, thin round discs like
griddle-cakes. The children ate and ate, and fortunately it seems for
some reason, to be the most harmless sweet that can be indulged in by
little people.

"Well, I've had enough," remarked Rudolph at the expiration of say a
quarter of an hour, "but isn't it wonderful that anything so delicious
can just trickle out of a tree?" his unmannerly little tongue the while
making the circuit of his lips in search of any lingering traces of
sweetness.

"Trickle out of a tree!" exclaimed astonished Tattine.

"Why, yes, don't you know that's the way they make maple sugar? In the
spring, about April, when the sap begins to run up into the maple-trees,
and often while the snow is still on the ground, they what they call tap
the tree; they drive a sort of little spout right into the tree and
soon the sap begins to ooze out and drop into buckets that are placed
to catch it. Afterwards they boil it down in huge kettles made for the
purpose. They call it sugaring off, and it must be great fun."

"Not half so much fun, I should think, as sugaring down," laughed Mabel,
with her right hand placed significantly where stomachs are supposed to
be.

"And now I am going to run up to the house," explained Tattine, getting
stiffly up from a rather cramped position, "for three or four plates,
and Rudolph, you break off some pieces of ice the right size for them,
and we will make a little plateful from what is left for each one up at
the house, else I should say we were three little greedies. And Mabel,
while I am gone you commence to clear up."

"Well, you are rather cool, Tattine," said Mabel, but she obediently set
to work to gather things together.

As you and I cannot be a bit of help in that direction, and have many of
a clearing-up of our own to do, I propose that we lose not a minute in
running away from that little camp, particularly as we have not had so
much as a taste of the delicious wax they've been making.

CHAPTER III. A SET OF SETTERS

It was a great bird-year at Oakdene. Never had there been so many. The
same dear old Phoebe-birds were back, building under the eaves of both
the front and back piazzas. The robins, as usual, were everywhere.
The Maryland yellow-throats were nesting in great numbers in the
young growth of woods on the hill of the ravine, and ringing out their
hammer-like note in the merriest manner; a note that no one understood
until Dr. Van Dyke told us, in his beautiful littl