“Have we any maple-sugar trees?” asked Clara.

“No,” replied Miss Harson; “there are none at Elmridge, and I have seen none anywhere near here.  They seem to flourish best in the Northern and North-eastern States, while in Western Canada the tree is found in groves of from five to twenty acres.  These are called ‘sugar-bushes,’ and few farmers in that part of America are without them.  In England the maple trees are called ‘sycamores,’ and the sap is used as a sweet drink.  I will read to you from a little English book called Voices from the Woodlands a simple account of a country festival where maple sap was the choicest refreshment: 

“’"Take care of that young tree,” said Farmer Robinson to his laborer, who was diligently employed in clearing away a rambling company of brambles which had grown unmolested during the time of the last tenant; “the soil is good, and in a very few years we shall have pasturage for our bees, and plenty of maple-wine.”

“’The farmer spoke true; before his young laborer had attained middle age the sapling had grown into a fine tree.  Its branches spread wide and high, and bees came from all parts to gather their honey-harvests among the flowers; beneath its shade lambkins were wont in spring to sleep beside their dams; and when the time of shearing came, and the sheep were disburdened of their fleeces, you might see them hastening to the sycamore tree for shelter.

“’A kind of rustic festival was held about the same time in honor of the maple-wine.  Hither came the farmer and his dame, with their children and young neighbors, each carrying bunches of flowers.  Older people came in their holiday dresses, some with baskets containing cakes, others tea and sugar, with which the farmer and his wife had plentifully supplied them; and joyfully did they rest a while on the green sward while young men gathered sticks, and, a bright fire having been kindled, the kettle sent up its bubbling steam.

“’When this was ended, and few of the piled-up cakes remained—­when, also, the young children had emptied their cans and rinsed them at the old stone trough into which rushed a full stream—­tiny hands joyfully held up the small cans and bright eyes looked anxiously to the stem of the tall tree while the farmer warily cut an incision in the bark.

“’What joy when a sweet watery juice began to trickle! and the farmer filled one small cup, then another, till all were satisfied and a portion sent to the older people, who were contentedly looking on from the grassy slope where they had seated themselves.  The farmer’s wife knew naught concerning the process for obtaining sugar, or else she might have sweetened her children’s puddings from the watery liquid yielded by the sycamore, or greater maple—­an art well known to the aboriginal tribes of North America.’”

“Does that mean Indians, Miss Harson?” asked Malcolm, with a wry face at the long word.