great deal of heat with
our lens the other time,--so much that it almost burned my hand. I think
the trouble was in my old pocket, which, having once been in salt water,
wouldn't burn; now I think I've found out something that is better.'

"'What's that?' said I.

"'Why, some cotton stuff,' said he, 'that I found blowing about among
the stones.'

"'Cotton!' I exclaimed, in great surprise; 'there's no cotton growing
here.'

"'Well, it looks like cotton for all that,' answered the Dean, 'and I'm
sure it will burn. Let me get some of it, and I'll try it.'

"So the Dean ran off, and soon came back again with a little wad of
white stuff, that looked very much like cotton, only much finer in its
texture. I remembered it perfectly, for I had seen it, everywhere I
went, about the little willow-bushes; and I had even plucked a
willow-blossom to find it covered all over with this tender cotton-like
substance, which I blew from it with my breath. But the idea had never
once come into my head that it would be of any use.

"'What are you going to do with this?' said I to the Dean, when he had
showed it to me.

"'Why,' said he, with much confidence, 'I'm going to make another lens
of ice, and set fire to it.'

[Illustration: "Striking fire under difficulties."]

"To set fire to it was something easier said than done, yet the idea
seemed to take root in my mind; and how or why it ever came about I can
no more tell than I can fly, but somehow or other, it matters not what
was my impulse or idea or expectation, the truth is, without saying a
single word, I pulled out my knife and the bit of flint which I had
found and carefully preserved the day before, and then struck one upon
the other (as if it were quite mechanical) above the Dean's little bit
of cotton stuff, which lay upon the grass. A great shower of sparks was
thrown off with each fresh stroke, and these told of the fineness of the
steel and the hardness of the flint. I went on pounding and pounding
away, as if resolved on something. And if I was resolved, my resolution
was rewarded; for at length the Dean threw up his hands as suddenly as
if a shot had struck him in the heart, and he shouted out, 'A spark, a
spark!'

"The Dean's little bit of cotton stuff had taken fire, and the
daintiest little streak of smoke was curling upward from it.

"Without pausing an instant, quick as the hawk to swoop down upon its
prey, quick as the lightning-flash, quick as thought its