flavour, and rendering it lighter. The proportion to be used varies according to the quality of the flour; above seven pounds to every four hundred weight of flour is the average quantity.

Before bread is made, a certain preparation called ferment, or leaven, must be obtained, for the purpose of making the dough rise, or become light or spongy, in consequence of its undergoing one stage of the chemical action called fermentation. It is found by experience that this action is most readily and perfectly brought about by introducing a portion of dough which has already fermented to a certain degree, and is called leaven, or by adding to the dough some liquid in a fermenting state; this liquid is usually what is called yeast, the froth that rises to the top of malt liquor while fermenting.

In remote districts, where yeast for baking cannot be obtained as often as it is wanted, leaven is employed instead of it. Flour and water are well mixed up into a stiff dough, which is set in a warm place, and undergoes a spontaneous fermentation; bubbles of carbonic acid gas form in the mass, giving it that porous, spongy, texture, which is observable in all bread, and causing the dough to swell up or rise; it also becomes rather sour; in this state it is leaven, and is capable of exciting a similar fermentation in other dough sooner than would be produced spontaneously, for it usually takes a fortnight, at ordinary temperatures, to bring on this action. Hence, a piece of this prepared dough is added to the batch, of which the bread is to be made.

When bread is made in the usual way and in large quantities, the following is the process:-The requisite proportion of yeast is diluted with hot water, some salt is added, and the liquor poured into a wooden kneadingtrough. One-third of the whole quantity of flour about to be made into bread is first mixed with the liquor, being well worked with the hands, until the combination is thoroughly effected, and the mass free from lumps; when this is the case, the trough is covered up closely, and the mixture is left for several hours, during which time a fermentation commences, and the mass swells: when this has arrived at the proper stage, the whole is gradually incorporated with a new quantity of cold, or lukewarm water, according to the season of the year, with some salt

dissolved in it. The remainder of the flour is then added, and the whole again kneaded and worked together to a uniform consistence of a stiff paste-this is dough. The dough is again left for an hour or two, till it begins to work and swell again: when it becomes sufficiently spongy, it is made up into loaves and put into the oven. The oven is a chamber built of fire-bricks, and having an arched roof or dome, with a flat door of tiles. Wood, where sufficiently abundant, constitutes the fuel for heating the oven. A quantity of small brushwood, with larger logs and billets of wood, not yielding turpentine or resin in burning, is piled upon the tile floor, and set on fire; when thoroughly lighted, the door of the oven is closed, a small aperture only being left to supply air, and as soon as the fuel is burnt out, the ashes are hastily swept out, and the bread put in.

But in this country, where wood fuel is every day becoming more expensive, ovens are heated with coal, a separate furnace being constructed adjoining the oven, with a flue which opens into it; another funnel over the mouth allows the escape of the smoke. A fire being made in the furnace, the bread is not put into the oven till all smoke has ceased, or till the fire burns quite clear; the strong draught up the funnel prevents any soot lodging in the oven, by carrying the smoke up before it.

The loaves of bread are placed regularly on the tile floor, touching each other, the largest size being put in first, to give them more time to bake. When the oven is filled, the door is shut, and the heat kept up for two hours, which time is sufficient for ordinary-sized loaves.

The loaves, touching each other, are not browned, or made crusty, on their sides which are in contact, and the bottom, which rests on the tiles, though more heated than the sides, is less crusted than the top, which alone is exposed to the full heat; these are the causes of the difference in texture and colour of the under and upper crusts. Saturday Magazine.

FEMALE BENEVOLENCE.

THROUGH many a land and clime a ranger,
With toilsome steps I've held my way,
A lonely unprotected stranger,

To all the stranger's ills a prey.

While steering thus, my course precarious,
My fortune still has been to find
Men's hearts and dispositions various,
But gentle Woman ever kind.

Alive to every tender feeling,

To deeds of mercy always prone;
The wounds of pain and sorrow healing,
With soft compassion's sweetest tone.
No proud delay, no dark suspicion,
Stints the free bounty of their hearts;
They turn not from the sad petition,
But cheerful aid at once impart.

Form'd in benevolence of nature,
Obliging, modest, gay and mild;
Woman's the same endearing creature
In courtly town and savage wild.

When parch'd with thirst, with hunger wasted,
Her friendly hand refreshment gave;
How sweet the coarsest food has tasted!
What cordial in the simple wave!

Her courteous looks, her words caressing,
Shed comfort on the fainting soul;
Woman's the stranger's general blessing,
From sultry India to the Pole.-Dr. Aikin.

KINDNESS OF DISPOSITION.

EVERY child must observe how much more happy and beloved some children appear to be than others. There are children with whom you may always love to be; they are happy themselves, and they make others happy. But there are children whose society you would always

avoid; the very expression of whose countenances produces unpleasant feelings; and who seem to have no friends.

No person can be happy without friends. You cannot receive affection, unless you will also give it. Hence the importance of cultivating a cheerful and obliging disposition. You cannot be happy without it. I have sometimes heard a girl say, "I know that I am very unpopular at school." Now, this is a plain confession that she is very disobliging and unamiable in her disposition.

If your companions do not love you, it is your own fault. They cannot help loving you, if you will be kind and friendly. It is true that a sense of duty may at times render it necessary for you to do that which is displeasing to your companions. But if it is seen that you have a kind spirit; that you are above selfishness; that you are willing to make sacrifices of your own personal convenience to promote the happiness of your associates : you will never be in want of friends. You must not regard it as your misfortune, but your fault, when others do not love you. It is not beauty, it is not wealth, that will give you friends. Your heart must glow with kindness, if you would attract to yourself the esteem and affection of those by whom you are surrounded.

You are little aware how much the happiness of your whole life depends upon the cultivation of an affectionate and obliging disposition. If you adopt the resolution to confer favours whenever you have an opportunity, you will surround yourself with friends. Begin upon this principle in childhood, and act upon it through life, and you will not only make yourself happy, but also promote the happiness of all within your influence.

Look and see who of your companions have the most friends, and you will find that they are those who have a generous spirit; who are willing to deny themselves, that they may make their associates happy. This is not peculiar to childhood, but is the same in all periods of life. There is but one way to make friends; and that is, by being friendly to others.

Be willing to make sacrifices of your own convenience, that you may promote the happiness of others. This is the way to make friends, and the only way. When you

are playing with your brothers and sisters at home, be always ready to give them more than their share of privileges. Manifest an obliging disposition, and they cannot but regard you with affection. In all your intercourse with others, at home or abroad, let these feelings influence you, and you will receive a rich reward.

Every Day Duty.

A RURAL SCENE.

There's a farm close by

Which is almost my envy. And it is

The prettiest walk! Through a beech-wood the path;
A wild, rude copse-road winds beneath the light
And feathery stems of the young trees, so fresh
In their new delicate green, and so contrasting
With their slim, flexile forms, that almost seem
To bend as the wind passes, with the firm
Deep-rooted vigour of those older trees,
And nobler,-those grey giants of the woods,
That stir not at the tempest. Oh! that path
Is pleasant, with its beds of richest moss,
And tufts of fairest flowers, fragrant woodroof
So silver white, wood-sorrel elegant,
Or light anemone. A pleasant path

Is that with such a sense of freshness round us,

Of cool and lovely light: the very air

Has the hue of the young leaves. Downward the road Winds, till beneath a beech, whose slender stem

Seems tossed across the path, all suddenly

The close wood ceases, and a steep descent
Leads to a valley, whose opposing side

Is crowned with answering woods: a narrow valley
Of richest meadow land, which creeps half up
The opposite hill; and in the midst a farm,
With its old ample orchard, now one flush
Of fragrant bloom; and just beneath the wood,
Close by the house, a rude deserted chalk pit,
Half-full of rank and creeping plants, with briers
And pendant roots of trees half covered o'er,
Like some wild shaggy ruin. Beautiful to me
Is that lone farm. There is a peace,