In one corner of this country, at least, the pesky problem of the agricultural surplus has been solved. Right in line with all American principles of rugged individualism the solution came, not from black-capped college professors or brain trustees, but from the colored cook of that homespun novelist, Edna Ferber. A friend of ours who recently had the pleasure of visiting her in New York spent most of her time being shown the glories of the lady writer's new Park Avenue penthouse, famous in the eyes of its present possessor as the former home of Ivar Krueger, the match king. One of its more spectacular features was a glassed-in terrace in which grew an orchard of genuine peach trees. This season, Miss Ferber's first in the apartment, brought an unexpected bumper crop. Some could be used in a silver bowl on the piano, others sent in baskets to friends in hospitals. But this didn't take care of the largest portion of the yield. Miss Ferber suffered nightmares in which she saw baskets of peaches crowding her out of her house right into Park Avenue. To the rescue came her cook. The surplus was removed to the kitchen, and after some days of intricate processing reappeared as peach jelly. The hallmark of distinction appeared in labels pasted on each jar: "Peach Jelly from the Ferber Orchard".