Junia and the Walnut Tax — Every day after sums, Junia slipped two honey rolls into her sleeve and carried them down the fern trail for the shyest palace mice. Read the full story →
Every day after sums, Junia slipped two honey rolls into her sleeve and carried them down the fern trail for the shyest palace mice. The path smelled of damp bark and peppery leaves, and nobody ever noticed the missing rolls—except, one Tuesday, a deer with branchy antlers stepped across the trail and sneezed pollen onto her shoe.
“Road tax,” said a squirrel from above, tapping a walnut like a judge’s hammer. “One roll per antler.” The deer blinked as if this was news to him. Because of that, Junia bowed grandly and offered the squirrel a crumb-sized bite instead. Because of THAT, the squirrel shouted for witnesses, and a bird fluttered down, chirping that the deer had only wanted someone to scratch the itchy place where new velvet met old bark.
Junia hid a giggle, set both rolls on a mossy stump for the mice, and scratched the deer’s nose until his hoof thumped the path. The squirrel received one walnut, polished with her sleeve, and looked offended but pleased. No one in the palace knew why the mice ate well that afternoon, or why Junia came back smelling of moss, honey, and mischief. Next time you spot the bird above the trail, ask whether it is still reporting the walnut tax.
