Migwan sobered up when she heard Sahwah’s injured tone. She never dreamed Sahwah had taken the occurrence so much to heart. It was not her usual way. “Please don’t be angry, Sahwah,” she said, contritely. “I just couldn’t help laughing. You know how light headed I am.”
But Sahwah would have none of her apology. “I’ll leave you folks to have as much fun over it as you please,” she said coldly, rising and going up-stairs.
Migwan was near to tears and would have gone after her, but Nyoda restrained her. “Let her alone,” she advised, “and she’ll come out of it all the sooner.”
Sahwah was herself again in the morning as far as the others were concerned, but she still treated Migwan somewhat coldly and it was evident that she had not forgiven her.
CHAPTER VIII.—A CANNING EPISODE.
Three times every week Migwan had been making the trip to town with a machine-load of vegetables, which was disposed of to an ever growing list of customers. Thanks to the early start the garden had been given by Mr. Mitchell, and the constant care it received at the hands of Migwan and her willing helpers, Migwan always managed to bring out her produce a day or so in advance of most of the other growers in the neighborhood and so could command a better price at first than she could have if she had arrived on the scene at flood tide. After every trip there was a neat little sum to put in the old cocoa can which Migwan used as a bank until there was enough accumulated to make a real bank deposit. The asparagus had passed beyond its vegetable days and had grown up in tall feathery shoots that made a pretty sight as they stood in a long row against the fence. The new strawberry plants had taken root and were growing vigorously; the cucumbers were thriving like fat babies. The squashes and melons were running a race, as Sahwah said, to see which could hold up the most fruit on their vines; the corn-stalks stood straight and tall, holding in their arms their firstborn, silky tassel-capped children, like proud young fathers.
But it was the tomato bed in which Migwan’s dearest hopes were bound up. The frames sagged with exhaustion at the task of holding up the weight of crimsoning globes that hung on the vines. Migwan tended this bed as a mother broods over a favorite child, fingering over the leaves for loathsome tomato worms, spraying the plants to keep away diseases, and cultivating the ground around the roots. All suckers were ruthlessly snipped off as soon as they grew, so that the entire strength of the plants could go into the ripening of tomatoes. For it was on that tomato bed that Migwan’s fortune depended. While the proceeds from the remainder of the garden were gratifying, they were not great enough to make up the sum which Migwan needed to go to college, as the vegetables were not raised in large enough quantities. Migwan carefully estimated the amount she would realize from the sale of the tomatoes and found that it would not be large enough, and decided she could make more out of them by canning them. At Nyoda’s advice the Winnebagos formed themselves into a Canning Club, which would give them the right to use the 4H label, which stood for Head, Hand, Health and Heart, and was recognized by dealers in various places. According to the methods of the Canning Club they canned the tomatoes in tin cans, with tops neatly soldered on. After an interview with various hotels and restaurants in the city Nyoda succeeded in establishing a market for Migwan’s goods, and the canning went on in earnest. The whole family were pressed into service, and for days they did nothing but peel from morning until night.
“I’m getting to be such an expert peeler,” said Hinpoha, “that I automatically reach out in my sleep and start to peel Migwan.”
Nyoda made up a gay little song about the peeling. To the tune of “Comrades, comrades, ever since we were boys,” she sang, “Peeling, peeling, ever since 6 A.M.”
Several places had asked for homemade ketchup and Migwan prepared to supply the demand. Never did a prize housekeeper, making ketchup for a county fair, take such pains as Migwan did with hers. She took care to use only the best spices and the best vinegar; she put in a few peach leaves from the tree to give it a finer flavor; she stood beside the big iron preserving kettle and stirred the mixture all the while it was boiling to be sure that it would not settle and burn. Everyone in the house had to taste it to be sure it found favor with a number of critical palates. “Wouldn’t you like to put a few bay leaves into it?” asked her mother. “There are some in the glass jar in the pantry. They are all crumbled and broken up fine, but they are still good.” Migwan put a spoonful of the broken leaves into the ketchup; then she put another.