The poetry of Gregg Typing, 1958, Pt. 2

"We stood around the small fire and wished that we could be dry, even for just a few seconds. While the group of us stood watching the flames quietly leap into the air, Rex pushed a wet twig into the fire. Tongues of smoke began to rise as the twig sizzled and squeaked. All of us yelled at him as we jumped back from the smoke. Rex just smiled a bit, and then we all laughed and felt better. We found some dry branches in the back of the cave--not too many, but enough to stir up a warm blaze."