"Just try a little of it! You'll agree with me that it's very fine."
Uncle Sammy not only tried a little. He gobbled up every single kernel.
"It seems to me to have a queer taste," he said. "Bring up some more!"
And Sandy scurried down into his house again, to bob up in a few moments
with another sample of his grain.
Once more Uncle Sammy ate it all.
"It's a bit damp," he remarked, as he smacked his lips. "I hope it's not
moldy.... You'd better let me see another sample."
Uncle Sammy declared the next heap of kernels to be altogether too dry.
And he kept ordering Sandy to fetch more for him to "taste," as he called
it. Some of the wheat he considered too ripe, and some too green. Some of
the kernels--so he said--were too little, and others too big. And finally
he even told Sandy Chipmunk that he was afraid Sandy was trying to sell
him _last year's_ wheat.
Now, Sandy knew that his wheat was fresh--all of it. So he went down and
brought up still another load.
Uncle Sammy ate that more slowly, for by this time he had had a good
meal.
"How do you like it?" Sandy asked him.
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