from The American Heritage® Dictionary of the English Language, 5th Edition.
- noun Material, such as decayed wood, that is used as tinder; punk.
from The Century Dictionary.
- noun The soft white or yellowish substance into which wood is converted by the action of certain fungi: so called from its property of burning for many hours, when once ignited, like tinder.
from the GNU version of the Collaborative International Dictionary of English.
- noun Wood so decayed as to serve for tinder; spunk, or punk.
- noun Dried fungi used as tinder; especially, the
from Wiktionary, Creative Commons Attribution/Share-Alike License.
- noun Decayed
woodused as tinder; punk
from WordNet 3.0 Copyright 2006 by Princeton University. All rights reserved.
- noun material for starting a fire
from The American Heritage® Dictionary of the English Language, 4th Edition
Dick carefully polished the glass and held it at the right angle between the touchwood, that is, the scrapings, and the sun.
We found in the Indian huts at Uruana the vegetable substance called touchwood of ants, * with which we had become acquainted at the Great
We found in the Indian huts at Uruana the vegetable substance called touchwood of ants, * (* Yesca de hormigas.) with which we had become acquainted at the Great Cataracts, and which is employed to stop bleeding.
_Thelaphora cærulea_, which is the cause of the phosphorescent light sometimes to be seen on decaying wood -- the "touchwood" which many boys have kept in the hope of seeing this light displayed.
Accidentally looking back, he found that his footmarks, as far as he could see, shone with a phosphoric light like that of "touchwood" in the dark.
"touchwood," or "spunk," -- when cut into thin slices and beaten with
January 16th, 2007 at 9: 41 pm subhan allahhh @@All the babies are soooooo chweet and chubby cheeks, touchwood pavankumar Says:
He had a watch upon him, some touchwood, some tinder, some slow matches; and there was a dark lantern with a candle in it, lighted, behind the door.
Two of the many passengers by a certain late Sunday evening train, Mr. Thomas Idle and Mr. Francis Goodchild, yielded up their tickets at a little rotten platform (converted into artificial touchwood by smoke and ashes), deep in the manufacturing bosom of Yorkshire.
The rains had imparted a phosphorescence to the pieces of touchwood and rotting leaves that lay about her path, which, as scattered by her feet, spread abroad like spilt milk.