“Well, discuss the same;” but I much doubted if he could remember the recipe.
“You are to take an old tin pan,” said he, sitting down on the stool, and poking the fire with a stick.
“Must it be an old one?” said I, laughing.
“Of course; they said so.”
“And what am I to put into it?”
“Patience; let me begin at the beginning. Some flour and some milk—but, by George! I've forgot all about it. I was wondering as I came across the field why they called the yeast milk-emptyings, and that put the way to make it quite out of my head. But never mind; it is only ten o'clock by my watch. I having nothing to do; I will go again.”
He went. Would I had been there to hear the colloquy between him and Mrs. Joe; he described it something to this effect:—
Mrs. Joe: “Well, stranger, what do you want now?”
Tom: “I have forgotten the way you told me how to make the bread.”
Mrs. Joe: “I never told you how to make bread. I guess you are a fool. People have to raise bread before they can bake it. Pray who sent you to make game of me? I guess somebody as wise as yourself.”