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. I did not understand the
method of baking in these ovens; or that my bread should have
remained in the kettle for half an hour, until it had risen the
second time, before I applied the fire to it, in order that the
bread should be light. It not only required experience to know when
it was in a fit state for baking, but the oven should have been
brought to a proper temperature to receive the bread.
