Free The Mystery at Mead's Mountain by Julie Campbell Page A

restaurant, the Bob-Whites decided to have a big breakfast and no lunch, since the morning was nearly gone already. During the course of conversation, it developed that not one of them wanted to attempt the steep climb above the chair lift they had experienced the day before.
    “Why don’t we ski through the woods just above the bunny tow?” suggested Brian. “It’s easily accessible, and we can check out good places for picnicking and fishing. I’ll bet Mr. Wheeler would appreciate that information.”
    Following up on Brian’s suggestion, the group found plenty of material for their notebooks. That part of the woods was full of all kinds of fascinating foliage.
    “Dad really ought to organize a nature hike through this area,” Jim said. “He could have signs labeling each of the different types of trees, flowers, and shrubs.”
    “The signs could tell a little bit about each, too,” Trixie offered. “Like that tree—isn’t it a sugar maple?” Jim nodded. “Vermont is famous for maple syrup. A sign near that tree might tell all about sapping time and making maple sugar and syrup.”
    “When I was in one of those stuffy boarding schools,” said Honey a bit sadly, “I read a book all about some kids gathering sap. I remember wanting to join them so badly.”
    “How did they do it, Honey?” asked Di.
    “Well, it sounded pretty easy,” Honey recalled. “They pushed a pipelike thing called a spile into the tree, and the sap dripped out into a bucket hanging from the tree. Then they gathered up the sap and boiled it down into syrup and maple sugar. They kept the pots covered with screens so dirt and stuff wouldn’t get in. I remember that part because the youngest boy, who was a little older than Bobby, had to take one of the horses back to the house to get the screens. The boy was really proud to be able to do that alone.”
    “Oh, that sounds like fun!” exclaimed Di. “Wouldn’t our parents be surprised if we brought home some maple syrup we had made ourselves?”
    “Surprised? They’d probably award us the Pulitzer prize for achieving the impossible,” commented Mart. “Sorry, Di, but the sap doesn’t start running until mid-February at the earliest. It’s the rise and fall in temperature that makes the sap start flowing. But, you know, we could tell Mr. Wheeler that maple sapping parties here would be a great activity in the early spring.”
    More possibilities for the nature hike were spotted as the Bob-Whites skied on through the woods, laughing and joking. At one point, Jim, who was in the lead, stopped abruptly.
    “Dead end,” he called back. “We’ve come to a stream. Looks good for fishing, but it’s the end of the road as far as skiing is concerned.”
    “It is too wide to cross,” agreed Honey, joining him at the edge of the rocky creek. “Why don’t we follow it to see where it goes?”
    Off they skied, only to be stopped again by Jim in a few hundred yards. This time he didn’t say a word, just held up his hand. The others, catching up to him, sensed the need to be quiet, but gave him quizzical looks.
    Then they followed his gaze and saw two deer, magnificent graceful creatures, drinking from the opposite side of the creek. Every line of their bodies had a smooth purposefulness to it. One doe lifted her head and, looking directly at Trixie, stood as motionless as a piece of sculpture.
    “They know were here!” gasped Trixie.
    “Yes, but I don’t think they’ll be afraid of us as long as we don’t make any sudden moves,” Jim whispered back.
    “I’m beginning to feel guilty about that roast venison we had at your house,” Di said softly.
    Honey nodded, her eyes shining. “Come on. Let’s go
    on and leave these deer in peace.”
    A little farther up the stream, Jim noticed a large tree that had fallen across, making a natural bridge. It was hard to tell how safe it was.
    “I’m sure it’s rotted through, Jim,” Honey insisted. “And I refuse to set one foot