ll, and is caught in the cloth.

When sufficient flour has been ground, the woman gathers it together,
places it in a wooden bowl, adds a little water, and kneads it. No yeast
is put to it, and the dough is of that kind which we call unleavened. It
does not 'rise,' or swell, after it is kneaded, and the bread is not
full of little holes, as our yeast-made bread is.

The dough is made into round balls, each of which is then rolled out
into a thin cake. The oven is nothing but an iron plate, slightly raised
in the centre, which is placed over a fire. The cakes are laid upon this
plate, and are baked in a few minutes.

This is the manner of baking bread which is adopted by those tribes
which are always moving from place to place. There are other tribes
which change their encampment at longer intervals, and are often in one
place for several weeks. Many of these bake their bread in a different
way. They make an oven in the ground by digging a hole about three feet
deep, making it wide at the bottom and narrow at the top, and they
plaster the inside with mud. Having done this, they light a fire in the
hole, and when it is thoroughly heated, they press small but thick
cakes of dough against the sides, and hold them there for a few minutes
until they are baked. These cakes, like those baked on the iron plate,
are eaten hot.

SANTA CLAUS.

A while ago the silent house
Re-echoed with their voices sweet--
The music that their laughter made,
The patter of their little feet.
Outside, the wintry winds blew shrill,
And all around the snow lay white;
But little cared they for the storm,
For 'Santa Claus will come to-night.'

We heard them running to and fro,
So eager in their merry glee
To hang their stockings, limp and long,
Where 'he' will be most sure to see.
Such wondrous fairy-tales they weave,
Such pictures of those far-off shores
From whence each Christmas-tide there comes
Their unknown friend, and all his stores.

Now they are all in Slumberland,
And Mother comes, with noiseless tread,
For one last kiss; the shaded light
Gleams softly o'er each curly head.
A rustle, and a murmur low;
Half-opened are the dreaming eyes.
'Hush! hush! it's only Mother, dear!'
''Tis Santa Claus!' the sleeper sighs.

To-morrow, when the dawning light
Breaks through the wintry eastern skies,
What joy will greet the morning bright,
What happ