"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.
"Wal, I'll tell ye what I did," said Uncle Solon, his homely face
puckering in a reminiscent smile. "I went out airly in the mornin',
before I turned my cows to parster, and picked up the acorns under all
the oak-trees. I sot down on a rock, took a hammer and cracked them
green acorns, cracked 'em 'bout halfway open at the butt end. With my
left-hand thumb and forefinger, I held the cracked acorn open by
squeezing it, and with my right I dropped a pinch o' Cayenne pepper into
each acorn, then let 'em close up again.
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