Therefore the
smudge, dark and bitter in itself, frequently becomes, like
adversity, sweet in its uses. It must be regarded as a form of fire
with which man has made friends under the pressure of a cruel
necessity.
It would seem as if it ought to be the simplest affair in the world
to light up a smudge. And so it is--if you are not trying.
An attempt to produce almost any other kind of a fire will bring
forth smoke abundantly. But when you deliberately undertake to
create a smudge, flames break from the wettest timber, and green
moss blazes with a furious heat. You hastily gather handfuls of
seemingly incombustible material and throw it on the fire, but the
conflagration increases. Grass and green leaves hesitate for an
instant and then flash up like tinder. The more you put on, the
more your smudge rebels against its proper task of smudging. It
makes a pleasant warmth, to encourage the black-flies; and bright
light to attract and cheer the mosquitoes. Your effort is a
brilliant failure.
The proper way to make a smudge is this. Begin with a very little,
lowly fire. Let it be bright, but not ambitious. Don't try to make
a smoke yet.
Then gather a good supply of stuff which seems likely to suppress
fire without smothering it. Moss of a certain kind will do, but not
the soft, feathery moss that grows so deep among the spruce-trees.
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