He begins on them when they are scarcely acorns,
merely green cups with a dot at the top. But he knows. He bites them
in two, and deftly extracts the acorn, which is in the milky state,
scarcely as large as a pea. He does it in the darkness, but with
amazing rapidity. Speeding from twig to twig, from one cluster of
acorns to another, he cuts the cups in two and extracts the meat so
fast that the pieces rain down on the roof. When he is working at top
speed, he will probably average twenty acorns a minute. In the morning
the roof of the porch is covered with pieces of the husks.
For half an hour after sunset he keeps up this fast speed. Apparently
he is getting supper after his long sleep through the day. At the end
of half an hour he begins to work more leisurely. The pieces fall on
the roof every now and then. Possibly he is taking the sweetmeats to
his hole, high up in a tree. Through the night there is the
intermittent sound of his labor. Sometimes, towards morning, he drops
in for a visit,--literally drops in, by way of the chimney and the
open fireplace. He knows no fear. Going to the kitchen, he helps
himself to the doughnut left on the table for him. If it is a whole
one, he nibbles all around it. If only half a one he carries it away.
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