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“The birds were singing in the morning,
And the myrtle and the ivy were in bloom,
And the sun o’er the hills was a-dawning,
Twas then that I laid her in the tomb.”
It was a warm night. The fire had gone to coals on the hearth, and Pa did not build it up. All around the little house, in the Big Woods, there were little sounds of falling snow, and from the eaves there was the drip, drip of the melting icicles.
In just a little while the trees would be putting out their baby leaves, all rosy and yellow and pale green, and there would be wild flowers and birds in the woods.
Then there would be no more stories by the fire at night, but all day long Laura and Mary would run and play among the trees, for it would be spring.
Chapter 7
The Sugar Snow
For days the sun shone and the weather was warm. There was no frost on the windows in the mornings. All day the icicles fell one by one from the eaves with soft smashing and crackling sounds in the snowbanks beneath. The trees shook their wet, black branches, and chunks of snow fell down.
When Mary and Laura pressed their noses against the cold window pane they could see the drip of water from the eaves and the bare branches of the trees. The snow did not glitter; it looked soft and tired. Under the trees it was pitted where the chunks of snow had fallen, and the banks beside the path were shrinking and settling.
Then one day Laura saw a patch of bare ground in the yard. All day it grew bigger, and before night the whole yard was bare mud. Only the icy path was left, and the snowbanks along the path and the fence and beside the woodpile.
“Can’t I go out to play, Ma?” Laura asked, and Ma said: “May, Laura.”
“May I go out to play?” she asked.
“You may tomorrow,” Ma promised.
That night Laura woke up, shivering. The bed-covers felt thin, and her nose was icy cold. Ma was tucking another quilt over her.
“Snuggle close to Mary,” Ma said, “and you’ll get warm.”
In the morning the house was warm from the stove, but when Laura looked out of the window she saw that the ground was covered with soft, thick snow. All along the branches of the trees the snow was piled like feathers, and it lay in mounds along the top of the rail fence, and stood up in great, white balls on top of the gate-posts.
Pa came in, shaking the soft snow from his shoulders and stamping it from his boots.
“It’s a sugar snow,” he said.
Laura put her tongue quickly to a little bit of the white snow that lay in a fold of his sleeve. It was nothing but wet on her tongue, like any snow. She was glad that nobody had seen her taste it.
“Why is it a sugar snow, Pa?” she asked him, but he said he didn’t have time to explain now. He must hurry away, he was going to Grandpa’s.
Grandpa lived far away in the Big Woods, where the trees were closer together and larger.
Laura stood at the window and watched Pa, big and swift and strong, walking away over the snow. His gun was on his shoulder, his hatchet and powder horn hung at his side, and his tall boots made great tracks in the soft snow. Laura watched him till he was out of sight in the woods.
It was late before he came home that night. Ma had already lighted
the lamp when he came in. Under one arm he carried a large package, and in the other hand was a big, covered, wooden bucket.
“Here, Caroline,” he said, handing the package and the bucket to Ma, and then he put the gun on its hooks over the door.
“If I’d met a bear,” he said, “I couldn’t have shot him without dropping my load.” Then he laughed. “And if I’d dropped that bucket and bundle, I wouldn’t have had to shoot him. I could have stood and watched him eat what’s in them and lick his chops.”
Ma unwrapped the package and there were two hard, brown cakes, each as large as a milk pan. She uncovered the bucket, and it was full of dark brown syrup.
“Here, Laura and Mary,” Pa said, and he gave them each a little round package out of his pocket.
