“Times sure has been hard,” Jim said.

“To say nothing of the mule here,” I said. “The creetur’s served you two men mighty faithful for nigh onto thirty year. A pure record for a mule, that is, and him as spry as the first day he come messing up my pretty yard.”

“That’s right,” Luty said. “Snort’s just about thirty year old. And look at him go.”

The old mule was sure strutting hisself. You’d of thought he was dancing, the way he takened the curves, going around the cane-mill.

“Let’s not waste his movements,” Jim said to me. “He’s like to stop and go to pawing.”

So Jim and me goed on over to the mill and we fed stalks of cane into the gears and dipped into the bucket that hung on the spout. It was fine cane-juice, sweet and cold in the evening air. The old mule passed us, making the curve.

“Quincey,” Jim said, “what’s that I smell? Smells like rum to me.”

Blest if it wasn’t. No mistaking the breath on that mule.

“Tain’t nothing in the world but the cane-juice boiling in the kettle,” I said. “Let’s get on back to the company.”

I edged Jim away and dogged if that old mule didn’t near about wink at me, his eyes was that knowing.

The syrup begun to cook down good in the kettle and Luty begun skimming. About the third skimming we all begun to lick and eat. Jim cut him and me a pair of little paddles outen cane-stalks and Luty put a extry thick batch of skimmings on our saucers and we some kind of enjoyed ourselves. After a while the syrup begun to hiss and the rank smell of the cane was gone. Me and Jim slipped up to the kettle and raked some of the thickest goody from around the edge and Luty romped on us the way we’d all got romped on when we was young uns to a syrup boiling and done the same trick. Then the syrup begun to cook with a plop! like frogs a-jumping and Luty’s long-handled skimmer sailed over it like a swallow darting.

Folks hollered, “Luty’s fixing to pour!”

All the young uns come a-running to watch. Luty sure is clever with his pouring.

“Stand back for the spattering!” he called.

He dipped his ladling bucket back and to so fast you couldn’t foller it. He kept a steady stream like a gold creek, running down the little trough into the cooling trough. The syrup around the edge of the kettle cooked down into candy and the young uns went for it something comical to see. And Jim and me right with them, ’til I got ashamed of taking up room half a dozen young uns could of used, and I backed off.

Then Luty said, “Well, reckon nobody won’t be craving no more cane-juice. I’ll turn old Snort a-loose now, to rest and graze.”