"That's my husband's mother. You may try. I guess she'll
give you an answer." (Exit, slamming the door in his face.)
"And what did you do then ?" said I.
"Oh, went of course. The door was open, and I reconnoitred the
premises before I ventured in. I liked the phiz of the old woman
a deal better than that of her daughter-in-law, although it was
cunning and inquisitive, and as sharp as a needle. She was busy
shelling cobs of Indian corn into a barrel. I rapped at the door.
She told me to come in, and in I stepped. She asked me if I wanted
her. I told her my errand, at which she laughed heartily."
Old woman: "You are from the old country, I guess, or you would know
how to make milk-emptyings. Now, I always prefer bran-emptyings.
They make the best bread. The milk, I opine, gives it a sourish
taste, and the bran is the least trouble."
Tom: "Then let us have the bran, by all means. How do you make it?"
Old woman: "I put a double handful of bran into a small pot, or
kettle, but a jug will do, and a teaspoonful of salt; but mind you
don't kill it with salt, for if you do, it won't rise. I then add as
much warm water, at blood-heat, as will mix it into a stiff batter.
I then put the jug into a pan of warm water, and set it on the
hearth near the fire, and keep it at the same heat until it rises,
which it generally will do, if you attend to it, in two or three
hours' time. When the bran cracks at the top, and you see white
bubbles rising through it, you may strain it into your flour, and
lay your bread. It makes good bread."
Tom: "My good woman, I am greatly obliged to you. We have no bran;
can you give me a small quantity?"
Old woman: "I never give anything. You Englishers, who come out with
stacks of money, can afford to buy."
Tom: "Sell me a small quantity."
Old woman: "I guess I will." (Edging quite close, and fixing her
sharp eyes on him.) "You must be very rich to buy bran."
Tom (quizzically): "Oh, very rich."
Old woman: "How do you get your money?"
Tom (sarcastically): "I don't steal it."
Old woman: "Pr'aps not. I guess you'll soon let others do that
for you, if you don't take care. Are the people you live with
related to you?"
Tom (hardly able to keep his gravity): "On Eve's side. They are my
friends."
Old woman (in surprise): "And do they keep you for nothing, or do you
work for your meat?"
Tom (impatiently): "Is that bran ready?" (The old woman goes to the
binn, and measures out a quart of bran.) "What am I to pay you?"
Old woman: "A York shilling."
Tom (wishing to test her honesty): "Is there any difference between
a York shilling and a shilling of British currency?"
Old woman (evasively): "I guess not. Is there not a place in England
called York?" (Looking up and leering knowingly in his face.)
Tom (laughing): "You are not going to come York over me in that way,
or Yankee either. There is threepence for your pound of bran; you are
enormously paid."
Old woman (calling after him): "But the recipe; do you allow nothing
for the recipe?"
Tom: "It is included in the price of the bran."
"And so," said he, "I came laughing away, rejoicing in my sleeve
that I had disappointed the avaricious old cheat."
The next thing to be done was to set the bran rising. By the help of
Tom's recipe, it was duly mixed in the coffee-pot, and placed within
a tin pan, full of hot water, by the side of the fire. I have often
heard it said that a watched pot never boils; and there certainly
was no lack of watchers in this case. Tom sat for hours regarding it
with his large heavy eyes, the maid inspected it from time to time,
and scarce ten minutes were suffered to elapse without my testing
the heat of the water, and the state of the emptyings; but the day
slipped slowly away, and night drew on, and yet the watched pot gave
no signs of vitality. Tom sighed deeply when we sat down to tea with
the old fare.
"Never mind," said he, "we shall get some good bread in the morning;
it must get up by that time. I will wait till then. I could almost
starve before I could touch these leaden cakes."
The tea-things were removed. Tom took up his flute, and commenced a
series of the wildest voluntary airs that ever were breathed forth
by human lungs. Mad jigs, to which the gravest of mankind might have
cut eccentric capers. We were all convulsed with laughter. In the
midst of one of these droll movements, Tom suddenly hopped like a
kangaroo (which feat he performed by raising himself upon tip-toes,
then flinging himself forward with a stooping jerk), towards the
hearth, and squinting down into the coffee-pot in the most quizzical
manner, exclaimed, "Miserable chaff! If that does not make you rise
nothing will."
I left the bran all night by the fire. Early in the morning I had
the satisfaction of finding that it had risen high above the rim of
the pot, and was surrounded by a fine crown of bubbles.
"Better late than never," thought I, as I emptied the emptyings into
my flour. "Tom is not up yet. I will make him so happy with a loaf
of new bread, nice home-baked bread, for his breakfast." It was my
first Canadian loaf. I felt quite proud of it, as I placed it in the
odd machine in which it was to be baked.
