Date: Sun, 10 Apr 2005 00:04:13 -0600
From: Philip McCoy <mcoy@telus.net>
Subject: The Sugaring

Copyright 2005 by Luc Milne <lucmilne@telus.net> All Rights Reserved.
Downloading one copy for personal enjoyment allowed.

THE SUGARING
by Luc Milne

Seth awoke from a dream of waving grass in a sunlit meadow to find a warm
hand, not his own, pleasuring the shaft of his morning-stiff rod .  "If
that ain't your hand, Rob, then your sister Lizzie must have grown up real
fast since my last visit," he growled, arching his back so that his rump
ground into the body spooned against him.  Rob's room was a sort of lean-to
attached to the family's log house and it was so cold his breath fogged: he
snuggled even deeper into the bedcovers.  March in the Vermont of 1865
could be frosty, as if spring still hadn't decided that it wanted to stay
around yet.

"How's my man-milking coming along?" Rob whispered into Seth's ear.  "Am I
getting better at it?"

"Yep, I seem to have taught you real good" answered Seth, "but shut your
mouth now and do your chores."

Rob pressed closer to his friend's lean body, gripping the long root
harder, tugging the loose skin down over the plump crown and rubbing it
between his thumb and forefinger before pulling it slowly back over the
flaring ridge.  He felt an exciting stickiness on his fingers and he thrust
forward with his own knob against Seth's bare arse.

"I don't mind your little dogie nosing into my bum, Robbie, but you keep
him out of my chute.  Just concentrate on your milking.  You're getting to
be a real little milkmaid."  Seth felt Rob pull away, when he said
"milkmaid", and roll over, taking some of the quilt with him.  "Don't stop
now, Robbie," he pleaded, turning, so that it was his hard tool that probed
against soft globes, "you were just staring to get my butter churned up
proper."

"I'm not your 'little milkmaid' Seth.  You know I don't want you saying
that I'm like a woman."

Seth gave a silent groan and began to stroke his bed mate's flank.
Gradually his hand moved around and fondled Robbie's pecker, which just fit
into his palm like a cow's soft teat.  He didn't care much for milking a
man's nipple because as far as he was concerned any kind of milking was
strictly women's work, but Rob was a skittish fella and had to be joshed
along.

"Come on, you know I was just funnin' you.  No milkmaid could squeeze a
cock like you do.  It takes a man to do it right" He forced Rob's body back
around toward him so that they looked into each other's face.  Seth saw the
shine in his friend's brown eyes, and he brought his nose right up to
Rob's, nuzzling him, their lips just a breath away from kissing.  But when
he felt the younger man's head start to close the distance, he slid his
face off to the side, letting his rough, whisker-shadowed cheek rub against
Rob's smoother one.

Rob sighed resignedly and reached down for the thick handle of flesh
jutting from the groin opposite.  His own cock began to firm up under
Seth's thrumming hand.  He brought the head of his friend's meat to his own
and rubbed the sticky tips together.  Seth took his hand away from the cock
he was squeezing idly, so that his comrade could take over.  Rob knew what
Seth liked.  He pulled the thick foreskin of Seth's pipe down over his own
smaller rod and pumped the flesh-connected tubes vigorously.  They climaxed
together, their comings mixing in the cavity of Seth's long skin.  Rob let
his cock slip free, pressing Seth's loose flesh firmly between his fingers
to keep the creamy mixture inside, and ducked beneath the covers to suck
out the results of his morning "chores" .  In his mind Seth cringed a
little.  He could never get used to the idea that a man, especially a mate,
could get down and eat up his spunk, like a calf drinking at its mother's
tit.  Still, Robbie had strummed him well, and deserved his reward.

***

	Seth had come to the Carpenters for the annual March maple syrup
"sugaring", the collecting of the sap to be boiled down into the sweet
syrup and maple sugar so prized in all the kitchens around.  He was almost
nineteen years old; many men his age already had a wife and a couple of
whelps by now, but somehow he could never get up an interest in the girls
that his Ma would invite out to the house for dinner after the long Sunday
morning church services in the village Meeting House.  His Ma took to
telling people that he was "shy" and just needed a good woman to bring him
out.  One of the girls, Sarah Knox, had even tried.  When he was taking her
back, in the little two-wheeled cart, to her family's farm on a warm Sunday
afternoon the previous summer, she'd let her hand drop onto his thigh.  It
laid there like a dead fish for the best part of an hour, until she sighed
and drew it back into her own lap.

Seth's mother told her husband she was worried about him.  She was afraid
there was something wrong with her son.  Her father told her to hush up.
"He'll find the right mare to mount one of these days.  He's got a good
hang on him--you've seen it yourself on bath nights.  The truth is, I'll
bet some of these fillies around here have already got a taste of that
meat."  But his mother had left the room.  She always did when her husband
started talking smutty that way.

Now Seth and Robert were on their way into the sugarbush, the stand of
maple trees some distance from the Carpenter cabin.  Seth's lanky body,
with its mane of blonde hair, and Robert's smaller wiry one with its cap of
brown curls seemed a perfect match of opposites, as they pulled a sled with
barrels and buckets on it.  There was still lots of snow on the ground.
The sugaring camp had already been set up by Robert's father, and the best
trees were already tapped with sumac spiles that had been hollowed out with
a hot wire.  They would spend two days and nights in the sugarbush,
collecting the buckets that the sap dripped into at each tree, and cooking
it down in the kettles that had been set up over fires in the boiling area.

The two young men worked hard all day long.  In the evening, after a good
supper Robert's mother had packed into their food satchel, they settled
down in the shelter they had built: a tent of sapling poles and spruce
boughs.  Snuggled into their nest of fragrant spruce limbs, they lay
spooned closely until Robert felt Seth's lumber begin to harden against his
bum.  Seth reached into the satchel he had stowed in the shelter and dipped
his fingers into the little crock of butter provided for their bread.  It
was a creamy white, because the cow was still eating the winter hay.  He
slicked the swelling knob of his cock with the grease; then brought his
fingers to the soft brown ring of Robbie's arse.  He circled around the
tender flesh with an ever increasing pressure, until Robbie began to hum
deeply on each outgoing breath.  Then Seth pressed his moist thumb up into
the quivering muscle and on through into the warmth beyond: his slick palm
fitted up into the smooth vee of Robert's crutch and his butter-fingers
stoked the pliant sack of the boy's nuts.  Seth had never penetrated
Robbie's bud before, but now, in the spicy fragrance of their hideaway,
after a long day together in the hard but satisfying labor of sugaring, it
seemed the most natural thing in the world to do .  He moved the head of
his cock in the warm cleft and nosed it gently against the softness there.
"Let me take you, Robbie, let me push my yard into you."  In answer Robert
thrust back into the hard invader, opening, gripping, taking the first hurt
readily, with joy.  Seth began to pump slowly.  Pressing his lips against
the back of Robbie's neck, he murmured hoarsely, "Oh, Robbie, let me in.
Let me in deeper, let me ride you."  His thrusting became harder and
faster; he crushed the younger man beneath him, forcing a grunting breath
out of him with every plunge.  He felt his seed begin to collect at the
base of his root and his body began to shudder uncontrollably.  "Oh,
sweetheart, I'm going to spend in you...It's coming...Oh, sweetheart, my
sweet Robbie, going to fill you...now!"

Robert felt a warm liquid rush, deep inside him.  "Sweetheart" Seth had
called him. "Sweetheart". His life was fulfilled, his joy, complete.  Seth
made no move to bring Robert's cock to climax, but Robert understood.  He
didn't need that.  His lover's happiness was enough.

***

The early morning light found Seth lying on his back with Robert nestled in
the crook of his arm beside him.  Coming out of a heavy, dreamless sleep,
Seth took Robert's hand and moved it down to his morning cockstand.  "Get
to your chores," he mumbled to the sleepy boy and soon, under his friend's
slow pull, hot milk bubbled up over the squeezing fist.  When he felt
Robert start to move down to take his drink, he kept him from it, pressing
his mate's lips against the raspy skin of his throat, where Robbie moved
his tongue in slow circles as the cock in his hands drooled out its last
ribbon of cream.

"That's enough now, little milkboy," he said, pulling Robert's hand off his
teat, "you've pressed me dry.  But don't worry, my bags will be full again
for your evening chores."

During the crisp spring morning they continued the work of the sugaring.
The fires had to be built up again, and the three big kettles kept on a
constant boil.  In the first one, the thin unflavored sap was cooked
heavily to release the excess of water, which came off in an acrid steam.
Then the thickening liquid was poured into the second kettle where it
simmered, with constant stirring to keep it from scorching.  In this kettle
the table syrup was made.  And, finally some of the thickened syrup was
drawn off and put into the third kettle over a low fire where it was
stirred until it turned into maple sugar with its heady, mouth-watering
sweetness.

At midday they ate the last of the dried apples and the last of the sharp
cheese.  They smiled knowingly at each other as they dipped into the crock
for butter to spread on their bread, and Seth even spread some on his
fingers and held them up to Robert's mouth for him to suck and lick.  For
dessert, they dribbled thick hot syrup from a spoon into a patch of clean
snow, then chewed greedily on the sweet taffy lumps.  Later, Seth crawled
into the shelter for a nap, while Robert went off into the bush on a secret
errand .  In the afternoon, after they had done the rest of the day's
sap-collecting, Robert told Seth he had something he wanted him to see .
"If it's your arsehole, partner," joked Seth, "I think I'll wait for
nightfall.  That's not something I want to look at in the daytime."

"No, you lumberhead, it's something prettier than that, I guarantee."  He
took Seth's arm and they walked down a little trail deeper into the
sugarbush.  Finally they came to a small, natural clearing.  Robert was
excited.  "This is it," he said breathlessly.

"I see," drawled Seth, "and just what is it that I'm looking at here except
for some trampled-down snow and a few straggly weed stalks?"


"This is our house," Robert shouted.  He ran forward and paced around the
outline that he had trodden down earlier in the snow, to create the floor
plan for a big cabin.  "I came on it last summer, just after you started me
on my 'milking chores'.  This is where we'll build our cabin.  I know my
father will give me the land.  See, the big fireplace can go here in this
middle wall, and it can open on two sides and we can have a separate room
for our double bed right here, and still have the warmth of the fire at
night."

Seth stared at Robert. "Are you loco, boy?  Did your Pa's old mule kick you
in your head?  I ain't going to live in a house with you.  Two men don't
build their own cabin in the woods and settle down in it like sweethearts."

"But they do," Robert insisted.  "There's those two over by Little Creek.
They have a nice place and they run their farm really well.  My father says
so.  He's been over there and visited them."

"Robert," Seth cried, disgusted, "you know what my Pa calls those two?  He
calls them 'molly men'."  It was an old-fashioned word for effeminates and
buggers, but still good as the currency of insult in places like America
and Canada.  "They're like two old maids," Seth sneered, "they've probably
got bumholes as big as pork barrels.  Everybody knows they lift their
shirts for each other."

"My mother says they're just bachelors who couldn't find the right sort of
wives, " countered Robert.  "There's nothing wrong with not getting
married."

"It's not their not getting married that matters," argued Seth, hotly,
"it's their getting arse-poked in the same county with decent folks like
your family and mine.  I'm plumb flabbergasted at you Robbie, thinking that
you and me could hitch up like a couple eunuchs and play house in the
woods.  Come on let's get back to the sugar kettles before I sock you one
in the gut."  He started back toward the sugaring camp with Robert trailing
miserably behind.  Just at the edge of the clearning Seth's eye was caught
by a fresh scar in one of the tree trunks.

	It was a heart carved in the bark with the inscription "R.C. LOVES
S.A!"

"What in the name of beelzebub is this Robbie?  Did you carve this
horseshit thing here?"  He was so angry his body trembled as he stared at
the boy standing petrified behind him .  "I...I just thought it would be a
souvenir, Seth...something to remember and laugh about when we built our
house."

"I'd better not ever see it here again," Seth snarled.  "You get your axe
and chop it away, you hear?"  He turned and stalked off .  Robert followed,
mocked by his own fear, ashamed that he didn't have the stones to tell Seth
to chop it out himself, if he thought it was such a blemish on the forest.
Back at the kettles Mr. Carpenter and two of Robert's sisters had come to
deliver some food for the evening and to take back on their sled any of the
barrels that were filled, so there was no chance for further communication
between the two men.  But Seth's scowl lasted all afternoon, and by the
time the rest of the family had gone, Robert wondered if he would ever see
his comrade's sly grin and that sardonic, challenging look in his eyes
again .  A long tense evening of silence followed, until it was time to bed
down in the shelter.  It was too cold to lay apart, and after a few minutes
of shivering, Seth finally turned to Robert and roughly drew him into an
embrace, sharing their body warmth.  Little by little the heat of their
closeness seemed to melt the chill in their hearts.  Rob could feel that
familiar luxurious lump of Seth's club lengthen against his ass.  Memories
of the previous night's glorious sensations flooded Robbie's mind.  He took
one of Seth's hands from its grasp on his chest and moved it down to his
own rising member.  But instead of the soft pulling that usually amounted
to Seth's sole caress on his cock, the bigger man grabbed him harshly and
ground his hand painfully down against Robert's eggs.  He cried out and
tried to pull the hand away, but Seth continue to maul his crutch and
Robbie felt the iron shaft at his ass swell even harder.

"You want to be my molly boy, do you?" rasped Seth, "you want to play the
girly to my meat--take my sugarstick down your throat, lick up my spunk
with your lady lips?"  He ground his fist even harder against Robbie's
groin, making him whimper with pain.  "Shall I make you into my eunuch
right now, Robbie?...Squash your little oysters till they pop?"

Seth pulled Robert flat onto the ground and straddled his chest, pulling
out his rammer and his stones so they hung down on Robbie's face.  Robbie
tried to move his head to one side, but Seth gripped his cheeks with his
calloused hands and squeezed his lips open, like a gasping fish, then
brutally plunged his cock to the back of Robbie's throat gagging him,
making him heave and writhe beneath the heavy weight on his arms and upper
chest.  With strength he didn't know he had, he pushed Seth's body off him
and rolled away, scrambling on hands and knees toward the dying fire in
front of the shelter .  But Seth caught him by one ankle and pulled him
back.  Then, seeming to have another idea, Seth stood, taking Robbie's
ankles in his hands, and dragged him over to the sugar kettles still warm
from the coals heaped up beneath them.  "Let's give you a real sugarpop to
lick" Seth growled as he knelt again over Robbie's face.  He had picked up
a wooden ladle hanging from a stake in the ground beside the middle kettle,
the one with the table syrup for porridge or pancakes bubbling in it.  He
dipped the ladle into the syrup, then tested it with his finger.  "It's
cooled down enough to eat," he said, and he poured a thick stream of it
over his cock and down onto his nuts, letting some of it drip onto Robbie's
face staring up, fearfully, from beneath.  "Now, lick your syrup up, like a
good little molly," he crowed, laughing as he rubbed the sticky red plum of
his penis over the boy's lips and up into his nostrils.  He hitched his
body forward a little and let his syrupy balls rub against Robbie's mouth,
finally taking his fingers and stuffing them both into the boy's cheeks so
they puffed out like a squirrel's.  The sweet liquour on the cock was
leaking into Robbie's eyes, gluing them shut and he began to feel faint
from a lack of air.  Seth took this relaxing of the body beneath him as a
sign that the boy was beginning to enjoy his torment, and somehow that made
him even angrier.  He flipped the boy over, pulled down Robert's breeches
and rammed his pulsing meat into his bunghole.  The stickiness of the syrup
created a clinging, gripping suction as he buggered his "molly" .  Robert
refused to cry out, taking the punishment with grunts and gasps until he
felt Seth spurt his scum into the maple-sweet hole.  Seth fell heavily onto
Robert's back, letting the last spasms of his rod die away.  "Is that what
you want, molly boy?" he said between breaths.  "Is that what you want us
to do in our little house in the big woods?  Want me to breed you with my
sugarstick, give you a little sugarbaby?  Tell me, Robbie...no, tell me
Roberta.  That's what I'll call you now.  My sweet little sugarcunt
Roberta."

The syrup that pasted Robert's eyelids shut melted in the hot salt tears
that trickled down his face, which was dotted with bits of snow and dirt
that had been ground into it.

Seth got up and walked to the edge of the clearing.  He took his penis in
hand and began to piss.  When he finished, he pulled Robert up by the back
of his collar and dragged him over to see what he had done.  There, in
yellow script, the words Rob loves Seth were frozen into the snow.

***

By mid-afternoon of the next day they were on their way back to the
Carpenter farm pulling a sled loaded with a barrel of table syrup and
another of maple sugar.  Sugaring was over.  At the house, Robert's mother
looked curiously at the sticky, smudged face of her son.  She teased them
about getting their faces down into the syrup kettles to lick them out, and
she poured some hot water in a bowl so they could wash up.  Seth said he
had to get back home, and he left, carrying a small tin of sugar and a
little barrel of sweetening in a canvas bag over his shoulder, his payment
for helping with the sugaring.

Rob walked him as far as the edge of the house clearing so none of the
family would notice that anything was wrong .  "I'm sorry, Seth," he said,
although he hated himself for apologizing because he didn't know what he
had to apologize for.

"I'm sorry too, Robbie."  Seth looked almost as if he were going to cry
now.  "I don't know what got into me.  I didn't mean to hurt you.  I know
you're a good mate and I hope we can still be chums."

"We'll see," replied Robbie.  "I've got to think a few things out first."
He held out his hand.  Seth reached eagerly forward and shook it.  Then
they found themselves stuck together when they tried to pull apart.  They
laughed and Robbie saw in Seth's eyes a hint of that old teasing
seductiveness he loved so much.

"You've got a real sweet hand, partner.  I've got a big slab of taffy that
you can pull with it any time you've got a mind to."  Seth turned and
walked away, raising his hand high in a wave, without looking back, as he
entered the woods.

***

Rob knocked timidly on the door of the small cabin.  It was getting dark
and he'd walked several miles to get there.  When the door was opened, he
found himself looking into the plain, honest face of Edward, one of the
"molly men" that people of the area snickered about .  "Robert!  Why, come
in."  He turned to speak to someone else in the room.  "John, it's young
Robert Carpenter.  What brings you here, lad?" he asked drawing the young
fellow into the snug one-room house.  "Is there something wrong at home?
Do your parents need our help?"

"No, no, it's not anything like that," Robert replied quickly.  "I just...I
just thought that maybe...that maybe I'd come for a visit."  He looked
toward the bright fireplace.  Standing beside one of the two wooden
armchairs facing each other across the hearth was John, the other "molly",
a short, thick-set man with a broad face, full, long hair, and a bushy
beard that reached to the middle of his chest.

"Come in, Robert, we're always happy to have visitors--don't get many in
these parts," John said, gesturing for him to sit down by the fire.
"Edward, ladle out a bowl of your good stew for our young friend.  He looks
a little peaked."

They both moved easily about and made him comfortable, as if he'd been
there many times before and had arrived for an eagerly expected call.

Finally, his innards warmed by the stew and his brain fired up by a cup of
potent cider, he began to try to explain why he had come.  It was
embarrassing, almost shameful, even, to have to describe his feelings for
Seth, to relate the troubling events of the last few days.  And all the
while he knew that he could be making a horrible mistake, that they might
rise up and throw him out the door, calling him a sodomite, angry that he
should think they wanted to hear about such things.

But the "molly men" listened intently and prompted him with gentle
questions when he came to images that seemed to inimate to relate.  At last
he came to a stop in his sad litany and just sat, looking at them with
forlorn eyes.

"And how can we help you, Robert?  What did you expect two strange old
bachelors like us could do for you and Seth?" asked John quietly.  "I
thought maybe you could tell me what to do," Robert replied, realizing how
pathetic that sounded.

John look at his mate, then back at Robbie.  "Nobody can tell you what to
do, lad," he said sadly.  "Edward and I were lucky.  We never doubted that
we belonged together and neither one of us has ever abused the other the
way you say Seth has treated you."  He went on to tell how they had been
the sons of neighbors on adjacent Connecticut farms, how they had been bed
mates, not for maple sugaring, but for harvesting, one week at one farm
just before the full September moon, and one week at the other, just after
the full moon.  Those two weeks had sealed their love for each other and
they had declared their intention to set up house together as "bachelors".
To escape the anger and loathing of their families they came to Vermont
where they knew they were objects of disgust and ridicule, but where people
pretty much left them alone to live their lives as they wanted.  "So, you
see," John finished, "about all we can say to you is that you and Seth have
to know so certainly that the two of you belong together, that you're
willing to give up everything this world thinks is important in order to
live your two lives as one."

There was a long silence, broken only by the crackling and shifting of the
logs burning down to embers in the fireplace.  Robert looked up and said
hesitantly "I was wondering if I could sleep here with the two of you
tonight."

"You mean sleep with us in our bed?" asked Edward .  "Yes, if you'd let me.
I'd like to feel a man's body against mine tonight."  He held Edward's
gaze, steadily.

Edward cut his eyes toward his comrade and shook his head slightly.  John
cleared his throat and spoke for the two of them.  "I'm sorry Robert, I'm
afraid that just isn't possible.  Edward and I are true mates, we're as
good as married, in fact.  And we're loyal to each other in every way.  It
just wouldn't be a good idea to bring a handsome, well-set up fellow like
you into our bed.  In the end it would only cause trouble."

"I understand," Robert muttered as he got clumsily to his feet, preparing
to go back out into the cold night for the long walk home.  "I should never
have asked such a thing."

"Now, now, Robbie" cried Edward, "you're not leaving.  Of course you're
going to stay here with us tonight.  We'll bed you down in front of the
fire.  You'll be right snug here, and we'll be just over there in the
corner keeping watch over you."

So he let himself be bundled into warm blankets and rested his head on a
pillow fragrant with bedstraw as he drifted into a deep sleep

 In the early morning light that filtered through the one window of the
cabin, he woke to a muffled sound from the bed in the corner.  He could
make out the shapes of the two men's bodies spooned against each other and
he knew from their movements that they were making love.  After they both
stiffened and then groaned in the pleasure of their spending, one of them
turned to the other, and he could see that it was John who had "played the
woman" to Edward's thrusting, even though to his eyes it had seemed that
Edward was the "wife" of the marriage.  He realized then how pointless
those terms were when it came to men loving each other.  If only he could
help Seth to understand that simple truth.  Then he saw how the two men
kissed deeply and how they fell asleep again, their faces inches from each
other, breathing into each other's mouth.

What a fool he had been!  Seth would never kiss him like that.  Seth would
never give up his precious "manliness," never treat him like a lover .  He
rose silently, put on his boots, wrapped up warmly in his coat and muffler
and crept out of the house.  On the walk home in the bitter March morning
air he felt something hard hit against his leg in his coat pocket.  He
reached in and pulled out a small book.  Inside on the fly leaf was written

	to Robert from Edward and John these are some poems written by one
of our chums we hope they help you understand why each of us has to make
his own decisions, secure in the knowledge that his brothers are with him.

He opened to the title page: The Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman.  He
turned to the first poem strangely titled "Song of Myself".  He read:

			I celebrate myself, and sing myself,
			And what I assume you shall assume,
			For every atom belonging to me as good as belongs
to you.

He quickly closed the book and thrust it back into his pocket, as if he'd
been caught reading something he shouldn't.  Dazed, he walked a little
further.  He realized that his life's journey had come to an important fork
in the road.  On one side there was a well-beaten lane to familiar things:
a house, a wife and children, and neighbor named Seth who had his own house
and wife and children, and who came from time to time to help with the
maple sugaring or the harvest, but who never spoke of the spring of 1856.
On the other side there was a dark, forbidding track leading back toward
Boston, where his family had come from over sixteen years ago when he was
just a baby, and maybe even further, back across the ocean to England where
his grandfather had come from before the War for Independence.  It didn't
occur to him that he could go further West: no, his choice was either here,
or back to the life of towns and cities where he might find the true song
of himself among other of his own kind.

He paused, lost in thought, beside the line of maple trees that marked the
beginning of the sugarbush.  He breathed in deeply: there was a sickening,
familiar sweetness in the air.  In truth there wasn't any choice at all.

***

Seth awoke from a dream in which he seemed to wade endlessly through a pond
of amber maple syrup toward an indistinct figure on the far shore.  His
wife Sarah snored gently beside him; his two daughters coughed and sniffled
in their bunk, and the baby began to fret in his cradle.  It was late March
and he would get away this morning for three days, going to the Carpenter
farm to help the old man with the maple sugaring.  Last year Robert's
father had silently passed him a letter sent by their son from London,
England.  It was a bland, almost formal note written on heavy, cream
colored paper with his name embossed on the top of the sheet:

ROBERT CARPENTER, ESQUIRE

He enquired about his parents' health, asked after his brothers and
sisters, and briefly apologized for "running away" four years earlier.
There was nothing about his work, nothing about where or how he lived,
nothing about friends.  Just at the end he requested that his best regards
be given to Seth Adams "my old maple syrup comrade."  Seth had to give the
letter back to the old man, but those words froze in his mind, like dregs
of hot sweet liquor thrown into the snow: his maple syrup comrade!

This year, he would, as always, walk to the clearing where Robbie had paced
out their "home". He would sit smoking his pipe beneath the tree where
Robbie had carved the heart with the inscription "R.C. loves S.A."  Every
year he intended to gouge it out of the bark so no one would ever see it,
but every year he left it there, a reminder of things that might have been.

When he came back from the sugaring he would tell his wife once and for all
that he was going to sign on with the Vermont Volunteers.  He'd heard that
even John and Edward, the ones he used to call the "molly men," were
joining up.  It was 1861.  There was a war on now and he was going to help
the Union Army free the slaves.

But in his heart he knew that he just wanted to get away--to find once
again the company, the comradeship, the sweet love of men.