“‘Birds are as fond of walnuts as we are,’” read Miss Harson, “’and rob the trees without any mercy.  Not only the little titmouse, but the grave and solemn rook’—­a kind of crow, you remember—­’is not above paying a visit to the walnut tree and stealing all he can find.  There is a walnut tree growing in a garden the owner of which may be said to have planted it for the benefit of the rooks.  Not that he had any such purpose, but, as it happens, he cannot help himself.  The rooks begin a series of robberies as soon as the fruit is ripe, and carry them on with an adroitness that would be amusing but for the result.  As many as fifty rooks come, one after the other, and each will carry off a walnut.  The old ones are the most at home in the process, and the most daring.  The bird approaches the tree and floats for a second in the air, as if occupied in finding out which of the walnuts will be the easiest to obtain; then, with a bold stroke, he darts at the one selected, and rarely misses his aim.

“’The young rooks are much more timid and not so successful.  They settle on the branch and knock down a great many walnuts in their clumsy attempts to secure one.  Even when the walnut has been obtained, the young rook is not sure of his prize:  one of his older and stronger brethren is very likely to attack him and knock the walnut out of his bill.  Then, by a dextrous swoop, the robber catches it up before it reaches the ground, and carries it off in triumph.  The feasting ground of the rooks is the next field, and here they come to eat their walnuts.  They crack the shell with their beaks and devour the kernel with great relish.  Then, when one walnut is finished, they fly back to the tree for another.  There is no chance for the owner of the garden, who does not think it worth while even to shake his tree:  he knows there will not be a single walnut left.’”

“I should think not, with those greedy creatures,” exclaimed Malcolm.  “Why doesn’t the man shoot ’em?”

“He probably thinks it would be of little use, when there are such numbers of the birds; besides, he may prefer losing his walnuts to disturbing them, for rooks are treated with great consideration in England, and there is no such wholesale destruction of birds as is seen here.”

The rooks were certainly very comical, and the children thought this little account of their antics over the walnut tree the next best thing to a story.

“Another fine shade-tree,” continued Miss Harson, “and one very much like the black walnut, is the butternut, or oil-nut, tree.  It is low and broad-headed, spreading into several large branches; the leaves are pinnate, like those of the walnut, but have not so many leaflets.  The nut has an entirely different taste, and is even more oily.  To many persons it is not at all agreeable.  It is a great favorite, though, with country-boys, and in October, when the kernel is ripe, they may be seen with deeply-stained hands and faces, as the thin, leathery husks when handled leave plentiful traces.  The butternut is not round like the walnut, but oblong, and pointed at the end; it is about two inches in length and marked by deep furrows and sharp irregular ridges.  It is very pretty when sawn across in slices, and looks like scroll-saw work.—­We shall have to get some, Malcolm, for you to practice on with your saw.”