. Hopping to the top of the fallen tree-trunk, he stood for a moment, with crest erect, looking about him. Then, spreading his tail and dragging the tips of his wings along the log, he strutted proudly to and fro. Stopping suddenly, he spread his wings and began lustily beating the air. Beginning slowly, he moved his wings faster and faster, raising himself on his toes in the effort, until the beats became so rapid that the thud of each stroke was blended with the one before, and a dull, continuous rumble, as of distant thunder, was the result. When he finished he jumped down on the opposite side of the log and disappeared from the sight of his charmed audience.

“Wasn’t that great?” whispered George. “We certainly walked him down, all right, didn’t we?”

“Yes, but keep quiet; I’m going to try to get a picture,” declared Ed, looking longingly toward the shelter of a small evergreen that stood within a few feet of the log on which the grouse had drummed.

“You’ll never get there without his seeing or hearing you,” warned George.

Further whisperings were cut short by the second appearance of the bird on the log. Again the boys lay fascinated, as he went through his interesting performance. When it was finished, they turned their heads and looked at each other comprehendingly. From close by had come a reply, a challenge to his boastful call.

It was evident that he heard and understood the answer of his rival. For a moment he stood boldly erect, turning his head for some sign of his enemy, his tail feathers spread fan-like, and his wings half drooping. From time to time he raised and lowered the feathers on his crown, and the stiff, ruff-like collar about his neck stood out with anger. The boys fancied they could almost see the flash of his eyes as he waited for the challenger to appear. Once more he sent his call thundering through the woods, and again the answer came back, this time closer at hand.

An indistinct, shadowy something roared past, and the watchers dodged involuntarily. It landed with a thud among the dried leaves, and they saw at once that it was a second grouse come to do battle with the first.

“Oh, for a picture!” breathed Ed.

“Be still; we’re going to see something worth watching in a few minutes,” cautioned George, in a scarcely audible whisper.

Nor were they long left in doubt about it, for the two feathered rivals, after a little warlike strutting, attacked each other with beak and spurs. Like barn-yard roosters, they jumped at one another, striking and pecking, in a fast and furious battle for supremacy. The sympathy of the boys was entirely with the one they had stalked. The other had come looking for trouble. That he was getting it in generous quantities seemed only proper to the partial audience behind the rock.

In their fighting, the determined little warriors drew nearer the hiding-place of the boys. Ed quietly brought forth the camera and made it ready, resolved to have a picture if they came within focusing range.

Suddenly something red flashed from a group of little pines. Before the lads realized what had happened, a big red fox was disappearing with one of the recent combatants in his jaws. The survivor thundered away into the forest, chattering with fright. The birds had afforded him easy prey, for, engaged as they were with each other, they had not detected his stealthy approach until the sly red fellow was upon them.

“Well, what do you think of that?” asked George, sitting up with a surprised look on his face.

“Beats anything I ever heard of,” declared Ed, folding the camera.

“Say, Ed, which one did he get?”

“The one that came looking for trouble, I think.”

“That’s what I thought. I’m sorry he got either, but I’m glad it was the other that got away. He seemed so blamed happy and contented drumming away on his old log that I’d just hate to think of anything like that happening to him.”

“So would I,” said Ed, rising from the ground.

The boys walked away solemnly in the direction taken by the red marauder. They stooped and picked up several mottled-brown feathers, mute evidences of the tragedy just witnessed. For some distance they made their way in silence, their minds occupied with the fate of the luckless grouse.

Then they heard the hoarse bark of a fox and halted at once. They could hear him trotting over the fallen leaves within a few feet of them. Finally they saw him, and, strange enough, he did not seem inclined to take advantage of the available shelter, but rather appeared to court their attention.

“George, I think he has his eye on you for an extra course after the grouse,” laughed Ed. “Let’s give him a chase, just for fun.”

“Hold on a moment,” cautioned George, seriously, while he studied the unaccountable actions of the fox. “Do you know what I think is the matter?”

“No; what?”

“Well, I’m quite sure that old fellow’s den is around here somewhere. Don’t you remember what Ben told us about him? You know he said if you suddenly came upon an old fox near its den and young, it would act exactly like this one is acting. Remember how he said it would hover near and endeavor to frighten you into leaving the vicinity, or else would try to draw you into a chase, and so lead you away from the spot?”

“By ginger! you’re right, George. Great head! I had forgotten all about it,” confessed Ed. “I believe that is just what this old ‘sly-boots’ is trying to do. Let’s look around a bit, and we may find the den.”

Giving no thought to the fox, which was becoming bolder each minute, they began to search about, in the hope of discovering his lair. Several times, in its concern and excitement, the crafty creature ran almost within reach of them.

“Wonder if he really would attack us?” said George.

“I don’t believe it,” replied Ed. “I think he’s just bluffing.”

Finally the fox uttered a few impatient yaps and trotted off. The boys stood looking after it; but apparently the sly red fellow had lost all interest in them. He disappeared over a hill, as though their presence in the vicinity caused him little anxiety.

“Well, what about that?” inquired Ed, disgustedly. “I don’t believe we are within a mile of his den. I guess he was just looking us over to see if it was worth while carrying one of us home for dinner,” he laughed.

“Don’t you fool yourself,” said George, confidently. “That’s only part of his bluff. His den is right here, and I’m going to find it.”

They began their search all over again, carefully parting bushes, peering under shelving ledges and into crevices between rocks--in fact, any and every place where they thought it might be located. For a long time they were unsuccessful, and they had about made up their minds to abandon the hunt and return to the cabin.