THE OPEN FIRE
"It is a vulgar notion that a fire is only for heat. A chief value
of it is, however, to look at. And it is never twice the same."--
CHARLES DUDLEY WARNER: Backlog Studies.
I
LIGHTING UP
Man is the animal that has made friends with the fire.
All the other creatures, in their natural state, are afraid of it.
They look upon it with wonder and dismay. It fascinates them,
sometimes, with its glittering eyes in the night. The squirrels and
the hares come pattering softly towards it through the underbrush
around the new camp. The fascinated deer stares into the blaze of
the jack-light while the hunter's canoe creeps through the lily-
pads. But the charm that masters them is one of dread, not of love.
It is the witchcraft of the serpent's lambent look. When they know
what it means, when the heat of the fire touches them, or even when
its smell comes clearly to their most delicate sense, they recognize
it as their enemy, the Wild Huntsman whose red hounds can follow,
follow for days without wearying, growing stronger and more furious
with every turn of the chase. Let but a trail of smoke drift down
the wind across the forest, and all the game for miles and miles
will catch the signal for fear and flight.
Many of the animals have learned how to make houses for themselves.
The CABANE of the beaver is a wonder of neatness and comfort, much
preferable to the wigwam of his Indian hunter. The muskrat knows
how thick and high to build the dome of his waterside cottage, in
order to protect himself against the frost of the coming winter and
the floods of the following spring. The woodchuck's house has two
or three doors; and the squirrel's dwelling is provided with a good
bed and a convenient storehouse for nuts and acorns. The sportive
otters have a toboggan slide in front of their residence; and the
moose in winter make a "yard," where they can take exercise
comfortably and find shelter for sleep. But there is one thing
lacking in all these various dwellings,--a fireplace.
Man is the only creature that dares to light a fire and to live with
it. The reason? Because he alone has learned how to put it out.
It is true that two of his humbler friends have been converted to
fire-worship. The dog and the cat, being half-humanized, have begun
to love the fire. I suppose that a cat seldom comes so near to
feeling a true sense of affection as when she has finished her
saucer of bread and milk, and stretched herself luxuriously
underneath the kitchen stove, while her faithful mistress washes up
the dishes. As for a dog, I am sure that his admiring love for his
master is never greater than when they come in together from the
hunt, wet and tired, and the man gathers a pile of wood in front of
the tent, touches it with a tiny magic wand, and suddenly the clear,
consoling flame springs up, saying cheerfully, "Here we are, at home
in the forest; come into the warmth; rest, and eat, and sleep."
When the weary, shivering dog sees this miracle, he knows that his
master is a great man and a lord of things.
After all, that is the only real open fire. Wood is the fuel for
it. Out-of-doors is the place for it. A furnace is an underground
prison for a toiling slave. A stove is a cage for a tame bird.
Even a broad hearthstone and a pair of glittering andirons--the best
ornament of a room--must be accepted as an imitation of the real
thing. The veritable open fire is built in the open, with the whole
earth for a fireplace and the sky for a chimney.
To start a fire in the open is by no means as easy as it looks. It
is one of those simple tricks that every one thinks he can perform
until he tries it.
To do it without trying,--accidentally and unwillingly,--that, of
course, is a thing for which any fool is fit. You knock out the
ashes from your pipe on a fallen log; you toss the end of a match
into a patch of grass, green on top, but dry as punk underneath; you
scatter the dead brands of an old fire among the moss,--a
conflagration is under way before you know it.
A fire in the woods is one thing; a comfort and a joy. Fire in the
woods is another thing; a terror, an uncontrollable fury, a burning
shame.
But the lighting up of a proper fire, kindly, approachable,
serviceable, docile, is a work of intelligence. If, perhaps, you
have to do it in the rain, with a single match, it requires no
little art and skill.
There is plenty of wood everywhere, but not a bit to burn. The
fallen trees are waterlogged. The dead leaves are as damp as grief.
The charred sticks that you find in an old fireplace are absolutely
incombustible. Do not trust the handful of withered twigs and
branches that you gather from the spruce-trees. They seem dry, but
they are little better for your purpose than so much asbestos. You
make a pile of them in some apparently suitable hollow, and lay a
few larger sticks on top. Then you hastily scratch your solitary
match on the seat of your trousers and thrust it into the pile of
twigs. What happens? The wind whirls around in your stupid little
hollow, and the blue flame of the sulphur spirts and sputters for an
instant, and then goes out. Or perhaps there is a moment of
stillness; the match flares up bravely; the nearest twigs catch
fire, crackling and sparkling; you hurriedly lay on more sticks; but
the fire deliberately dodges them, creeps to the corner of the pile
where the twigs are fewest and dampest, snaps feebly a few times,
and expires in smoke. Now where are you? How far is it to the
nearest match?
If you are wise, you will always make your fire before you light it.
Time is never saved by doing a thing badly.
II
THE CAMP-FIRE
In the making of fires there is as much difference as in the
building of houses. Everything depends upon the purpose that you
have in view. There is the camp-fire, and the cooking-fire, and the
smudge-fire, and the little friendship-fire,--not to speak of other
minor varieties. Each of these has its own proper style of
architecture, and to mix them is false art and poor economy.
The object of the camp-fire is to give heat, and incidentally light,
to your tent or shanty. You can hardly build this kind of a fire
unless you have a good axe and know how to chop. For the first
thing that you need is a solid backlog, the thicker the better, to
hold the heat and reflect it into the tent. This log must not be
too dry, or it will burn out quickly. Neither must it be too damp,
else it will smoulder and discourage the fire. The best wood for it
is the body of a yellow birch, and, next to that, a green balsam.
It should be five or six feet long, and at least two and a half feet
in diameter. If you cannot find a tree thick enough, cut two or
three lengths of a smaller one; lay the thickest log on the ground
first, about ten or twelve feet in front of the tent; drive two
strong stakes behind it, slanting a little backward; and lay the
other logs on top of the first, resting against the stakes.