The Call of the Wild

He walked to the cen­tre of the open space and lis­tened. It was the call, the many-noted call, sound­ing more lur­ingly and com­pellingly than ever be­fore. And as never be­fore, he was ready to obey. John Thorn­ton was dead. The last tie was bro­ken. Man and the claims of man no longer bound him.

wide-spread­ing lawns

Lake Le Barge to the White Horse Rapids. Across Marsh, Tag­ish, and Ben­nett

no place for Buck save at the front.

should have been on the trail an hour gone

They cursed him, and his fa­thers and moth­ers be­fore him, and all his seed to come af­ter him down to the re­motest gen­er­a­tion

There was no hope for him. Buck was in­ex­orable. Mercy was a thing re­served for gen­tler climes

Spitz was a prac­tised fighter. From Spitzber­gen through the Arc­tic, and across Canada and the Bar­rens, he had held his own with all man­ner of dogs and achieved to mas­tery over them. Bit­ter rage was his, but never blind rage.

fly­ing ex­ul­tantly un­der the stars and over the face of dead mat­ter that did not move.

There is an ec­stasy that marks the sum­mit of life, and be­yond which life can­not rise. And such is the para­dox of liv­ing, this ec­stasy comes when one is most alive, and it comes as a com­plete for­get­ful­ness that one is alive