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other things, besides flour, to make bread; he must have water, and salt, and yeast. Yeast comes
from the brewer's; it is a very thick kind of froth, and smells like beer.
The baker pours hot water into a pan of yeast, till the mixture is just warm,—then he puts in some salt, and part of the flour which he means to use.
He beats all this up with his hands in a wooden trough, makes it quite smooth, covers it up close, and leaves it for about eight hours. When he comes back, he finds it full of little bubbles; and, , if he cuts it, it looks just like a sponge, -so he calls it sponge.
Now he brings the rest of the flour, and mixes it with this sponge, adding more water, and salt; this mixture he calls dough. After a short time, he cuts the dough in pieces, of the size of which he wishes to make the loaves. These pieces are placed in the oven and are baked.
When he makes biscuits he does not put in any yeast; sometimes he puts in nothing but flour and water and salt.
Biscuits made in this way are used by sailors, when they go on long voyages. The biscuits would not
not keep long enough, if yeast were put in, for yeast turns sour after a short time.
Those that are made for people at home to eat have a little butter in them, and sometimes sugar.
If they are wanted to be very nice indeed, some milk and a few eggs are used.
Pies and puddings for your dinners are made of this flour; and if your mother wishes to make you a cake, she asks the baker to sell her a piece of the dough which he cuts up and makes into loaves.
In large towns, where much bread is used, and people will have it new every morning, the bakers are obliged to work all night.
You will think of this sometimes, I hope, and be thankful that you can go to bed early. When you are called in the morning, you will jump up directly ; for you have not had to work in the night.
A COUNTRY WALK IN SPRING.
A FEW words can sometimes paint a very bright picture.
When you read this, you may say: “Can words really make a picture ?"
Yes, indeed, they can! and such a picture as no painter has ever been able to make. I will tell you what I see in the words at the head of this chapter.
I see blue sky and bright sunshine; I hear birds singing and catch peeps of budding trees, opening flowers, and pleasant green fields sprinkled all over with buttercups and daisies.
What child is there who does not love the daisy with its rosy-tipped flowers and golden eye?
It is indeed childhood's delight! and springs up on the coldest day of winter, as well as on the warmest day of summer.
Many poets have sung the praises of the daisy. Chaucer, an English poet who lived about five hundred years ago, called it “Day's Eye" because it closes its little flowers in the evening and opens them again in the morning as soon as it is light. He says it is the “flower of flowers."
Wordsworth, another poet who died about twenty years ago, calls it the “Poet's Delight;" in the north of England, it is called “Bairn-wort,” because it is loved by children. I must tell you that, in the northern counties, bairn is another name for child.
This love for the daisy is felt, not only in childhood, but also in our later years. It remains with us through life.
People who leave this country to go into lands far, far, away, where the daisy is never seen, always keep this little flower in loving remembrance.
I know a pretty winding lane, almost a mile long, whose banks are covered with wild flowers from the very first day of spring, till quite late in the autumn.
Here I find early primroses, and sweet-scented violets that droop their heads, as if they were looking among the leaves for the cool shade they love so well.
The violets I pick here are of two kinds; some almost entirely white, and others a deep blue. In many places, the white violet is never seen ; but in this lane it is as common as the blue one.
There is a large dark blue violet called the “Dog Violet.” This has no scent, but to make up for its want of sweetness, its flowers are much larger and brighter than those of the scented violet. And it may be seen long after the sweet one has ceased to flower.
Here, too, is the wild hy-a-cinth.