The plant itself had long since perished, as I could tell from its withered appearance. Its long filaments hung from the limb, crisp and dry as curled horse-hair.
Reaching towards it, I collected a quantity of the thread-like leaves, and placed them, so that I could conveniently lay hands upon them when wanted.
My next move was to take out the stopper of my brandy flask—which done, I turned the flask upside down, and spilled nearly the whole of its contents upon the back of the bear. What was left I employed to give a slight moistening to the bunch of Spanish moss.
I now drew forth my lucifers—when, to my chagrin, I saw that there was but one match left in the box!
What if it should miss fire, or even if igniting, I should fail with it to light the dry leaves?
I trembled as I dwelt upon the possibility of a failure. Perhaps my life depended upon the striking of that one match? I felt the necessity of being careful. A slight shaking of the hand would frustrate my well-contrived scheme.
Cautiously did I draw the match over the steel filings on the box, too cautiously, for no crackling accompanied the friction.
I tried again; but this time, to my horror, I saw the little dump of phosphorus that should have blazed up, break from the end of the stick, and fall to the bottom of the tree!
I came very near falling myself, for the bright hope that had illumed my mind was now extinguished; and the darkness of despondency once more set over my soul.
Soon, however, a new idea came into my mind—restoring my hopes as suddenly as they had departed. There was fire in the stump of the cigar still sticking between my lips.