e 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 down 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 and 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
whenever 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 skin off the knuckle. He breathes a silent prayer and
calls for the kerosene can, and pours a little of it into the crevice,
and lets it soak, and then he tries again, and swears audibly.

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