es of this peculiar
vernal pic-nic, taffy-making is an exhilarating, picturesque amusement.
The girls get ruddy with the exertion; they pant, they strain, they duck
their heads when their lovers creep behind to steal a kiss, or they run
after the shameless robber and slap his naughty cheeks with their sticky
palms. Under the rapid kneading the dark syrup becomes glossier, then it
reddens, next it grows a golden hue, till finally it gets whiter and
whiter, thinner and thinner, and the taffy is finished.

Towards the middle of the afternoon, the principal repast takes place.
All the provisions which the guests have brought are produced and spread
on a long table prepared for the purpose. Maple water and maple sugar
are the accompaniments of every dish. When all the meats have been
discussed, the feast winds up by the celebrated maple omelet. Whatever
Soyer or Brillat Savarin might say, it is a pleasant dish, though too
rich to be partaken of copiously, and according to every hygienic
principle, very apt to be difficult of digestion. It consists of eggs
pretty well boiled and broken into maple syrup, slightly diluted and
piping hot. After a meal of this kind, exercise is indispensable, and it
is the custom to get up a series of dances until the hour of breaking
up.

"Friends," exclaims the host, when they are about to retire from the
table, "I am glad to find that you have done justice to my syrup and
sugar. It is the best sign that they were good. It keeps up the
reputation of my sugary. Try to retain the taste of them till next year,
when I hope we shall all meet again under these same trees."

A round of applause follows these words, and the whole company breaks
out into hunting songs in honor of the host.

"Now," resumes he, "we must by all means have a dance. I never let my
friends go without at least one, and I intend to join in the first
myself. Come, hurry up, one and all. I see a suspicious cloud or two in
the sky yonder, and we may possibly have a storm before the day is
over."

A fiddler is soon found and the dance is organized. He leans his left
cheek lovingly on his instrument, and has just run his bow across the
discordant strings, when suddenly a loud crash is heard in the gorges of
the mountain. It is the roar of the storm. The maple tops writhe and
twist in the sweep of the winds that come up in eddies from the river
far beneath. The sky is suddenly darkened. The snow falls thick and
fast. These port