Past Pursuits: Nutting

Judging by its appearance in old literature, "going nutting" was a prime pursuit for both boys and girls (while references usually peg this as a boy's sport, I have seen stories in which girls go nutting as well, although they are frequently left at a campsite to sort out the nuts) in the 19th century. Perhaps "city folk" could get nuts in the big markets that existed—Dickens mentions nuts being sold in the London markets at Christmastime—but others who went to the country or lived in rural areas with woods nearby preferred to find theirs fresh and free. Butternuts, a type of walnut, and walnuts themselves (also black walnuts, which are a different nut) were popular, as were beechnuts. In this poem, chestnuts were also harvested; once plentiful across the United States, the majority were killed by a chestnut blight that arrived via ships trading in Asia. There are such a thing as "horse chestnuts," but these are not the edible goodies that show up in the supermarkets in the fall. Those come from Europe, and there are still sold by hot chestnut vendors on the street, especially at German Christmas markets. Chestnut dressing to go in the Thanksgiving turkey used to be very popular before the blight, but is now fairly rare.

Once harvested, the nuts would be kept in an attic or root cellar and brought out as treats in the winter. As noted in this poem, the nuts provided pleasure twice, once by the gathering, then by the eating.

"Nutting-Time" is from the November 1883 issue of "St. Nicholas," its author listed merely as "H.I."

The month was October, the frosts had come down,
The woodlands were scarlet and yellow and brown;
The harvests were gathered, the nights had grown chill,
But warm was the day on the south of the hill.

'T was there with our bags and our baskets we went,
And searching the dry leaves we busily bent;
The chestnuts were big and the beech-nuts were small,
But both sorts were welcome to boys in the fall.

And when, in the ashes beneath the bright flame,
On eves of November, with laughter and game,
The sweetmeats are roasted, we recollect still
How fine was the day on the south of the hill.