It was about a hundred years ago that this little boy, whose name was Docas, poked his head out of a brush house. Ama, his mother, was sitting on the ground just outside, grinding acorns in a stone bowl.
Docas went to the middle of the hut, where the blazing fire of wood had been the night before. Just before Ama had gone to sleep she had covered with ashes the glowing coals that were left from the fire.
Docas raked off the ashes and began to blow on the blackened coals that were left. There was not much life in them, but they began to redden a little.
He put some dry leaves against them and blew harder. The leaves smoked, but would not light, no matter how hard he blew. And all the time the coals were getting blacker and blacker.
At last he called, “I cannot light it, mother.”
Ama came over where he was and began to blow, too; but even she could not start it, for the fire had died out.
“I must get some new fire,” said Ama at last.
She picked up two dry willow sticks and two flints. She rubbed the willow sticks together very hard for a while.
“Do you see the little dust that is gathering?” she asked. “Now I will strike the flints together until they send a spark down into that dry dust.”
In a few minutes a spark fell into the dust, the dust flared up, and Docas exclaimed, “There! now we have a fire.” He dropped some dry leaves on the burning dust, then he put some little twigs on the leaves. After that he called to his younger brother:—