Maple Syrup Time from The history of Warren: a mountain hamlet, located among the White hills of ... By William Little

In the maple groves of Warren, and on all the hill-sides around the quiet valley, sugar fires were smoking, for it was charming sugar weather; bland and sunny overhead, frosty under foot, tbc sap racing up from the roots every morning and running back at night for fear of a freeze.
There had been a scalding and soaking of salt-buckets, a tramping through maple woods, augur in one hand and sap spouts in the other, a repairing of arches or the hanging of great five-pail kettles; sap pails and sap yokes to bring the sap, all in order; a crackling of dry beech limbs, a roaring fire, then a simmering and seething of the sweet maple sap in the kettles before it leaped up in white dancing foam only to be kept, from over flowing by being wallopped with a stick having a piece of pork on its end.*
Amos Little had a glorious sugar place on Beech hill, and his boys and girls,— for he had a large family,— were determined to have a sugar party. Young folks, Merrills, Clements, Bixbys, Knights, and numerous others came to the beautiful farm where George E. Leonard lives now. They had fun and frolic; rosy cheeked girls laughing as they stamp the mud from their thick boots, charming forms carried in stout arms across the little rill which now swollen leaps laughing down to the Mikaseota, sometimes called Black brook.

Tho great sugaring-olf kettle is hung on а pole placed on two forked stakes, by itself. The syrup, enough for all, is turned in, the fire lighted, and then thère is a rustic jubilee over the browning cauldron, as the fragrant steam grows richer and the color deepens from hue to hue of russet, till the syrup clings in double drops on the edge of the skimmer, and the hot fluid changes to delicious gum when poured over the melting ice cake. There were pretty lips closing over beech paddle sticks, und young John, Merrill and Russell K. Clement blistered their tongues and got laughed at for they could not wait for the delicious sweet to cool.
Their hearts were all happy, and what, sweet songs were sung in the dusk of nightfall, as the earliest, frog peeped from the swamp in the valley below. The sweet, songs of that day, alas, what were they? They are gone, they are forgotten, like the smiles and the roses of those who sang them, like the hopes and the affections of the youths who listened to them. The triumphs of the singers of those days and the popularity of (he songs, where are they? It is a lesson for us; but let us chase it out of mind. Be happy while ye may. We love the mouth of March, for in Warren it is the liveliest and most romantic month of the year. No tree does so much for happiness as the sugar maple. It brings more good cheer, more joy and frolic, more money into the pocket and more sweetness upon the table than all the rest of the forest trees put together.