d sharp knife
made it hard to make a good one. In going about he had gathered a
quantity of large feathers. He saved these for the time when he should
have his paper and ink ready. Now, he cut away a quill to a point and
split it up a little way. He was now supplied with writing materials.
"Is it not wonderful," he thought, "how all our wants are filled? We
have only to want a thing badly enough and it comes."

Robinson began at once to write down the date for each day and the main
thing he did or that happened on it. He called this his diary. He had
now a better way of keeping time than on his tree calendar. He did not
need it any more.

You have no doubt wondered how Robinson could work in his cave,
especially at night without a light. The truth is, it was a great source
of discomfort to him. At sunset he was in total darkness in his cave.
During the day light enough streamed in from the open doorway. To be
alone in total darkness is not pleasant. "If I only had fire!" he said
again and again.

He watched the many large beetles and fire-flies flash their light in
the dark of the evening as he sat in front of his shelter. The thought
came to him that if he only had some way of keeping together a number of
them, they would serve very well for a candle in his cave at night. How
he longed for a glass bottle such as he had so often wantonly broken
when at home! Back of his shelter there was a hill where the rock layers
jutted out. He had noticed here several times the thin transparent rock
that he had seen in his father's store. It is called isinglass.

"I will make a living lantern," he said aloud in his eagerness.

He soon had a suitable piece pried loose. He cut a part of a cocoanut
shell away and in its place he put a sheet of isinglass. That evening at
dark he gathered several handfuls of the great fire beetles and put them
in his lantern. What joy their glow gave him in his cave at night. It
was almost as much comfort as a companion. But while it lighted up the
deep dark of the cave and enabled him to move about, he was unable after
all to write in his diary at night. Every morning he set his captives
free. In the evening he would go out and capture his light.

XXIII

ROBINSON IS SICK

One evening Robinson went to bed sound and well. The next morning he was
sick. Before he had only the heat of the day to complain of. To-day he
was freezing. He wanted to go to work to get warm, but even this did not