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Updated: June 9, 2025
It 'bakes no bread, as has been said, but it can inspire our souls with courage; and repugnant as its manners, its doubting and challenging, its quibbling and dialectics, often are to common people, no one of us can get along without the far-flashing beams of light it sends over the world's perspectives.
Will the mighty hunter permit himself to enter my miserable hovel and partake of some milk and cakes?" "What do you say, Mr. Damon?" Tom asked. "She's clean and neat, and she makes a drink of goat's milk that isn't bad. She bakes some kind of meal cakes that are good, too. I'm hungry." "All right, Tom, I'll do as you say."
Carleton would get sick and come away down here after her before daylight; and I know she would have let me go, too; and they're going to take things, a basketful each one of 'em and they wanted me to bring little bits of pies, such as mother bakes in little round tins, you know, plum pies, and she would have made me some, I know; she always does; but now she's gone, and it's all up, and I shall have to stay at home like I always do, just for sick folks.
I gather the corn, and shuck hit and grind hit my own self, and the woman she bakes us a pone o' bread to eat and I don't pay no tax, do I? Then why can't I make some o' my corn into pure whiskey to drink, without payin' tax? I tell you, 'taint fair, this way the Government does! But, when all's said and done, the main reason for this 'moonshining, as you-uns calls it, is bad roads."
"We'll go through the little door again and find the Cat's house," Andy guessed. "We must take Highboy and Lowboy for company," said she, "but Alligator and the others won't do at all. How much is four times thirteen?" "Fifty-two," said Andy after a moment. "That's a great many cookies," said Hortense. "I do hope Aunt Esmerelda bakes this afternoon so there are sure to be enough.
"Eat your belly-full," said the Barmecide; "I assure you the woman who bakes me this good bread cost me five hundred pieces of gold to purchase her."
"Don't let on I told you, Mr. Grigsby," Abe whispered, "but Mrs. Lincoln bakes the worst cornbread of anyone in Pigeon Creek." Sally forgot that they were having a lesson in manners. "Don't you dare talk about my cornbread," she said angrily. The little log room rocked with laughter. This time Master Crawford had also heard Abe's remark.
His only occupation is feeding his horses or milking his camels. The Arab girls go out to take care of the flocks while the wife performs all the domestic duties. She grinds wheat in the hand-mill; kneads and bakes bread; makes butter by shaking the milk in a leather bag; fetches water in a skin; works at the loom and is busy all the time.
He doesn't talk, not he; his whole mind is concentrated on that skillet. He is our cook, volunteer, natural and talented cook. Not in a vulgar sense. He doesn't mix, but simply bakes, the biscuit. Every faculty, all the energy, of the man is employed in that great work. Don't suggest anything to him if you value his friendship.
It has been heaped up, during countless generations, by little tributes from the streams which meet at its feet, and it is never still. Every flood increases or diminishes its size, and weaves its restless sands into some new fantastic curve or billow. The sun which beats upon it bakes the sand almost to boiling point, and the heat-haze dances above it, like some restless phantom above a grave.
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