"Are they fat?" inquired Mr. De Vere admiringly.
"Only jes' tolabl', Massa John."
In the village, the male element of the population seemed intent on the one occupation of shovelling his own individual sidewalk. By noon, a heavy body of snow had sunk under the warm rays of the sun and the street was running with slush. Nature was preparing to cast off her winter garments, but in this rugged climate she does so reluctantly. A raw wind still blew from the snowy north, but the sun was too high to expect much more cold weather.
"By the way, Reuben," called Mr. De Vere, "when have you been at the maple bush?"
"Early dis mawnin', Massa, an' de sap buckets was jes' runnin' plumb full."
Mr. De Vere owned an orchard of about one hundred acres on the side of the mountain. His mother had bought the land for a mere song after the timber had all been burned off by forest fires, and had set it out in sugar maples. This was about twenty-five years
