A “sap-run” seldom lasts more than two or three days.  By that time there is a change in the weather, perhaps a rainstorm, which takes the frost nearly all out of the ground.  Then, before there can be another run, the trees must be wound up again, the storm must have a white tail, and “come off” cold.  Presently the sun rises clear again, and cuts the snow or softens the hard-frozen ground with his beams, and the trees take a fresh start.  The boys go through the wood, emptying out the buckets or the pans, and reclaiming those that have blown away, and the delightful work is resumed.  But the first run, like first love, is always the best, always the fullest, always the sweetest; while there is a purity and delicacy of flavor about the sugar that far surpasses any subsequent yield.

Trees differ much in the quantity as well as in the quality of sap produced in a given season.  Indeed, in a bush or orchard of fifty or one hundred trees, as wide a difference may be observed in this respect as among that number of cows in regard to the milk they yield.  I have in my mind now a “sugar-bush” nestled in the lap of a spur of the Catskills, every tree of which is known to me, and assumes a distinct individuality in my thought.  I know the look and quality of the whole two hundred; and when on my annual visit to the old homestead I find one has perished, or fallen before the axe, I feel a personal loss.  They are all veterans, and have yielded up their life’s blood for the profit of two or three generations.  They stand in little groups for couples.  One stands at the head of a spring-run, and lifts a large dry branch high above the woods, where hawks and crows love to alight.  Half a dozen are climbing a little hill; while others stand far out in the field, as if they had come out to get the sun.  A file of five or six worthies sentry the woods on the northwest, and confront a steep side-hill where sheep and cattle graze.  An equal number crowd up to the line on the east; and their gray, stately trunks are seen across meadows or fields of grain.  Then there is a pair of Siamese twins, with heavy, bushy tops; while in the forks of a wood-road stand the two brothers, with their arms around each other’s neck, and their bodies in gentle contact for a distance of thirty feet.

One immense maple, known as the “old-creampan-tree,” stands, or did stand, quite alone among a thick growth of birches and beeches.  But it kept its end up, and did the work of two or three ordinary trees, as its name denotes.  Next to it, the best milcher in the lot was a shaggy-barked tree in the edge of the field, that must have been badly crushed or broken when it was little, for it had an ugly crook near the ground, and seemed to struggle all the way up to get in an upright attitude, but never quite succeeded; yet it could outrun all its neighbors nevertheless.  The poorest tree in the lot was a shortbodied, heavy-topped tree that stood in the edge of a spring-run.  It