Читать книгу Familiar Fields - Peter McArthur - Страница 6

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When snow-balls pack on the horses' hoofs

And the wind from the south blows warm,

When the cattle stand where the sunbeams beat

And the noon has a dreamy charm,

When icicles crash from the dripping eaves

And the furrows peep black through the snow,

Then I hurry away to the sugar bush,

For the sap will run, I know.

With auger and axe and spile and trough

To each tree a visit I pay,

And every boy in the countryside

Is eager to help to-day.

We roll the backlogs into their place,

And the kettles between them swing,

Then gather the wood for the roaring fire

And the sap in pailfuls bring.

A fig for your arches and modern ways,

A fig for your sheet-iron pan,

I like the smoky old kettles best

And I stick to the good old plan;

We're going to make sugar and taffy to-night

On the swing pole under the tree,

And the girls and the boys for miles around

Are all sworn friends to me.

The hens are cackling again in the barn,

And the cattle beginning to bawl,

And neighbours, who long have been acting cool,

Now make a forgiving call;

For there's no love-feast like a taffy pull,

With its hearty and sticky fun,

And I know the whole world is at peace with me,

For the sap has commenced to run.