Read Miracles on Maple Hill (Harcourt Young Classics) for Free Online

embarrassed, the way he might if somebody started to recite a poem.
    "The sap running gives me a feeling I can't describe," Mr. Chris said. "Like it's the blood of the earth moving."
    Everybody sat still as if they might be in church and Mr. Chris was giving the sermon. But it was different from church, with Mother and Daddy and Chrissie sitting on an old beat-up couch Mr. Chris had in one corner, and Marly and Joe and Mr. Chris perched on the piled-up wood. Fritz sat on a turned-over bucket, his boots stuck out in front of him. The fire spit and the sap boiled, and the drowsy heat and wavery lantern light and steamy smell were wonderful. Little fine drops fell sometimes from the ceiling.
    "I wish somebody would sing a song," Mrs. Chris said. "Used to be we'd sit around the sugar fire and sing and sing."
    "Like in the summer at our picnics," Mother said.
    "Didn't you tell me Dale sang? When you were first engaged, Lee, I remember you said how beautiful his voice was."
    "Oh, she thought everything about me was beautiful then!" Daddy said, and laughed.
    "Your voice
is
wonderful, Dale," Mother said, not laughing at all.
    "Was, maybe," he said. And to Chrissie: "I'm afraid I don't sing anymore."
    "Why not?" Mr. Chris asked in his big boomy voice. "Nobody who can sing should ever give it up. Not many folks can sing. I always said if I could so much as carry a tune in a sap bucket, I'd never give folks any rest."
    "One song, Dale? These are old friends," Mother said. Her voice asked him hard, not telling him he had to sing, but just asking in a nice way.
    Marly held her breath. She could remember Daddy singing, but it was a long time ago—before he went away, when she went to bed at night.
    "That old one about the fox, that ballad would be nice," Mother said. "The children used to love that."
    "I don't think I can remember all the verses—"
    "Maybe I can help you out then," Mother said. "And everybody can sing the last lines together, the ones about the town-o."
    For a minute Daddy sat looking tight all over. Then he stood up and put his head back and looked up at the rolling steam. His voice was little at first, but it seemed to get bigger and bigger.
     
"Oh, the fox went out one winter's night,
And he prayed to the moon to give him light..."
     
    It was a wonderful story-song, the kind Marly thought was best of all. The fox took the fat duck home to his wife and babies, and the farmer was too late to prevent it. Daddy's voice got nicer with every verse, and at the end of every one the sugarhouse was as full of singing as it was of steam. Mr. Chris was a little bit out of tune, but it didn't matter.
    When the song ended, everybody clapped and clapped and Joe said, "Dad, you know another one about a fox. I remember you singing it. About some hunters who asked a boy where the fox went, and he wouldn't tell them—"
    "And the fox was tired and—" Marly began.
    "That one's too fast until I practice. I'll sing it when you come back," Daddy said. "I'll practice every night." He looked at Mother, and she smiled, and everything felt good in a way Marly had almost forgotten.
    "Well, you sure can carry a tune," Fritz said, with admiration.
    Mother jumped up and said it was getting late and Marly looked as if she was going to fall off her perch any minute. So they all walked out to the truck together, Mother and Chrissie and Marly walking last and looking back at the shining door.
    "This is so beautiful, Chrissie," Mother said. "How you must love the sugar season!"
    Marly jumped when Chrissie answered, because the way she spoke didn't sound like Mrs. Chris at all. Her voice was low and tight, a lot like Daddy's when he was cross and tired. "Love it?
I hate it!
" Chrissie said. Marly could hardly believe her ears. "He works too hard, you should be able to see that, Lee. Two years ago he had a heart attack just before the end of the season. But nothing can stop him—nothing! Do you think he'll take care of himself while there's work to