efully, or the syrup will become
burned and spoiled. It is constantly stirred with a long-handled wooden
paddle, and both eggs and milk are often thrown in to purify it. The
scum that rises to the top is carefully removed, and thrown out on the
snow, to the delight of the children, who watch for it to cool and
partially harden. They call it "maple candy" or "taffy," and regard it
as a treat.

When by testing on the snow, or in cold water, the syrup is found to
have boiled long enough, it is run into moulds, where it cools into
cakes of maple sugar, or the kettle is lifted from the fire, and its
contents stirred and beaten as they cool, until they become coarse brown
sugar that can be used in cooking.

A VOYAGE ON AN ICE-BLOCK.

BY DAVID KER.

The breaking up of the ice in Russia is always a fine sight to look at,
even upon a small stream like the Neva at St. Petersburg, which is a
mere brook compared with the great rivers of the South. As soon as the
spring thaw sets in, all the wooden bridges are removed, and nothing
checks the descending ice but the stone piers of the Nikolaievski
Bridge, named after its founder, the Czar Nicholas. Every morning, while
the show lasts, the balustrades of this bridge are lined with a crowd of
eager spectators, looking as intently at the wonderful sight as if they
had never seen it before.

And a wonderful sight it is indeed. Far as the eye can reach, the
smooth, dark surface of the river is one great procession of floating
masses of ice, of all shapes and sizes, moving slowly and steadily
downward.

But the place to see this famous sight at its best is the Volga, which,
with its two thousand miles of length, brings down ice enough to
overwhelm a whole city. At times the force of the current piles it up,
sheet over sheet, into huge mounds, the crashing and grinding of which,
as they dash against each other, make the very air shake. When the river
is "moving," as the Russians call it, he would be a bold man who should
attempt to take a boat across it; for, once caught between two of these
moving islands, the strongest boat on the Volga would be crushed like an
egg-shell.

So, doubtless, think the group of peasants who are standing upon the
river-bank, one bright March morning, a mile or two below the great
manufacturing town of Saratov, watching the endless procession of
ice-blocks sweep past. Strange-looking fellows they are, with their flat
sallow faces and thick yello