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

seemed the or­dained or­der of things that dogs should work

be­cause he had been gripped tight by that name­less, in­com­pre­hen­si­ble pride of the trail and trace—

Straight away he raced, with Dolly, pant­ing and froth­ing, one leap be­hind; nor could she gain on him, so great was his ter­ror, nor could he leave her, so great was her mad­ness.

ter­ri­fied into brav­ery

His club landed heav­ily on the gaunt ribs, and the grub-box was cap­sized on the ground

skulk­ing furry forms—starv­ing huskies

her­alded the break­ing forth of pan­de­mo­nium

past many a weary mile of trail and toil