There is one thing that there should be a law passed about, and that is,
these glass fruit jars, with a top that screws on. It should be made a
criminal offense, punishable with death or banishment to Chicago, for a
person to manufacture a fruit jar, for preserving fruit, with a top that
screws on. Those jars look nice when the fruit is put up in them, and the
house-wife feels as though she was repaid for all her perspiration over a
hot stove, as she looks at the glass jars of different berries, on the
shelf in the cellar.
The trouble does not begin until she has company, and decides to tap a
little of her choice fruit. After the supper is well under way, she sends
for a jar, and tells the servant to unscrew the top, and pour the fruit
into a dish. The girl brings it into the kitchen, and proceeds to unscrew
the top. She works gently at first, then gets mad, wrenches at it, sprains
her wrist, and begins to cry, with her nose on the underside of her apron,
and skins her nose on the dried pancake batter that is hidden in the folds
of the apron.
Then the little house-wife takes hold of the fruit can, smilingly, and
says she will show the girl how to take off the top. She sits down on the
wood-box, takes the glass jar between her knees, runs out her tongue, and
twists. But the cover does not twist. The cover seems to feel as though it
was placed there to keep guard over that fruit, and it is as immovable as
the Egyptian pyramids. The little lady works until she is red in the face,
and until her crimps all come down, and then she sets it away to wait for
the old man to come home. He comes in tired, disgusted, and mad as a
hornet, and when the case is laid before him, he goes out in the kitchen,
pulls off his coat and takes the jar.
He remarks that he is at a loss to know what women are made for,
anyway. He says they are all right to sit around and do crochet work, but
when strategy, brain, and muscle are required, then they can't get along
without a man. He tries to unscrew the cover, and his thumb slips off and
knocks the skin off the knuckle. He breathes a silent prayer and calls for
the kerosene can, and pours a little oil into the crevice, and lets it
soak, and then he tries again, and swears audibly.
[Illustration: THE OLD MAN TRIES HIS HAND.]
Then he calls for a tack-hammer, and taps the cover gently on one side,
the glass jar breaks, and the juice runs down his trousers leg, on the
table and all around. Enough of the fruit is saved for supper, and the old
man goes up the back stairs to tie his thumb up in a rag, and change his
pants.
All come to the table smiling, as though nothing had happened,
and the house-wife don't allow any of the family to have any sauce for
fear they will get broken glass into their stomachs, but the "company" is
provided for generously, and all would be well only for a remark of a
little boy who, when asked if he will have some more of the sauce, says he
"don't want no strawberries pickled in kerosene." The smiling little
hostess steals a smell of the sauce while they are discussing politics,
and believes she does smell kerosene, and she looks at the old man kind of
spunky, when he glances at the rag on his thumb and asks if there is no
liniment in the house.
The preserving of fruit in glass jars is broken up in that house, and four
dozen jars are down cellar to lay upon the lady's mind till she gets a
chance to send some of them to a charity picnic. The glass jar fruit can
business is played out unless a scheme can be invented to get the top off.