As the sugar-making season drew near, Jenny conceived the bold thought of making a good lump of sugar, that the “childher” might have something to “ate” with their bread during the summer.  We had no sugar-kettle, but a neighbour promised to lend us his, and to give us twenty-eight troughs, on condition that we gave him half the sugar we made.  These terms were rather hard, but Jenny was so anxious to fulfil the darling object that we consented.  Little Sol. and the old woman made some fifty troughs more, the trees were duly tapped, a shanty in the bush was erected of small logs and brush and covered in at the top with straw; and the old woman and Solomon, the hired boy, commenced operations.

The very first day, a terrible accident happened to us; a large log fell upon the sugar-kettle—­the borrowed sugar-kettle—­and cracked it, spilling all the sap, and rendering the vessel, which had cost four dollars, useless.  We were all in dismay.  Just at that time Old Wittals happened to pass, on his way to Peterborough.  He very good-naturedly offered to get the kettle repaired for us; which, he said, could be easily done by a rivet and an iron hoop.  But where was the money to come from?  I thought awhile.  Katie had a magnificent coral and bells, the gift of her godfather; I asked the dear child if she would give it to buy another kettle for Mr. T—–.  She said, “I would give ten times as much to help mamma.”

I wrote a little note to Emilia, who was still at her father’s; and Mr. W—–­, the storekeeper, sent us a fine sugar-kettle back by Wittals, and also the other mended, in exchange for the useless piece of finery.  We had now two kettles at work, to the joy of Jenny, who declared that it was a lucky fairy who had broken the old kettle.

While Jenny was engaged in boiling and gathering the sap in the bush, I sugared off the syrup in the house; an operation watched by the children with intense interest.  After standing all day over the hot stove-fire, it was quite a refreshment to breathe the pure air at night.  Every evening I ran up to see Jenny in the bush, singing and boiling down the sap in the front of her little shanty.  The old woman was in her element, and afraid of nothing under the stars; she slept beside her kettles at night, and snapped her fingers at the idea of the least danger.  She was sometimes rather despotic in her treatment of her attendant, Sol.  One morning, in particular, she bestowed upon the lad a severe cuffing.

I ran up the clearing to the rescue, when my ears were assailed by the “boo-hooing” of the boy.

“What has happened?  Why do you beat the child, Jenny?”

“It’s jist, thin, I that will bate him—­the unlucky omadhawn!  Has not he spilt and spiled two buckets of syrup, that I have been the live-long night bilin’.  Sorra wid him; I’d like to strip the skin off him, I would!  Musha! but ’tis enough to vex a saint.”

“Ah, Jenny!” blubbered the poor boy, “but you have no mercy.  You forget that I have but one eye, and that I could not see the root which caught my foot and threw me down.”