THE RIVER 33 



the last cold season, I had received from England a box 

 of stationery. The box, among other things, contained 

 a few packets of sealing-wax ; the packets were most 

 neatly done up, all the sticks of the sealing-wax being 

 separated from each other, except at the ends, by slips 

 of thin paper. 



In the afternoon, when I had returned from the office, 

 for some reason or other I wanted some sealing-wax. 

 I went to the box and took out one of the packets. 

 I found it distorted out of all shape ; the sticks of 

 sealing-wax had not exactly melted, but they had 

 softened sufficiently to twine and twist, and to unite 

 at the ends where they were not separated by the 

 paper. At the same time, and what struck me as most 

 curious, was that, though the sealing-wax had thus 

 twisted and joined, it still to the touch seemed as hard 

 and firm as ever ; and when I attempted to separate 

 one of the sticks it broke off with a perfectly clean and 

 sharp fracture, thus in a way illustrating the modern 

 theory of the movement of glaciers. 



While engaged with the sealing-wax I had left lying 

 on the writing-table a sheet of notepaper. I found it 

 now coiled up by the heat into a complete cylinder. 



My evening experience was, however, perhaps the 

 most curious. I was brushing my hair before the 

 looking-glass by the light of a candle. As I brushed 

 my hair crackled loudly, and it gave out sparks that 

 even in the candle-light were faintly visible. In order 

 to ascertain their full brilliancy, I had the candle 

 removed ; and then as I brushed my hair in the dark 

 the sparks that issued were so many and so bright, that 

 D 



