“Can’t I go to the sugar camp this year?”

Uncle Henry looked up from the buckets he was counting.

“Maybe you can!  I’m ready enough to take you along for a week.  But I want to tell you right here how it isn’t all fun up there in the sugar camp.  You hear us talking about the best side of those days, and we don’t say anything about the backaches and such as that!”

Roy was a little surprised to hear Uncle Henry speak like that, but he was too brave to change his mind about going.

“There must be a lot of fun,” he said, “and it’s manly to do hard things.”

Uncle Henry nodded.

“So ’tis!  That’s more real fun than playing at easy ones!  If your folks are willing, get ready to start for the sugaring with me to-morrow morning.  The yoke your father used when he was a boy is hanging up in the shop, and I guess your shoulders have grown broad enough to hold it on!” laughed Uncle Henry.

The very next morning they started for the sugar camp far up on the side of the mountain, and long before noontime they had built a fire in the log shack, and Roy was out in the woods helping Uncle Henry tap the maple trees.

Every minute after that was a busy one.  The nights were crisp with frost, and the days were full of spring sunshine.  For hours and hours each day Roy trudged through the snow wearing on his shoulders the yoke which had a pail hanging from either end, and after each trip into the woods he would turn two brimming pails of sap into the big kettle boiling over the fire.

[Illustration:  After each trip into the woods Roy would turn two brimming pails of sap into the big kettle.]

Sometimes his legs ached, and he got tired tramping through the snow, and one pair of mittens grew quite useless for the holes worn in them.  But he did not give up one bit of his share of the work.

For a whole week the sap ran freely, and then came the time for Roy to leave the men and go home.

“I’m going to miss you a whole lot!” declared Uncle Henry.

Roy laughed happily.  He was going down the mountain on the ox team which was piled high with barrels of rich brown syrup.

“I’d like to stay!” he said.  “I’ve learned about what you said before I came:  that it’s more real fun doing hard things than ’tis to play at easy ones!”

—­Written for Dew Drops by Ruby Holmes Martyn.

NEIGHBORS.

Bobby made the snow man.  He had made snow men in the country, and he knew how.  He always made them by the gate, next to the big syringa bush.  He used to cut a stick from a tree for the snow man to hold, and he generally placed a long chicken feather in its cap.

But in a city yard that was not even all your own yard, it was different.  Recently Bobby’s father had come into town to live.

In the same street lived Joey Rodman, who was about Bobby’s age.  The afternoon that Bobby made the snow man Joey kept throwing stones.  Bobby tried not to mind.  There was lots of snow in the yard, and he made the snow man unusually large.  The other children helped him, but Joey kept calling out and throwing things, and at last he knocked off the head of the snow man just as Bobby had put in two bits of coal for the eyes.