CHAPTER XXVII.
HEAT LIGHTNING "We'll finish the peaches to-night, and call it a day's work," remarked Mrs.Owen.

"Sylvia, you'd better give another turn to the covers on those last jars.

There's nothing takes the heart out of a woman like opening a can of fruit in January and finding mould on top.

There, Annie, that's enough cinnamon.

Put in too much and your peaches will taste like a drug store." Spicy odors floated from the kitchen of Mrs.Owen's house on Waupegan.
The August afternoon sun struck goldenly upon battalions of glasses and jars in the broad, screened veranda, an extension of the kitchen itself.
The newly affixed labels announced peach, crab-apple, plum, and watermelon preserves (if the mention of this last item gives you no thrill, so much the worse for you!); jellies of many tints and flavors, and tiny cucumber pickles showing dark green amid the gayer colors.