was an herb doctor; for he had begun to worry about his health.

“It’s lucky you came to-day,” said Aunt Polly. “Because to-night I’m going
to begin my winter’s nap. And you couldn’t have seen me again till
spring—unless you happened to come here on ground-hog day, next
February.... What appears to be your trouble?” she inquired.

“It’s my appetite, partly,” Solomon Owl said. “Nothing tastes as it did
when I was a youngster. And I keep longing for something, though what it
is I can’t just tell.”

Aunt Polly Woodchuck nodded her head wisely.

“What have you been eating lately?” she asked.

Solomon Owl replied that he hadn’t eaten anything but mice since the
leaves began to turn.

“H-m—the leaves are nearly all off the trees now,” the old lady remarked.
“How many mice have you eaten in that time?”

Solomon said that as nearly as he could remember he had eaten
twenty-seven—or a hundred and twenty-seven. He couldn’t say which—but one
of those numbers was correct.

Aunt Polly Woodchuck threw up her hands.

“Sakes alive!” she cried. “It’s no wonder you don’t feel well! What you
need is a change of food. And it’s lucky you came to me now. If you’d gone
on like that much longer I’d hate to say what might have happened to you.