" 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
sliver-fuzz of each; one piece, so resinous that it would not
whittle, he smashed with the back of the axe into a lot of
matchwood. With a handful of finely shredded birch bark he was
now quite ready. A crack of the flint a blowing of the spark
caught on the tinder from the box, a little flame that at once
was magnified by the birch bark, and in a minute the pine
splinters made a sputtering fire. Quonab did not even pay Van
Cortlandt the compliment of using one of his logs. He cut a
growing poplar, built a fireplace of the green logs around the
blaze that Rolf had made, and the meal was ready in a few
minutes.
Van Cortlandt was not a fool; merely it was all new to him. But
his attention was directed to fire-making now, and long before
they reached their cabin he had learned this, the first of the
woodman's arts -- he could lay and light a fire.
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