An hour's rest, however, restored him to himself.
He gathered some dry sticks (there were plenty under the ashes), struck his flint against the steel, ignited the tinder, and soon had a fire.

It was not necessary for warmth, the June evening was soft and warm, but it was the hunter's instinct.

Upon camping for the night the hunter, unless Bushmen are suspected to be in the neighbourhood, invariably lights a fire, first to cook his supper, and secondly, and often principally, to make the spot his home.

The hearth is home, whether there be walls round it or not.

Directly there are glowing embers the place is no longer wild, it becomes human.