Spring Comes to Snow Hill

by Admiral Biscuit

Rating: everyone
Tags: Slice of Life, Original Character, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic
Length: 6037

Spring is coming to Snow Hill, and that means that it's time to go out in the maple grove and go sugaring.

Spring is coming to Snow Hill, and that means that it's time for the family to go into their maple grove and collect sap. Maple Leaf thinks he's old enough to help in the saphouse, but Red isn't sure. Still, they need all the hooves they can get working; Sugar Bush is pregnant and Winter Berry isn't big enough to pull the sap sledge.

For Scribblefest 2018

Published 2018-03-04 04:50:08 UTC
Last updated 2018-03-04 04:50:08 UTC

Sugar Moon

Spring Comes to Snow Hill
Admiral Biscuit

Winter Berry stood on the back porch and looked up at the full moon. Even though the ground was still thick with snow and the air was heavy with frost, spring was almost here.

The ice on their pond was getting thin, and they'd pulled in their last load for the season—it was too dangerous to venture out on anymore. They could all feel it shifting underhoof, and it creaked and groaned in protest as the last loaded sledge was pulled across.

She lingered on the porch just a little bit longer, watching the clouds of her breath drifting off and dissipating into the moonlight, before she turned and went back inside.

Maple Leaf, her little brother, caught her just past the door. “Mom says sap's gonna start flowing soon!”

Winter Berry nodded. “Coupla days.” She leaned down and nuzzled the crown of his head. “You looking forward to it?”

He nodded eagerly. “I'm big enough to help put the spiles in the trees and wear panniers and carry sap—Mom says so. And I’m gonna ask Dad if I can help in the saphouse, too.”

“Maybe next year you'll also be big enough to help us break out.”

“You think so?” He stood on tip-hooves and stuck out his chest.

“Maybe.” She leaned a little bit closer to him. “How's Mom?”

“Grumpy. She says the foal's kicking, and she blames Dad, 'cause he wouldn't let her go out on the ice with us.”

“She got grumpy before she had you, too.” Winter Berry nuzzled his mane again. “Come on, let's get cleaned up for dinner, okay?”

•••

After dinner, the family sat in the hearth room. Sugar Bush stretched out on the couch while Maple Leaf and Winter Berry sat on the floor closer to the fireplace. Red Maple tossed a log in the fire and then moved back over to the couch. “Gonna have to go into town, I reckon, see if I can find some stallions to help break us out.”

Sugar Bush snorted. “I'm helping, Red, and you know it.”

“I don't want—“

“I'll break a wider path than you.” She rubbed a hoof over her belly. “And the foal ought to get a taste for it.”

He sighed. “Doc says you're supposed to take it easy.”

“I take it easy, we're not gonna have as much sap this year, and you know it.” She winced as the foal kicked again. “Besides, it's not due for another moon.”

“I get worried, is all.” He leaned back and nuzzled her belly. “You ain't as young as you used to be.”

“Neither are you, you big lug.” She reached down and ran a hoof through Maple Leaf's mane. “Besides, he's gonna be helping us out this year, so I won't have to work as hard.”

“Alright.” Red Maple sat down on the floor next to the couch. “We're gonna be up before the sun tomorrow. Me and Sugar gotta out and get the supplies ready.”

Maple Leaf's ears perked. “Can I help?”

His parents exchanged a glance, then Red Maple nodded. “Sure—it'll be good for you to learn. Winter, if you're ready for bed before we get back in, bank the fire.”

Breaking Out

It was almost like Hearth's Warming Day—Winter Berry and Maple Leaf woke before the sunrise, and even before their parents. Winter pretended to be asleep for a little while, but finally she could ignore her brother no longer, so she pushed down the covers and sat up in bed. “How late were you out?”

“Dunno.” Maple shrugged. “Dad had almost everything set out already, but I got to grease the runners on the sledge.”

“That sounds like fun.” It wasn’t—that task had been hers last year, and she’d discovered how every little bit of dirt in the barn was attracted to the grease, not to mention how difficult it was to get off her hooves.

“And then we loaded up the sledge, so it’s all ready to go. I wanted to pull it out by the door, but your harness is still too big for me, so I had to push from behind while Mom and Dad pulled on the chains. And then Mom made me scrub all the grease outta my coat before she’d let me come in the house.” Maple yawned. “I hope Mom gets up soon. I’m hungry.”

“Why don’t we get some eggs and make breakfast ourselves? Let them rest some.”

“Yeah!”

The two of them sneaked out of their room like thieves and got dressed in their snow clothes in the little alcove by the back door. Winter Berry quietly lifted the latch, and they opened the door only far enough to squeeze out.

Maple bounded through the moonlit snow like a dolphin playing in the waves, while Winter followed along at a more sedate pace.

Maple skipped up the stile and opened the short fencetop gate, then trotted down the other side into their chicken run, while Winter grabbed the wicker basket that hung beside the fence and brought it along in her mouth.

Both of them were experts at not disturbing the chickens while they took the eggs, and it only took a few minutes to fill the basket.

On the way back, Winter set it down long enough for Maple Leaf to stack a few logs on her back, and then the siblings returned to the house.

She didn't have to even ask him to fetch a bucket of water as she built the fire back up—he went back out to the well on his own and came back in with it. It wasn't all the way full, but it was plenty for a meal.

They mixed up a batch of pancake batter together, then she let him stand on a milk crate and do the cooking while she supervised.

“Hey Winter?”

“Yeah?”

“How come Mom never lets Dad cook?”

“‘Cause he burns everything he cooks except for sap.” Winter stuck her tongue out. “Mom says that he could burn water, even.” She reached up into the cupboard to get out their tin of coffee. “Hmm, not much left. I’ll have to roast more beans tonight.”

• • •

After the family had finished eating, Winter bundled the extra pancakes in waxed paper for lunch, while her mother gathered some parched corn and the rest of the coffee beans, and loaded them into her saddlebags.

When they got to the barn, her father helped Maple into snowshoes while her mother helped Winter put on her harness and hitched her to the sled. It was already loaded with buckets, lids, spiles, and the toolbox that held the auger and mallet.

Once all four of them were ready, the family left the barn and set out for the forest. Red Maple took the lead, while Sugar Bush followed slightly off to the side, widening the path he’d made through the drifts.

It was hard work, and not helped by the fact that it was uphill to their grove of maple trees. Winter tried to not think about how far they had to go, and just concentrated on her hooves and the sled tugging and bumping against her harness. Maple stayed off to the side, on top of the thick, heavy snow.

She'd been concentrating so hard on the ground in front of her that she was surprised when her mother stopped, until she looked up and realized that they were on the border of their maple grove.

The grove’s edge was marked by a tall, scarred maple the family called Old Grandad. Nopony knew how old it was; its crown was thinning, and yet every year it still produced bucket upon bucket of sweet sap.

Red continued on ahead, breaking a path through the snow to the trees, while Sugar unfastened the leads from Winter’s harness and set her free.

The two of them went to the sled and opened up the toolbox, then they set to work on the trees.

At first, the auger felt strange in Winter’s hooves, but as the day wore on the motions became familiar again. Sugar would put her hooves up against the tree, feeling for the sap inside. When she found the right spot, she'd tap it gently, and Winter would move in with the auger, being careful not to knock the bark loose—that would hurt the tree.

Once she'd drilled in to the paint mark on the bit, she'd pull it back out and blow the chips out of the hole, and then Maple Leaf would step in, tapping a cast iron spile home with the wooden mallet. Then they would hang a bucket from it, put the cover atop, and move on to the next tree.

By the time the sun was overhead, the three of them had gotten dozens of holes bored, and Red had finished tromping paths to the sap-producing trees. While Sugar cleared away a big enough patch of snow to start a fire for lunch, Red went back to the barn to get the roller, so he’d be ready to start packing down the snow on the trail as soon as they finished eating.

They ate a quick lunch, saving the hot coffee for last, and then went back to work. Sugar hitched Winter back to the sled, and she pulled it deeper into the woods, watching carefully to make sure that she didn't snag it on any saplings or deadfall.

By the end of the day, all four of them were exhausted. Maple Leaf was swaying on his hooves, and when it was finally time to go home, he set a hoof on the sled and looked at his sister with puppy-dog eyes.

“Fine. But just this once.”

For the trip home, her father again took the lead, walking off to the side to further widen the path.

Despite the cold, all four of them were soaked with sweat, and when they got back to the barn Winter briefly considered the advantages of going to bed with her harness still on.

Red carried her brother into the house—he'd fallen asleep on the way back home, and only stirred briefly as Sugar pushed him off and into bed. Normally, she'd have woken him up and demanded that he take a bath, but not tonight. The whole family was too exhausted.

Sap Collecting

Red Maple opened his eyes as the mattress shifted. “Getting up?”

“Just did.” Sugar Bush brushed her muzzle against his neck, giggling as he recoiled from the cold. “It's snowing. Big, fat flakes.”

“That's a good omen.” He pushed the covers down. “Outta put some wood in the stove, else the foals won't want to get up.”

“Already did.”

“How many times do I gotta tell you to take it easy? Relax? You're gonna—“

She pressed a hoof against his lips. “The foal will be fine.”

“I just worry, is all.” He piled the blankets up over her. “Get some more sleep. I’ll wake you up when everypony’s ready.” Red leaned down and nuzzled her cheek, then covered that with the blanket as well.

She had no intention of staying in bed; as soon as she heard the back door close, she headed to the kitchen to prepare breakfast. If the barn was his domain, the kitchen was hers—she had no need for a lantern.

As she began mixing a bowl of dough, she watched the fat, lazy flakes of snow drifting down outside the window.

It didn’t take long for a hungry foal to arrive in the kitchen. She didn’t even need to look to know who it was. “Did you wake up your sister?”

His hesitation was answer enough. “She’s tired from yesterday,” Maple explained. “I thought I’d let her sleep in a little bit.”

Sugar turned to look at him. “You just wanted to get the freshest samp cake, didn’t you? You really do take after your father. I’m surprised he isn’t in the kitchen yet.”

“I was gonna wake her up, promise.”

“How many cakes was you going to eat first?”

“Just one.”

“They’re almost ready,” she said. “If you go wake her up now, you’ll get the first one, fresh out of the pot.”

• • •

In the barn, she helped her foals into their wicker panniers. Both were pass-me-downs: Winter wore Sugar’s old ones, while Maple Leaf wore his sister’s. Each held a quartet of enameled metal cans—empty milk cans that had been elevated to serve a nobler cause.

Once the two of them were loaded up, Sugar helped Red finish fastening his harness, and then hitched him to the large sledge, where more repurposed milk cans stood arrayed in neat rows.

Today, she took the lead, and her family followed. Winter and Maple were constantly talking, almost covering the sounds of Red tugging the sledge, but with her ears turned forwards, she could mostly ignore them and instead focus on the sounds of spring. Black-capped chickadees were already out, chirping to mark their territory. Soon, the pegasi would fly over Snow Hill, and migratory birds would follow.

They got to work as soon as they arrived in the grove. One by one, she carefully took the sap-filled buckets off the spiles and sipped the sap, making sure that it was good before pouring it into the cans in her foals' panniers. Once those were full, they headed back to the sledge and exchanged them for empties.

As the sun climbed above the trees, the temperature rose above freezing. Squirrels bounded around in the snow, looking for their buried caches of nuts.

When the sledge was nearly full, Sugar and Red left to unload the morning’s harvest into the transfer tank at the saphouse. Winter, meanwhile, got the leftover boiled samp cakes ready for lunch.

Sugar and Red returned while the foals were still eating. Maple Leaf broke off a corner of his last samp cake and offered it to one of the squirrels, who sniffed at it warily before finally snatching it and scampering up a tree with his bounty, and then he and Winter went back to harvesting sap, giving Sugar and Red a chance to eat.

At the end of the day, Sugar helped her husband out of his harness at the barn, and then the family went to their small hearth room to relax.

“Gonna start reducing the sap tomorrow,” Red said. “Already looks like it's gonna be a good spring, and we don't want to get behind.”

“So soon,” Sugar said. “When’s the last time we had a spring this good?”

“Before Winter was born. Remember, Pappy had to come out and help, and don't think I didn't get my ears bent about that.”

“I can help in the saphouse,” Maple offered. “Carrying wood, and working the fire.”

“You're still a little bit—”

“You was in the sap house when you was hardly off your mother's teat, remember?” Sugar said. “Pappy would say whenever you went out to get fresh wood how you had the sap in your veins, and—”

“Mayhap that's so. I reckon Maple Leaf's old enough.” He leaned down and nuzzled his son. “It's a lot of work—don't think that it isn't.”

“I know, Dad.”

“Hot work.” Red looked down at his shaggy winter coat and then turned to Sugar. “Might as well get the thinning rake.”

Maple’s ears dropped. “Me, too?”

“You, too.”

• • •

Sugar Bush trimmed her son’s coat, and when she’d finished, he stood shivering in the hearth room among a pile of his hair.

“This doesn't feel right,” he muttered, running a hoof across his nearly denuded belly.

“You'll get used to it,” Red promised. “You'll be grateful tomorrow, I reckon.”

“Do you want me to get your blanket?” Winter asked.

Maple Leaf lifted his hoof. “No. I—I need to get used to it. Dad doesn’t wear a blanket.”

“'Cause he's twice your size.”

“Pfft, bragging about your size,” Sugar said. “I'm the widest one here.” She glanced over at her husband, then her children. “It’s time for you two to go to bed—we’re gonna be busy tomorrow, and you need the sleep.”

Reducing the Sap

The air felt especially cold to Maple Leaf, and despite his bravado the night before, he wore his blanket to the outhouse. Even so, he was shivering when he came back inside; instead of getting in his own bed, he climbed up on his sister’s and curled up alongside her.

She cracked open an eye. “I hope you kicked all the snow off your fetlocks and aren't dripping it on my blankets.”

“Of course I did,” he insisted.

“Bet you forgot.” She lifted her head up to look, and Maple pulled his hooves under the covers before she could get a look at them. “Thought so.”

“They mostly dripped on the floor.”

“Betcha wish you hadn't got trimmed.”

“I guess.” He rolled on his stomach—a mistake; now his cold, wet fetlocks were practically touching bare skin.

“Ought to get up anyways. Early pony gets the sap.”

“Can’t we stay in bed a little bit longer?”

“Alright, fine. Until we hear them getting up.”

Maple burrowed under the covers. “Don't tell Dad.”

“I won't. Promise.” She bopped his nose lightly with a hoof. “Betcha you'll start warming up when you start moving around.”

“I hope so.”

• • •

The family parted ways at the barn—Sugar and Winter went off to the grove, while Maple and Red went to the saphouse. The path hadn’t been cleared, so he followed along in his father’s hoofprints.

“Looking forward to the fire?”

He nodded.

“Me, too. Feels like it’s properly spring when we start reducing the sap.” Red reached up and pulled open the door to the saphouse. “Get the boiler doors open, and start building a fire in there, just like you would in the stove. Fire starts from the near end, and then the draft to the chimney’ll help pull it along. I’ll bring in more wood.”

The boiler doors were stiff from disuse, and squealed in protest as he tugged them open. Unlike the kitchen stove, the firebox was deep and shallow, and he quickly discovered that his foreleg wasn’t long enough to push wood all the way to the back, no matter how hard he tried.

“Was this designed by a unicorn?” Maple wondered aloud as he shoved a log as far in as he could.

Red laughed. “A sensible pony who didn't want to gather more firewood than she had to, I'll wager. Try using the fire rake to push 'em to the corner—that's how I did it when I was a colt.”

Working with the fire rake was awkward, and even Maple wasn’t entirely satisfied with his work when he had the firebox full. Red examined it for a moment, and then closed the door nearest the chimney. “Might as well get it going.”

Maple nodded, and dragged his shoe across the flint on the end of the firebox until a shower of sparks finally landed in the tinder.

“Blow on it,” Red said. “Real gentle, until it gets going.”

For several minutes, he blew life into the fire, fighting the cold metal trying to suck the heat out of it and the smoke trying to suffocate it, until the flames started to crackle and pop.

“Now we've got something,” Red said. “Enough to set the dampers and get a draft going, I reckon.”

Maple stood next to the firebox in an attempt to get warm, but Red was having none of that and pushed him towards the door.

“Your mother and sister are out there in snow up to their bellies, so you're gonna pull your weight here, else you'll be back with them. Gotta start pumping sap into the tank.”

The sap traveled from the holding tank through a hoof-operated rocker pump, then into a small primer tank which emptied into the evaporator.

It took 134 pumps before the sap started splashing into the tank. Maple counted every one.

He stopped counting when he got to a thousand. The muscles in his right foreleg were burning, and he finally had to switch to his left.

By the time the preheating pan was full, he'd mastered the art of switching legs without breaking rhythm.

He could still feel the pump pushing back against his hooves as he stumbled back into the saphouse, worried his weakened legs might betray him and pitch him muzzle-first into the snow.

Maple Leaf didn’t get any time to relax—he’d thought that there would be nothing to do while waiting for the sap to boil, but he was wrong.

“Now we need some fresh balsam fronds,” Red said.

The last thing Maple wanted to do after using the pump was walking. “How come we didn’t get them yesterday? There’s plenty of fir trees around the maple grove.”

“They’ve got to be fresh, ‘cause oil in the needles keeps the sap from foaming and boiling over. Go ahead and take my knife. And only cut off little fronds so you don’t hurt the tree.”

There weren’t any fir trees near the saphouse, and Maple was halfway to the maple grove before he found one that was in reasonably shallow snow. Even so, he had to force his way through a couple of drifts.

He almost dropped the knife, and if he had it might have been lost until the spring.

By the time he got back, the inside of the saphouse had turned into a sauna. Steam was rolling off the evaporator, and the heat paradoxically made him shiver.

Red quickly examined the fronds, and nodded. “Good; those’ll do fine. Put them on the workbench, then I’ll show you how to move the sap to the next evaporator. First thing to do is open the transfer pipe.” Red pointed to a ball valve on the bottom of the boiler. “And then we add more sap to the preheater.”

Maple’s ears drooped. More sap meant more pumping.

Red smiled. “It’ll warm you back up.”

He nodded and went back outside. Working in the saphouse wasn’t as much fun as he’d thought it would be.

• • •

Maple knew that a watched pot never boiled—mom and Winter said that often enough—but the boiler was a very different animal. For the first time today, he was grateful for having been shorn. Steam billowed up out of the evaporator, and he was constantly leaning over it to skim off the foam or rub the balsam across the top. In between, he took quick trips outside to bring in more wood for the firebox and to pump more sap into the primer tank.

When the second pan finally reduced down to the halfway point, he cracked open the valve to transfer it to the third, jerking back in surprise as the metal creaked and popped.

Once the second compartment was nearly empty, he closed the valve again and opened the piping from the first, and then it was time to go back outside and run the pump again.

Red finally returned with the latest load of cans on the sledge, but his workload barely lightened. The twice-reduced sap got transferred to the finishing tank, and then he got sent outside to cool off and to start piling snow around their holding tank—if the sap warmed up too much before it got reduced, it would spoil.

Then it was back to the steam of the saphouse with more logs to feed the insatiable maw of the firebox.

The End of the Season

Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.

There was something that felt honest to splitting wood. As Red Maple lifted each log onto the splitting block, he judged it and found its flaws, and by the time he’d hefted his splitting maul, he knew precisely where he needed to strike.

The process was almost automatic, and his mind went back through the years, to the spring where Sugar was carrying Maple in one of her pannier baskets and a jug of sap in the other. Back to the spring that Winter had first clumsily tipped foal-sized pails into the transfer cans on the sledge and spilled about half the sap, and he’d wanted to yell at her for wasting it but he held his tongue.

The first year that he and Sugar made syrup together, they’d slept in the saphouse; it had really been too much work for just the two of them, but he’d been too proud to ask for any help. They’d catnapped on the floor, and he’d gotten up countless times to keep the firebox full and keep sap in the boilers . . . that had been the year before Winter was born.

Even further back, when he’d been a colt himself, watching intently as Pappy showed him how to find the grain of the wood, how to strike it, and he thought he’d never be big enough to cleave the wood with one strike like Pappy did.

He cocked an ear up, listening to the weird gobbling call of sandhill cranes. Like the black-capped chickadees before them, they were finding their territory, coming back for the spring.

The season was nearing an end. Already, the maples with the most sun exposure had stopped producing sap and started to bud.

The north side of the saphouse was lined with jugs of sap that were ready for final reduction, filtering, and bottling.

Maple had really grown over the season. He’d struggled with the process the first day, but now he knew what was needed without any instruction. It was like he’d gone from a colt to a stallion in a little over a moon.

Once Red had put the freshly-split wood in the crib, he glanced into the saphouse. Maple was standing on the barrel, intently watching the sap, and he nodded. The process was coming naturally to his son, just like he’d hoped it would.

• • •

The road had gotten even muddier since his last trip. Even the snow he’d compacted with the roller had melted by now, and he paid close attention to all the soft spots. He didn’t want to get the sledge stuck in them when he brought it back to the barn.

He hesitated for a minute to survey the maple grove down the ridge. Pappy had planted all those trees the year before he and Sugar got married as an early wedding present, and this was the first spring they’d been harvested. They were still a little short, but their roots ran deep.

Off in the distance, he could faintly hear his wife and daughter talking, their voices nearly covering the occasional clunking and rattling of cans and pails as they worked. It was not unlike the birds reclaiming their territory.

He paused just for a moment at a rise in the land and watched them off in the distance, just as he’d watched Sugar work all those years ago. There had been a late snowstorm that year, and the two of them had huddled together in a small copse of pine trees and watched through the branches as the snow came down. For half a day the whole forest had been theirs.

Then Sugar saw him and waved, and he waved back before trotting down to meet them.

“That’s just about it for the season,” Sugar told him. “Another half the trees are going buddy.”

“How many does that leave us with?”

“A couple dozen,” Winter said.

“Just the ones over the ridge.”

He scraped a hoof on the ground, thinking. “Tomorrow afternoon, then, we’ll bring in the last of it. You two can work in the saphouse, getting everything ready to bottle, and then start heating up the last batch for the afternoon. Me and Maple’ll get the last of the sap and bring in all the rest of the buckets and spiles. Overmorrow, we’ll start reducing and bottling.”

Foal Moon

For the first time since sugar season had begun, the whole family was working together again. Red Maple was at the evaporator, finishing the syrup. As each batch reached the proper concentration, he drained it into a pipe that directed it to a press filter which Sugar Bush worked. Maple Leaf helped Red on the boiler, while Winter was in charge of bottling the finished syrup.

The process was a little uncoordinated at first, but things quickly smoothed out as everypony got accustomed to the routine.

For lunch, Sugar made fresh bread, cooked right in the firebox.

After everypony else had finished eating, Red got out the ladle and dipped it into the finishing tank. “I reckon we’ve all earned this.”

He carefully carried it out to the north side of the saphouse, and drizzled it on the last shadowed patches of snow, where it almost immediately cooled into a taffy.

Maple Leaf grabbed the first piece, and chewed on it eagerly. The very center was still warm. “Sugar on snow’s the best part of syrup-making,” he decided.

“Even after you had to do all that work to get just a little bit?” Winter Berry asked.

“Yeah.” He glanced back at the saphouse. “It’s good when it’s in a bottle, but it’s not this good.”

Red and Sugar stayed back, watching their foals. “Makes you feel young again, doesn’t it?” she said brightly.

“Hmm.” He nuzzled her neck. “I reckon it does, just a bit.”

“You was thinking about sticking your own muzzle in the snow and eating some, too. Maple, don’t hog it all. Let your Dad have some.”

“You, too,” Red Maple said. “You ain’t eating enough. That’ll keep your strength up.”

Maple Leaf took the ladle from his father. “I’ll get some more,” he offered, and went back into the saphouse.

• • •

“How many more cans do we have to finish?” Winter Berry asked. “‘Cause we’re down to the last two shelves of bottles.”

“Fifteen,” Maple said. “I counted them when I brought the last one in.”

“That’s not going to be enough bottles.”

“When we run out, we can use canning jars,” Sugar Bush suggested.

“Should I go get them?”

“Are we going to stay up all night making syrup?”

Red Maple shrugged. “The fire’s hot, and it wouldn’t be the first time.” Then he glanced over at Sugar. “I reckon you ought to get some sleep, though. Me and the foals can handle it in here.”

“I think—” Sugar winced and put a hoof to her belly. “Ooh, that's a big one.”

“Are you. . . .” Red glanced for a moment at the boiler, still busily reducing sap.

“I—yes.”

“We're—okay. Okay. Maple, take the lantern. Go to Bar Berry. You know where she lives, right?”

He nodded soberly.

“Go. Go now.” Red turned to Winter. “Water. Get a pail, I'll put it in with the syrup. Then some straw. Over in that corner. Then blankets.”

“Got it.” She grabbed one of the empty sap buckets and galloped out to the well.

“You don't have to fuss, dear. Just attend to the syrup.”

“I don't—”

“I've done this before.” Sugar winced as another contraction seized her.

“How long have you been feeling the contractions?”

“Since lunch,” she admitted. “I thought that I could wait until we were done.”

“You shoulda said something.”

Winter Berry came charging back into the shack with a full bucket in her mouth and a blast of cold wind behind her. She glanced over at her mother, who had already stretched out on the floor.

Red took the bucket and lowered it into the evaporator. “Don't pay her no mind. Straw, hay. Now.”

“Where—”

“There's a couple bales—oof—by the garden, for the carrots.”

“Then blankets.”

“Got it.” Winter rushed back out of the saphouse.

“I don't think she's ready.”

“She'll have to be. Unless Bar Berry makes it in time.” Red twisted the paddle through the syrup and then swore under his breath as it started to foam up. “Ought to just dump this batch, and—over in that corner, Winter. It’s got the most space, and the least draft.”

Winter nodded and hastily laid down a bed of straw, covering it with the sheet they’d been using to keep the dust off the empty syrup bottles.

She helped her mother to the makeshift bed, then galloped out the door to get blankets.

“It's not going to be too much longer.”

“If you hadn't been working out in the forest. Hauling buckets, and—what was I thinking?”

“Foals come when they come,” she said, pausing for a moment to take a deep breath. “And the three of you woulda been run ragged, trying to carry my weight too.”

“Ain't what I wanted, I coulda—you don't deserve this. You deserve better.”

“This is what I want.” She put her hoof down and grunted, a deep, animalistic sound.

“Winter!” Red Maple bellowed through the door. “Hurry!”

She came skidding back into the saphouse, blankets draped over her back, and hurried over to her mother's side.

She rolled one up and put it under Sugar's head, covered her with another, and then got the bucket of water out of the boiler. She winced at the hot bail in her lips, but said nothing.

“Wish I'd thought to wrap my tail,” Sugar Bush muttered.

“I can—” Winter Berry's voice trailed off. “That's . . . eww. I'm never having a foal.”

“How far along is it?”

“Just, um?” She tried to look without seeing too much, which was of course impossible. “Legs and I think a muzzle?”

“How do you feel?”

“Just—huff—fine.”

“As soon as the caul tears, it might start breathing, or trying to,” Red Maple said. “Make sure its nostrils are clear.”

“Okay.”

“And you might have to pull, if—”

“Nopony's gonna pull a . . . foal out of me. I . . . can finish . . . the job myself.”

There was nothing he knew how to do that would help, so Red Maple fell silent and focused his energy back on the syrup, keeping one ear cocked towards the door and the other to his wife.

“You’re doing good, Mom.” Winter said. “Its head’s all the way out, now.”

• • •

Maple Leaf and Bar Berry arrived just in time to see the newborn foal take its first breath.

“It’s a filly,” Winter Berry announced. “I think.”

“Nuh-uh, it’s a colt,” Maple insisted. “Look.”

“That’s the umbilical cord,” Bar Berry said dryly. “Winter, I’ve got linen cloths in my saddlebags. Can you dry her off and wrap her up? It’s probably too cold for her down on the floor. Sugar, how are you feeling?”

“I’m fine. Just gotta rest a bit, okay?” She dropped her head back to the blanket. “She fought like a colt. She’s gonna be a strong one.”

“I’ve got some chamomile.” Bar Berry reached into her saddlebags. “Do you feel up to chewing some to help relax you?”

“Please.”

Red looked to his son. “Maple, you were paying attention to how the drain and filter works, right?”

He nodded.

“Take and empty the final tank and run it through the filters, then bottle it.”

Red turned and went outside, a ladle in his teeth. Down at the bottom of the transfer tank was a small pool of sap that the pump couldn’t reach, and he dipped the ladle in it.

He sat on his haunches in front of his new daughter, now wrapped up in a blanket.

She studied him with her big amber eyes as he brought the sap up to her lips.

He carefully tipped it, bringing a few drops to the edge. She pressed forward, then jerked back as the cold metal touched her muzzle.

“Just one little sip.”

She bravely leaned forward, and licked a drop off the edge.

“That's my girl.” Red Maple blew against her brushy forelock. “Now you've got the sap in your blood, too.” He lifted her carefully and set her against Sugar Bush's belly.

Author's Note

A big thanks to my pre-readers! MSPiper, AShadowOfCygnus, and metallusionismagic!

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