The Sugar-Maker

Peasant in form and face old Philippe stood

Upon broad snow-shoes in the softening snow

That spread its whiteness through the sugar-wood.

Above him cawed the first returning crow;

A blue haze danced upon the hilltop's rim,

Where early April wrought her magic spells;

Oliver Call

And from tin buckets filling fast to brim

The dropping sap rang out like sanctus bells.

And as old Philippe heard the echoes pealing

Among the maple trees and silver birch

That rose above him like the vaulted ceiling

And painted pillars of the village church,

He looked up toward the blue mysterious sky, -

Then bowed as though the Host were passing by.