But the moment she heard her mother's voice, she turned quickly toward the house without stopping a moment longer to see whether her pet hen, Biddy Wee, or cross old Yellow Legs got the most dinner. Mari never in her life thought of answering her parents by saying: "Why, papa?" or "Why, mamma?" or "I'll come in a moment." Mari lives in Norway, and Norwegian parents train their children to obey without delay. The little girl was only too glad to come now, however. Her mother had promised she should learn to make flat-bread to-day. She was pleased that she was old enough to be trusted with this important work. Why, she could keep house alone when she had mastered this necessary art, and her mother could leave her in charge. Mari remembers when she was such a tiny tot that her head barely reached above the table. Even then she loved to watch her mother as she sat at the big moulding-board, rolling out the dough until it was nearly as thin as paper. This dough was made of barley-meal which was raised here at the farm. It was rolled out into sheets almost as wide as the table itself, for each cake must be about a half-yard across. Then came the cooking. The cake was lifted from the board to a hot flat stone on the fireplace, where it was quickly baked. How fast the pile grew! and how skilful mother always was. She never seemed to burn or break a single cake. Wherever you go in Mari's country you will find flat-bread. You can eat quantities of it, if you like, yet somehow it will not easily check your hunger, and it gives little strength. "Now, dear, be careful not to get a grain of dust on the floor," said her mother, as Mari stood at the table ready for directions. The child looked very pretty, with her long, light hair hanging down her back in two braids. The snowy kerchief was tied under her chin just as it was when she came in from the farm-yard. She had no need to put on an apron before beginning her work, for she already wore one. She was never without it, in fact, and hardly thought herself dressed in the morning until her apron had been fastened around her plump little waist. Her cheeks looked rosy enough to kiss, but such a thing seldom happened, for mothers in Norway believe that is a bad habit. They think that it often leads to the carrying of disease from one person to another. "Shake hands with the baby and the children," they would say, "but please don't kiss them." They are wise in this,--don't you think so? Before Mari had rolled out six cakes, her cheeks grew rosier yet. It was hard work, although it had seemed easy enough when mother was doing it.