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.”