MORE CAMP-FIRE YARNS 233 



THE MATCHES THAT WOULDN'T LIGHT 



Up in the edge of the mountains, twenty miles or 

 so above the Sulphur Spring, there lived alone, in 

 a lonesome little cabin, a trapper who was an old 

 man. He was too old to live there alone, but the love 

 of the life was strong within him, and he was quite 

 content. 



One bitter cold day in midwinter, when the snow lay 

 a foot deep on the trail, he shouldered his pack of flour 

 and coffee, and set out from the cabin of Wild-Cat 

 Charlie to go to his own. 



The labor of the journey at last proved too great for 

 him. As his weary steps dragged more and more slowly 

 through the snow, the cold assailed him at all points. 

 Two miles from the shelter of his cabin, he threw down 

 his pack. A mile farther on, he leaned his rifle against 

 a tree and left it. Two hundred yards from his cabin he 

 fell, but bravely crawled the remaining distance on his 

 hands and knees. 



He reached his cabin, entered, closed the door, and 

 whittled some shavings with which to kindle his fire. 

 The kindlings and the dry wood all were there. At last 

 everything was ready for the match, and he essayed to 

 strike it. 



His fingers were so benumbed by minus forty degrees 

 of cold that they were like sticks of wood. The first 

 match broke short off, unlighted. So did the next, and 

 the next, and the next. 



It was beyond his power to strike the match that 



