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.