By Phoebe D. Roulon

Jack and I arrived at Podunk just in "strawberry time." Did you ever stop to consider what a mandatory phrase "strawberry time" is? Jack and I did to the fullest, for from one end of Podunk highway to the other, in every farmstead that was the happy possessor of a strawberry patch, the proclamation had gone forth that berries were ripe and must be "done up" at once. There is no such thing as procrastinating with Nature, especially in her fruit department. Infinite in patience, unsparing in pains from the first inception of the berry to its maturity, when once her creative work is accomplished, she lays the finished product at your feet and henceforth waives all responsibility. Put off until tomorrow what should have been "done up" today and Nature will seek vengeance upon you and show you your folly. Mrs. Simpkins might better save her breath than to enter the protest that she cannot possibly "can" today, for the minister and family are coming to dinner. Nature makes no exception for even the clergy. When Mrs. Hopewell declares she must take her butter and eggs to market today and so cannot do another stroke of work after one o'clock, Nature simply smiles complacently from the four corners of every ruddy berry basket and says, "Take me now in my perfection, for tomorrow it will have passed away."

In obedience to this inexorable law Podunk was making ready. Brass kettles were being scoured and granite ones were coming forth from their winter hiding places. With one accord Podunk was becoming a huge canning and preserving factory, with as many annexes as there were houses with berry patches.

Day after day the process went on, for day after day a fresh supply demanded attention.

Overworked and tired housewives groaned in spirit and slept in meeting as a result. Everybody's nerves were a little on the bias until the strawberries were settled for the winter. To a casual observer it seemed as if Nature's lavishness had outrun Podunk's gratitude, and as if strawberries were becoming a nuisance.

As I said, Jack and I arrived just at this crisis in the farm life of Podunk. Indeed, within an hour after we landed, and amid the chaos of unpacking, a gentle maiden tapped at our kitchen door and importuned us to buy some preserving berries.

Jack has a sweet tooth and I saw at a glance that he had not missed the vision of rows of red jars on the swinging shelf in the cellar, and Sunday night teas of jam, long after the last strawberry had ripened and decayed. But he desisted and let her depart without buying a berry. This I call heroic and manly, and told him so on the spot.

Of course the well had not been pumped out, the water-pail had not been unpacked, the grocery supplies had not arrived. There had not been a fire in the stove for eight months, and there was no split wood in the wood shed, but men have been known to expect household routine to go on under conditions quite as hindering, therefore I repeat, that Jack, in the face of vanishing sweets, showed fortitude and consideration.

But it was plain that "strawberry time" had made an impression on his mind that took somewhat the form of a problem.

Now Jack is never happier than when he has nuts to crack or problems to solve. He is that all-round type of man that can and does bring the same philosophic trend of mind to bear upon matters domestic as upon civic and national affairs.

We had come to Podunk to rest, but Jack always rests in motion, and in less than a week after our arrival I saw him go forth to canvass the community. For days and days he was as glum as an oyster, leaving me to guess what he was up to, but I have so long known the limitations to his capacity for holding in and carrying a secret, that I could wait in patience for the unbosoming. It came on one of those chilly, rainy nights in June,—the sort of night that Jack always expects and gets warm gingerbread for supper. Gingerbread always puts him in a talkative mood.

We had each taken a second cup of tea, when Jack looked up and said, "Do you realize, my dear, that this canning and jellying process is only just started for the season in Podunk? I find that our Fourth of July not only proclaims American independence but also the proper time for making currant jelly, and so, unless Nature plays us false, the same ordeal must be repeated, with only the difference that 'currant' will be written on the label instead of 'strawberry.' And still another repetition, when raspberries are ripe and blackberries grow sweet and luscious. Again when the huckleberry bushes give up their treasures, shadowing forth a winter supply for pies. Then come the peaches, pears and plums, followed by apples, grapes and quinces. Between times, lest the hand forgets its cunning, there are peas, corn, beets and tomatoes to be rescued for future use. And the season ends with a pickling tournament.

"It hardly seems creditable, but from here to Podunk Hollow, a distance of less than two miles, and only sparsely settled, I find by actual count that there are thousands of cans of fruit and hundreds of glasses of jelly prepared every season. From 'strawberry time'—indeed some ambitious housekeepers start in with rhubarb in April—until the last luckless green tomato is snatched from Jack Frost, there is a mad rush on the part of the farmer's wife to keep apace with Nature and to take care of her bounties with a thrifty hand."

By this time Jack was ready for a second helping of gingerbread and proceeded. "Don't you see, my dear, that this is an awful waste of muscular energy and stove fuel. Don't you see that consolidation and coÖperation at just this point would emancipate these women quite as much as the telephone and the rural delivery?

"Furthermore, I believe there is fruit enough that goes to waste every year, which, if rescued, would not only pay for the running of a community kitchen, but also give a handsome bonus for civic beautifying. It is my firm faith that Podunk can earn the foundations of a fine library, within the next three years, by simply saving the waste of fruit and vegetables within her own borders. She has a market already established at the summer colony of Bide-a-wee."

The third piece of gingerbread gave Jack the courage to make a clean breast of everything, and to confess that he had called a meeting and made all the necessary arrangements to start a community kitchen for canning and preserving, to be ready this season for the currant crop.

Jack always persists that my impulsive opposition is his most helpful ally, so I never feel hindered in giving it. But I said "You have surely never looked at this problem from the psychological standpoint. You have never calculated the personal pride of every housewife in her own handiwork, done in her own way, the way tradition has made sacred to her. Eliminate the personal touch from half the preserve closets of Podunk and you rob them of their glory and half of their flavor. There are some things that cannot be consolidated and coÖperated and this is one of them. Why! Mrs. Patterson would be inconsolably wretched, if she thought a jar of peaches would ever stand in her cellar that did not adhere to the formula of one and three-quarters pints of sugar to three pints of water. Now Mrs. Smith is equally loyal to one and one-half parts sugar to three parts water."

"And as for jelly making, it has a hedge about it as conservative and invulnerable as a Chinese wall. Instance, our beloved Mrs. Thornton. That splendid spirit of housewifely excellence that we have always admired in her would be wholly inundated and wrecked, if she ever had to set before us, on her own tea-table, a glass of jelly that had been made by heating the currants before they were crushed, and straining the juice through cheesecloth instead of flannel. To Mrs. Thornton there is but one right way, the cold and flannel process.

"Even I, Jack, dear, must own up to feeling an unpleasant sensation down my spinal column, and a vexatious agitation in my mind, whenever I see jelly boil more than five minutes after the sugar is added. Nay, my Worthy Wisdom, let me entreat you to carefully consider ere you intrude upon the sacred precincts of jelly-making with any ruthless tread.

"As for pickling, it is an established fact that every housewife pickles to suit the taste of her family and her rule lies in the palate of said family. You know that the Joneses are always strong on the onion flavor, while the Millers emphasize cinnamon and allspice! Fancy consolidating these flavors into a blend and expect either family to be contented and happy.

"Worthy as your Community Kitchen idea is in its inception, I fear it is doomed to failure. It uproots too many of the 'eternals' of housekeeping."

Jack received my volley of opposing arguments, not only with fortitude but with apparent satisfaction, and simply said, "Have you finished?" As I had, he again took the floor.

"Now, I am sure that my foundation is secure and my psychological attitude all right, for all the objections you mention were brought up, in one form or another, at the meeting we held, and I was able to meet every one of them. No, my dear, I do not mean to uproot the 'eternals' and the Joneses shall stand for onion flavor to the end of time. The personal equation will always be considered. Each farmer will simply send his consignment of berries or fruit with explicit instructions as to recipes to be followed, just as our great-grandfathers sent their grist to the mill to be ground and ordered middlings left in or middlings left out, according as to whether it was for pancakes or bread. Those worthies took it on faith that they brought back the same grain they carried and there need be no question now. Farmer Dunn's marrowfats need never get mixed with Deacon White's telephone peas, and Mrs. Thornton can always send her flannel jelly bag.

"It is my opinion that the good wives will have gained enough leisure time to come to the Kitchen and inspect the process while their batch of fruit is being handled."

So closely are faith and works related in Jack's philosophy of life that in an incredibly short time Podunk awoke one morning to find the abandoned Haskell house turned into a "Community Kitchen," in charge of a New England man and his wife, of thrift and learning. They began on the currant crop.

Of course, since Jack was behind the innovation, I had to show my faith by sending the first lot, with instructions that the jelly should be boiled only one minute after the sugar was added. The twenty glasses of tender crystalline jelly that stood on my pantry shelf the next day needed no argument and so encouraged my nearest neighbor that she sent half of her picking to the Kitchen. I saw that it caused a wrench, but she supported herself on the consciousness that she was only risking half. But the jelly that came back adhered so closely in color, taste and texture to the "traditional" that the other half was sent without a qualm. This made a beginning and by the time the raspberries were ripe a dozen families were converted.

When the fall fruits came on, it had grown into such a fashion to send the preserving out that the capacity of the Kitchen was somewhat taxed. An evaporating outfit was added, that saved hundreds of bushels of apples from absolute waste. A simple device for making unfermented grape juice brought profit enough the first year to paint the town hall, build over the stage and buy a curtain that never failed to work.

The second year a "Sunshine" Laundry was added to the Kitchen, which proved a great boon. Podunk had wrestled with the domestic problem, but like the rest of the world had not solved it, and was left to do its own washing.

As the name suggests, the "Community Kitchen" was established on a coÖperative basis, with the understanding that after all running expenses were paid and each contributor had a certain share of profit, proportioned to the amount of surplus material he contributed, all the remaining profit was to go for the improvement of the town.

The "Kitchen" is now three years old and every visitor coming to Podunk naturally wanders into the pretty new library on Main Street. The sweet-faced librarian is always cordial and tells you with unmasked pride that this is the first library built of fruit and vegetables.

But complete regeneration came not to Podunk, until the Culture Club became an active organization, impelled forward by the brain force of the women of the community. Given a margin of leisure, it was demonstrated that culture will flourish as persistently in rural districts as in city precincts. Shakespeare and Browning were not neglected, nor were Wagner and Mendelssohn.

Nature study, Domestic Economy and Civic beautifying opened new and broad avenues of culture, and classes in these subjects were held every week. The women of Podunk began to know their birds and to call them by name. The church suppers took on a new aspect, for the dietetic unrighteousness of four kinds of cake and three kinds of sweet pudding, at the same meal, was openly discussed and frowned upon. Deacon Wyburn, who had a tooth sweeter even than Jack's, declared, at first, that this was heresy that should not be allowed to enter the sanctuary. But regeneration came to the deacon as indigestion departed.

And all of this happened, because Jack saw the need of an emancipation proclamation and the people of Podunk availed themselves of its freedom. I have always said that Jack was a man among men.