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READ THE PASSAGE — JORDAN'S SOURDOUGH STALL

When Jordan first heard that his class would be running a stall at the school market day, he knew exactly what he wanted to sell: bread. Not just any bread, but sourdough, the chewy loaf with the crackly golden crust that his nana made every single weekend. The only problem was that Jordan had never baked a loaf in his life. His nana laughed warmly when he telephoned her. "Sourdough begins with a starter," she explained. "It is a living mixture of flour and water that catches wild yeast from the air. You have to feed it every day, a little like a pet." That weekend, Jordan mixed flour and water in a clean glass jar and left it on the kitchen bench. For two days nothing happened, and he began to worry that his plan had failed. Then, on the third morning, he noticed tiny bubbles rising through the paste. By the end of the week the mixture was foaming and smelled pleasantly sour. His starter was alive. Feeding it became part of Jordan's daily routine. Each afternoon he tipped away half the mixture, stirred in fresh flour and water, and watched it swell again overnight. His little brother named the jar "Bubbles" and insisted on saying good morning to it. Baking the actual loaf was harder than Jordan expected. His first attempt came out flat and dense, like a doorstop. His mum reminded him that nobody masters a new skill on the very first try. He read more, practised his folding, and let the dough rest for longer. The second loaf rose tall and proud, its crust singing softly as it cooled on the rack. On market day, Jordan arrived early and arranged his loaves on a chequered cloth. The warm, tangy smell drifted across the playground and drew a steady queue. Within an hour every loaf had sold, and several customers asked whether he would be baking again next term. Counting the coins in the tin, Jordan felt enormously proud. He had started with nothing but flour, water, and patience, and turned it into something people genuinely treasured. Best of all, Bubbles was still happily growing on the bench at home, ready for the next adventure.

READ THE PASSAGE — THE SUMMER SINGERS

When the long days of summer arrive in Australia, a remarkable sound fills the warm air. It buzzes and pulses from the gum trees, growing louder until it seems to wrap around the whole bush. This is the song of the cicada, one of the loudest insects in the world. Cicadas spend most of their lives hidden underground. After a female lays her tiny eggs in the bark of a tree, the young insects, called nymphs, drop to the soil and burrow down. There they stay for years, sometimes as long as six or seven, sipping sap from the roots of plants. During all this quiet time underground, nobody sees them at all. When the weather finally turns warm enough, the nymphs climb up to the surface. They crawl onto tree trunks, fence posts and garden walls, then split their old skins and step out as winged adults. If you wander through an Australian park in summer, you might spot the empty brown shells they leave behind, still clinging to the bark. Only the male cicadas sing. They make their famous noise using special drum-like parts on their bodies called tymbals. By flexing these parts very quickly, a male can produce a sound so loud it can travel hundreds of metres. The song is a way of calling to females, and on a hot afternoon thousands of males may sing together in one enormous chorus. Australians have given cicadas wonderful nicknames. There is the Green Grocer, the Black Prince and the cheerful Yellow Monday. Children often hunt for them in the holidays, recognising each kind by its colour and the pattern on its wings. Some people even keep a favourite shell as a small treasure. The adult cicada lives for only a few short weeks. In that time it must find a mate so that a new generation of eggs can be laid. Then the cycle begins again, with fresh nymphs travelling down into the dark soil to wait for their own summer. So the next time you hear that loud, pulsing buzz on a sunny day, remember the patient little insect behind it. The cicada has waited years underground for its brief moment of song, and the warm summer air belongs, for a while, to the summer singers.

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