CHAPTER XIIEXPLORING THE VALLEY
Probably everybody notices, from time to time, how things which would seem to be trifling in themselves bring about results which are anything but trifling. Paul Varley’s interest in sugar making was to prove a case in point.
If Varley had not been with the Safety First Club that day, it is altogether likely that the trip to the maple groves would have been omitted. The big dinner, with Sam’s wonderful mince pie as its climax, left the Grants’ guests very well pleased with the world in general but not at all disposed to exertion, especially as the weather showed no improvement. Back in the great living-room the party settled down in a semicircle before the open fireplace, where now a cheery little pile of birch was blazing.
“We’ll have it for company, anyway,” Mrs. Grant explained, as she touched amatch to the kindling. “The steam keeps us warm enough—and some to spare—days like this, but I must say I like the sparkle and crackle. Kind of sociable like, ain’t it?”
“Yes’m—makes me think of a lively widow next door!” chuckled Lon.
“Hm-m! Don’t see as you’ve got any call, Lon Gates, to make jokes about widows,” said Mrs. Grant with spirit. “None of ’em’s got you yet.”
“Well, you never can tell, ma’am. I’m young yet.”
Mrs. Grant shook her head, half reprovingly. “I believe you are, Lon. Still, I remember when——”
“When I could eat a meal like these youngsters have just stowed away,” Lon put in. “Yes’m, yes’m; that’s so. But I’ll say this, ma’am: I didn’t get many such chances in my time to treat myself like an anacondy snake same as these youngsters have.”
“Nonsense! They’ve just nice, wholesome appetites.”
Lon chuckled again. “Well, maybe you’re right, at that. Fillin’ a growin’ boy is a gooddeal like pourin’ water into a sieve. But jest for the time bein’, I’d say, you’ve got this crowd full to the brim.”
The Shark rose rather jerkily, and walked up to the profile map. He regarded it with a fascination like that the ill-omened vase at the hotel had had for Poke. Mr. Grant joined him.
“My father made that,” said the farmer. “You see, it was this way: One winter he was laid up with a broken leg, and wanted to have something to keep him busy. He’d done some work on the big map at the state house—he was a surveyor, among other things, you understand—and it struck him he’d fix up this affair for our valley. It happened he’d run levels all over it, and had his records; so he had plenty to go by. And they do say this is amazing accurate. Why, when the government men came through here a few years back——”
“I know—they mapped all this region,” the Shark interrupted. “Computed elevations, set monuments, all that sort of thing.”
“Well, they found father had hit mighty close to the mark. And their monuments—that’syour word for ’em, eh?—you can find three-four of ’em scattered around. Mostly they’re on the hills, but down by the river they set one on a little rise. If ’twa’n’t for the snow you could find it easily.”
The Shark ran his eye over the map. “The valley’s really like a big bowl,” said he, meditatively. “And that’s a mighty narrow outlet—place we came through, where the bridges are—more like the neck of a bottle. I should think the ice would jam there. Then if there should be a flood—say, things would happen!”
“So they would. But the big dam up above’ll hold, I guess. You see, years ago there was a scheme to turn the whole valley into a reservoir, but it’d have taken more money than the folks could raise. So they went up-stream a few miles, and put in their dam there. But we ain’t had any floods in Sugar Valley, for all the mouth of it’s like the mouth of a bottle, as you were saying.”
“Exactly!” quoth the Shark, but kept his gaze upon the map. “And so there is a government marker down by the river—on a little rise? Wonder if it isn’t about there?”
Mr. Grant looked at the spot to which the Shark pointed. “You’ve hit it close, young man,” he declared.
A very slight, but very satisfied, smile lessened the severity of the Shark’s expression. “I felt pretty sure I had,” he remarked complacently.
Mrs. Grant turned from poking the fire and mounding the birch logs to her fancy.
“No; we don’t have floods often in Sugar Valley,” she observed, “though anybody might think we would. Somehow, the river takes care of the water. Of course, ’way back in Dominie Pike’s time, they did have some amazing freshets—he told about ’em in his diary, you know.”
Tom Orkney bent forward. “Then you’ve seen the diary, ma’am?” he inquired eagerly.
Mrs. Grant laughed. “Bless your heart, no! It disappeared years before I happened along.”
“Oh!” There was a disappointment in Tom’s tone, which didn’t escape Mrs. Grant’s attention.
“It is an awful pity!” she said. “The Dominie, I guess, put down ’most everythingthat happened, and if folks could find his book now, they could settle a lot of points they’re disputing. But seventy-five or eighty years ago people didn’t set such store by old things—they were too glad to get new ones, maybe—and so lots of stuff was lost that would bring high prices nowadays. Why, the diary just knocked about, as you might say—or part of it did. Mr. Grant’s grandfather always insisted that the Dominie filled three or four note-books, and that the one folks saw—that’s the one, by the way, all the stories told now are based on—why, he always argued that that was the last, or next to the last, of the set. ’Tis a fact it didn’t tell much about the very earliest days of the settlement—I’ve heard that point spoken of. But, anyway, it passed from hand to hand in the family, and was borrowed by neighbors, and got all thumbed and dog-eared, and worn and tattered; and, finally, it just dropped out of sight. Too bad, but that’s what happened.”
“Nobody copied it?” asked Tom.
“Why—why, yes and no. Nobody copied it all—nobody thought it worth the trouble in those days. I’ve seen in old letters lots ofreferences to it and its stories, and once or twice I’ve come across short quotations from it. But there’s another mix-up—in trying to find out about it now, I mean. You see, along about 1800 there was a Grant who was a great practical joker, and sort of a bookish fellow, too; and, somehow, the combination set him to writing a burlesque diary. It was about people of his time, but he imitated the Dominie’s style, and he was a clever hand at it; and what with most of the family names around here being the same as in the Dominie’s day and the imitation being so good—well, after a while even folks who’d read both got sort of mixed as to what was in which. So now nobody really knows where truth ends and jokes begin in half the traditions of the town. What makes it worse is that the Grant diary disappeared, too. Very likely the man who wrote it destroyed it, when he got older, and took a more serious view of life.”
“Oh!” said Orkney again. There was still disappointment in his tone.
“We’ve looked high and low for both books, of course; but I guess they’re lost for good. This valley, you know, was where the Dominiesettled. He gave it the name it’s had ever since—Sugar Valley. That was because he found the Indians here were making sugar. Mighty poor stuff it was, probably, and more than half dirt. But it was sweet, and real sugar was hard to get. Maybe that was one reason the Dominie stayed here, and built a cabin, and then a house, and finally a better house. Oh, it was quite a mansion, that last house of his was—a sort of show place, though I guess there weren’t many people to show it to. But it was made of sawed boards instead of logs, and there was a wonderful great chimney, and the fireplaces were as big as some rooms are nowadays. Yes, and one of the up-stairs rooms had a fireplace; and that, I guess, was a sort of eighth wonder of the world—this part of the world, anyway. But here I am, talking as if you couldn’t see the place for yourselves, if you want to.”
“Then it still stands?” Orkney asked.
“Indeed it does! Nobody has lived in it for years and years, but it’s still there—nearly a mile from here, and close to the river. Of course, it’s rickety, but it doesn’t tumble down,and I don’t see any signs that it’s likely to. Once or twice we’ve talked about restoring it, and fixing it up, but we’ve never got around to do it; though some folks say we ought to turn it into a sort of historical museum. But, as I say, we haven’t got to it. And as for exploring the old place—why, why—a miserable day like this——”
Mrs. Grant hesitated. As she chanced to be looking at Varley, it was he who made answer to her unfinished question.
“Oh, another time will do just as well. And it was the sugar making that we’d especially like to see, you know.”
“You’re interested in that, then?”
“Very interested; it’ll be all new to me. And—and”—Paul smiled engagingly—“and your maple fluff, Mrs. Grant, was awfully good. It made a fellow all the more anxious to find out about the flavoring.”
Mrs. Grant was pleased, and showed it. “So you liked it, then? Well, ’tis kind of tasty, though there’s really nothing to it but whipped white of egg, and just a mite of cream, and a dash of maple. But put it on mince pie——”
“Geeminy, but it’s cracking good!” Step interrupted.
“Why, I’d call it grand,” quoth Poke solemnly, and licked his lips reminiscently.
Then Mrs. Grant laughed. “Ha, ha, ha! I vow, but there’d be some satisfaction in cooking for a lot of folks like you boys! But if you want to see where the maple comes from—why, I don’t want to turn you out in the wet, but you ought to be looking around while the light’s as good as it’s likely to be this day. And so, if Mr. Grant is ready, and you’re ready to start—why, that’s just what I’d do if I were you.”
Now, probably there was nobody concerned—except Varley, of course—who wouldn’t have been willing to omit the expedition. But Paul was genuinely interested, and so evident was this fact that none of the others were willing to offer objection. Caps and overcoats and overshoes were brought out and donned, and with Mr. Grant in the lead the party streamed out of the house.
“Don’t stay too long!” Mrs. Grant called after them. “My, but it’s getting to be weepy weather! Well, I’ll have something warmand comforting waiting for you when you come back.”
“Weepy weather,” indeed, fitted the case. The air was milder than ever, and more charged with moisture. Eaves were dripping, and little streams trickled down the trunks of the trees; under foot the melting snow lay in a dwindling, soggy mass. What was more, a thin drizzle was falling, hardly to be called a rain, but curiously searching and penetrating in its dampness.
Mr. Grant glanced at the leaden sky, and shook his head.
“Well, if I had to guess, I’d say things were going to be worse before they’re better,” he remarked. “Way the wind’s been hanging in the east——”
“More southeast, ain’t it?” Lon inquired.
“In-between. Vane on the barn ain’t hardly wiggled all day. And it’s pointing right to where our big rains hail from. Funny we haven’t had it harder. Up-river they’ve been getting a reg’lar downpour, accordin’ to what they’re telephoning.”
“Umph!” said Lon. “Then you’ll behavin’ a sight o’ water for this river o’ yourn to take care of, won’t you?”
“Well, it’s done just that every spring,” said Mr. Grant.
“Mebbe. Only I’ve got kinder a notion from the feel o’ things that there’s a reg’lar weather buster brewin’.”
“My notion ain’t so far from yours,” Mr. Grant agreed. Then he turned to the boys. “We’ll take a look at what we call the ‘Island’—that’s where we make most of our sugar. Got some trees tapped already, though the season ain’t really begun yet. But it’ll be easier to show you than to tell you about it. So come along!”
They followed him, in Indian file, along a well-beaten path through the snow, a path that wound and twisted to avoid groves and patches of thicket. The floor of the valley seemed to be almost level, after the descent from the natural terrace on which the house stood; but, plainly enough, not much of the land was under cultivation. Except for the fact that their course was generally toward the river, the boys had little idea of their destination, and Sam, with the teachings ofSafety First in mind, remarked to himself that here was a stretch of country in which a fellow might very easily lose his bearings. Not that he had any thought of danger. Even if anybody lost his way, temporarily, he could steer for the hills and so, sooner or later, come to higher ground and the road. So he trudged along, digging his chin deep in his upturned collar, and making the best of unpleasant conditions.
Sam noticed, presently, that one at least of his companions was showing signs of losing heart. Poke had started out near the head of the line, and, comforted by food and warmth, had appeared to be in excellent spirits. Very soon, however, the melancholy weather had its effect. Probably it reminded him of his gloomy prospects and the staggering bill for the big vase. At any rate, his steps lagged. One after another passed him, until he was the last straggler in the line. As it proved, he was far behind the rest of the party when they came to the “Island.”
As has been said, this was not an island, but a low knoll, covered by a fine growth of maples. On one side stood a small building,half house, half shed; and here was an equipment of great kettles for “boiling down” the collected sap. There was an orderly pile of new cans, in which the syrup would be shipped, and there were boxes awaiting the sugar, to which part of the yield of the grove would be reduced.
“I hear they’ve got a lot of newfangled modern improvements,” Mr. Grant remarked, “but we stick to the old ways. Of course, we ain’t big producers and shippers, but we manage ’most every season to do something of a trade. And now I’ll show you how we do it.”
With that he took Varley in hand. He displayed the little spouts which were placed in holes in the maple trunks, and along which the sap ran to pails. Then he showed big buckets, into which collectors emptied the contents of the pails, and which brought their gallons and gallons of the thin sap to the kettles, there to be reduced in volume and increased in density until the required standard for syrup was reached.
“This isn’t a big plant,” he explained, “but, after all, we’re pretty busy around here, when things get going. Fires have to be kept up,and sap has to be brought in; and of course it’s a short season, at the best, and so there has to be a hustle. When the sap starts running—why, we have to run, too.”
“Then it hasn’t started yet?” Varley asked.
“It’s starting—the warm spell sets it going. But ’tain’t a full flow yet. You can see we’ve got some trees tapped”—he pointed to a near-by part of the grove—“and if a freeze don’t come to check things, we’ll be in full swing a good deal quicker than I’d care to be. Somehow, I don’t like the looks of the weather, or the feel of it, for that matter.”
Varley was quite ready to agree with Mr. Grant on this score. The dismal day was growing more dismal still; the drizzle was heavier; the dense gray clouds seemed to hang lower. The other boys, to whom a sugar camp was an old story, were huddling in the lee of the house. Varley noticed that Poke, most sorrowful of face, was in low-toned talk with Step, who seemed rapidly to be becoming as melancholy as his chum. Then Sam joined the pair, and the whispered conversation went on, with no sign of rising spirits.
Varley was clever enough to make a shrewd guess at the situation. Doubtless, sooner or later, he would hear all about it, but just now the club was keeping its own counsel. So he remained near Mr. Grant until the latter was called into the house by his hired man, who seemed to be unable to find a big ladle, of which he announced himself in search.
Left alone, Paul took note that the Shark, who was peering at the lower ground about the “Island” and mumbling to himself in dissatisfied fashion, appeared to be on the point of starting on some small expedition of his own. Paul crossed to him.
“What’s up?” he inquired. “Looking for something?”
The Shark merely grunted.
“What is it?”
“The marker.”
“Eh?” Paul had not been especially impressed by the map or the talk about it.
“Can’t you hear?” snapped the Shark. “Marker, I said—marker the government surveyors left. Bet you I know where it is!”
“Oh! do you?” said Varley, a little vaguely.
The Shark snorted. “Huh! Sure I know—if the survey and the map match. Ought to be out there.” And he pointed into the mists toward the river.
“Oh, had it?”
“Of course it had! And I’m going to find it.”
“I’ll help you,” said Varley readily.
“Shucks! You don’t know how,” said the Shark bluntly.
Varley was good-natured. Moreover, the youthful mathematician appealed to his sense of humor.
“Well, maybe you can show me how.”
“That’s so,” the Shark admitted.
“Then I may come along?”
“If you’d like to,” quoth the Shark, half-grudgingly, and started off.
Varley followed him. Mr. Grant and his helper were still in the house, and the other boys were grouped about Poke. None of them, as it happened, observed the departure of the two.