We bought a can of peas once for two shillings and
couldn't crack them with a nut cracker. But they were not a dead loss, as
we used them the next fall for buck shot. Actually, we shot a coon with a
charge of those peas, and he came down and struck the water, and died of
the cholera morbus the next day.
Talk of canned peaches; in the course of a brilliant career of forty years
we have never seen only six cans of peaches that were worth the powder to
blast them open. A man that will invent a can opener that will split open
one of these pale, sickly, hard hearted canned peaches, that swim around
in a pint of slippery elm juice in a tin can, has got a fortune.
And they have got to canning pumpkin, and charging money for it.
Why, for a dollar, a canning firm can buy pumpkins enough to fill all the
tin cans that they can make in a year, and yet they charge a fellow twenty
cents for a can of pumpkin, and then the canning establishment fails. It
must be that some raw pumpkin has soured on the hands of the Boston firm,
or may be, and now we thing we are on the right track to ferret out the
failure, it may be that the canning of Boston baked beans is what caused
the stoppage.
We had read of Boston baked beans since school days, and had never seen
any till four years ago, when we went to a picnic and bought a can to take
along.
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