Frisky Squirrel’s mother had often told him not to have anything to do with Mr. Crow. “He’s such a tricky old fellow!” she said. “He seems to have nothing to do but get folks into trouble. Don’t go near him, and don’t have anything to say to him.”
Now, I’m sure Frisky Squirrel wanted to mind his mother. But he couldn’t help feeling that she was mistaken about Mr. Crow. He was so solemn, and he always looked so like a preacher—for he usually wore shiny, black clothes—that Frisky Squirrel thought him a very nice old gentleman. And he told such interesting stories, too! Frisky could listen to him by the hour.
So, in spite of his mother’s warnings, whenever he met Mr. Crow Frisky Squirrel would always stop and ask the old gentleman how his cold was. You see, Mr. Crow’s voice was never what you would call clear. You might say that there was a decided croak in it. And very often, even on hot summer days, he would have a muffler wound about his throat.
It happened that one day when Frisky came across Mr. Crow in the woods, something reminded Mr. Crow that he knew where there were plenty of butternuts—just waiting to be eaten.
“Is that so?” Frisky exclaimed. “Have you had some of them?”
“No! I don’t care for butternuts,” Mr. Crow said, with a slight cough. “I’ve always considered them bad for my throat. I’ve made it a rule never to eat them. You don’t happen to like them, do you?”
Now, if there was one thing that Frisky Squirrel liked a little better than anything else, it was butternuts. And when he answered Mr. Crow’s question he was so excited that his voice shook just the least bit.
“I’m very fond of them,” he said.
“Well, well!” Mr. Crow exclaimed. “I’m glad I happened to mention the matter. They’re there—heaps of ’em—great brown piles of ’em—thousands of ’em!”
“Where are they?” Frisky asked him eagerly.