Poems

Just like maple syrup, writing poems was a favourite past time for the Hunter family. Their poems give insight to the  past for future generations. Below are two poems written by Howard and Bob Hunter relaying their experiences and memories on sugaring. 

The Old Sugar Shack

by Howard Hunter

Many times as a boy when spring came at last, 

And the warm sun and wind made the snow melt so fast.

And the sap from the maples was dripping away,

I would go with my brothers to the bush for the day.

We would drink the sweet nectar how sweet it was then,

The thrill of those days- could they happen again?

At the old sugar shack, the smoke and the steam,

Belching high in the air and it smelled like a dream.

The team they were pulling with about galore,

Through the mud to the shanty, and go back for more.

Oh, the taste of the syrup right fresh from the pan,

Theres nothing just like it for a boy or a man.

Sometimes a few eggs in the sap till hard boiled,

We took the shells off with our hands that were soiled.

With biscuits or bread, an apple or so,

In the gloom of the shanty, nobody said no.

In the pails overnight, the sap would freeze ice,

For a boy or a girl it would taste very nice.

As the weather grew warmer with the buds on the trees,

The season near over, you could tell by the breeze.

With the last of the syrup, sort of poor quality,

This was boiled till real thick, till twas sugar you see.

No candy ere made has flavour so rare,

When its poured in the snow and picked up with care.

With the sap season over, the pails and the spiles,

All gathered and washed and staked into piles.

When dried in the sun and packed can in can,

And placed in the shanty till spring time again.

Now sometimes I walk on the trail to the shack,

And the stumps of the old trees bring memories back.

When the young trees are growing as thick as can be,

The shanty is gone, but in minds eye I see.

The smoke and the steam in the old shanty door,

The neighbours are gathering the sweet sap once more.

The smell and the sounds and the tastes we had then,

Oh, to be there and a boy once again.

Maple Syrup Time

by Bob Hunter 

Around the first of March each year

Then when April comes the end is near

Out in the bush the centuries

We humans tap the maple trees

What does it mean that wee word tap?

Just check out the dictionary in your lap

Look up the word and you will see

It's what we do to maple trees

We drill a hold, drive in a spile

Before you know it, just a while

Out comes the sap in a pail or line

It's what we've done for a long, long time.

The emblem on our nations flag

Of it be proud, feel free to brag

We are true north strong and free

And very proud of our maple tree

From little boy to my age now

The tapping ways have changed somehow

From horse drawn sleigh to vacuum line

That's how its done in modern times

My father told me how he enjoyed

Out tapping trees as just a boy

His brothers with him helping out

All watching sap drip from the spout

From tree to pail then in the pan

Stoke up the fire hot as you can

The steam does rise, the smoke as well

Before too long you start to smell

The smell of syrup in your nose

A scent familiar to only those

To them that tapped the maple trees

The ones that taught both you and me

Old trees fall and new ones sprout

'Cause that's what life is all about

Not only for our maple trees

But to all things here on Earth you see

Hard work's involved as only we

We who have tapped the maple tree

Will not complain of our work and toil

As we watch the sweet sap boil

Year ago we white man came

Lived with the natives as they were named

They were the ones who showed us how

To tap the trees as we do now

The maple leaf sign of our land

Stand up; be proud with hat in hand

Thanks those before and God above

For the maple trees, the trees we love