"Haw! haw!" laughed Uncle Solon. "Wal, now, he needn't be bashful with me, for like's not I can tell him. Like's not 'tis the bitterness in the hearts o' people, that's got into the dumb critters."
Uncle Solon's eyes twinkled, and he laughed, as did everybody else.
"Or, like's not," he went on, "'tis something the critters has et. Shouldn't wonder ef 'twas. What kind of a parster are them cows runnin' in?"
Somewhat abashed, I explained, and described the pasture at the old Squire's.
"How long ago did the milk begin to be bitter?"
"About three weeks ago."
"Any red oak in that parster?" asked Uncle Solon.
"Yes," I said. "Lots of red oaks, all round the borders of the woods."
"Wal, now, 'tis an acorn year," said Uncle Solon, reflectively. "I dunno, but ye all know how bitter a red-oak acorn is. I shouldn't wonder a mite ef your cows had taken to eatin' them oak acorns. Critters will, sometimes. Mine did, once. Fust one will take it up, then the rest will foller."
An approving chuckle at Uncle Solon's sagacity ran round, and some one asked what could be done in such a case to stop the cows from eating the acorns.