There is no single simple thing that is a more complete measure
of one's woodcraft than the lighting of a fire. There are a dozen
good ways and a thousand wrong ones. A man who can light thirty
fires on thirty successive days with thirty matches or thirty
sparks from flint and steel is a graduated woodman, for the feat
presupposes experience of many years and the skill that belongs
to a winner.

When Quonab and Rolf came back from taking each a load over the
first little portage, they found Van Cortlandt getting ready for
a fire with a great, solid pile of small logs, most of them wet
and green. He knew how to use flint and steel, because that was
the established household way of the times. Since childhood had
he lighted the candle at home by this primitive means. When his
pile of soggy logs was ready, he struck his flint, caught a spark
on the tinder that is always kept on hand, blew it to a flame,
thrust in between two of the wet logs, waited for all to blaze
up, and wondered why the tiny blaze went out at once, no matter
how often he tried.

When the others came back, Van Cortlandt remarked: "It doesn't
seem to burn." The Indian turned away in silent contempt. Rolf
had hard work to keep the forms of respect, until the thought
came: "I suppose I looked just as big a fool in his world at
Albany."

"See," said he, "green wood and wet wood won't do, but yonder is
some birch bark and there's a pine root." He took his axe and cut
a few sticks from the root, then used his knife to make a