author - "Jack London"
Description
White Fang is Jack London’s companion novel to The Call of the Wild. In The Call of the Wild we follow a dog’s journey from domestication to wilderness, but in White Fang we see the opposite: a wild wolf-dog captured by men and eventually domesticated.
White Fang’s journey isn’t an easy one; both the wild and civilization have their share of brutal violence. But he eventually seems happy in a home with a loving family. When read side-by-side with The Call of the Wild, White Fang poses an interesting question: is wilderness really an improvement over civilization? Is there one right way to live?
Description
Jack London spent nearly a year in Alaska and the Klondike, mining for gold and braving the Alaskan winter. There he was inspired to write what would become The Call of the Wild, one of his most famous novels. The Call of the Wild tells the tale of a domesticated dog stolen from his California family and sold to sledders in Alaska. As he adapts to the harsh and wild environment, he slowly sheds domestication and returns to his primal roots.
The Call of the Wild was London’s first major success, ensuring he’d have a readership for his future writing and paving the way for him to become one of the first writers to amass a fortune from just his fiction.
e, grunted an affirmative.
"How much you make that one pack?"
"Fifty dollar."
Here Kit slid out of the conversation. A young woman, standing inthe doorway, had caught his eye. Unlike other women landing fromthe steamers, she was neither short-skirted nor bloomer-clad. Shewas dressed as any woman travelling anywhere would be dressed.What struck him was the justness of her being there, a feeling thatsomehow she belonged. Moreover, she was young and pretty. Thebright beauty and colour of her oval face held him, and he lookedover-long--looked till she resented, and her own eyes, long-lashedand dark, met his in cool survey.
From his face they travelled in evident amusement down to the bigrevolver at his thigh. Then her eyes came back to his, and in themwas amused contempt. It struck him like a blow. She turned to theman beside her and indicated Kit. The man glanced him over with thesame amused contempt.
"Chechako," the girl said.
The man, who looked like a tramp in his cheap
theRussians. There's bound to be Greek priests among them, and they'll seeyou safe through to Bering Sea,--that's where the Yukon empties,--andfrom there it won't be hard to get back to civilization. Take my wordfor it and get out of here as fast as God'll let you."
"He who carries the Lord in his heart and the Gospel in his hand hath nofear of the machinations of man or devil," the missionary answeredstoutly. "I will see this man and wrestle with him. One backsliderreturned to the fold is a greater victory than a thousand heathen. Hewho is strong for evil can be as mighty for good, witness Saul when hejourneyed up to Damascus to bring Christian captives to Jerusalem. Andthe voice of the Saviour came to him, crying, 'Saul, Saul, whypersecutest thou me?' And therewith Paul arrayed himself on the side ofthe Lord, and thereafter was most mighty in the saving of souls. Andeven as thou, Paul of Tarsus, even so do I work in the vineyard of theLord, bearing trials and tribulations, scoffs a
easier tolearn to smoke than to learn to drink. They learned becausealcohol was so accessible. The women know the game. They pay forit--the wives and sisters and mothers. And when they come tovote, they will vote for prohibition. And the best of it is thatthere will be no hardship worked on the coming generation. Nothaving access to alcohol, not being predisposed toward alcohol, itwill never miss alcohol. It will mean life more abundant for themanhood of the young boys born and growing up--ay, and life moreabundant for the young girls born and growing up to share thelives of the young men."
"Why not write all this up for the sake of the men and womencoming?" Charmian asked. "Why not write it so as to help thewives and sisters and mothers to the way they should vote?"
"The 'Memoirs of an Alcoholic,'" I sneered--or, rather, JohnBarleycorn sneered; for he sat with me there at table in mypleasant, philanthropic jingle, and it is a trick of JohnBarleycorn to turn the smile to a sneer w
re whitening the hilltops. The air about him thickened and grew white while he made a fire and boiled more water. It was wet snow, half rain, and the flakes were large and soggy. At first they melted as soon as they came in contact with the earth, but ever more fell, covering the ground, putting out the fire, spoiling his supply of moss-fuel.
This was a signal for him to strap on his pack and stumble onward, he knew not where. He was not concerned with the land of little sticks, nor with Bill and the cache under the upturned canoe by the river Dease. He was mastered by the verb "to eat." He was hunger- mad. He took no heed of the course he pursued, so long as that course led him through the swale bottoms. He felt his way through the wet snow to the watery muskeg berries, and went by feel as he pulled up the rush-grass by the roots. But it was tasteless stuff and did not satisfy. He found a weed that tasted sour and he ate all he could find of it, which was not much, for it was a creeping growth, easily
Stubener, "an' a trail that'd break your heart."
Breakfast consisted of black coffee, sourdough bread, and an immense quantity of bear-meat broiled over the coals. Of this the young fellow ate ravenously, and Stubener divined that both the Glendons were accustomed to an almost straight meat diet. Old Pat did all the talking, though it was not till the meal was ended that he broached the subject he had at heart.
"Pat, boy," he began, "you know who the gentleman is?"
Young Pat nodded, and cast a quick, comprehensive glance at the manager.
"Well, he'll be takin' you away with him and down to San Francisco."
"I'd sooner stay here, dad," was the answer.
Stubener felt a prick of disappointment. It was a wild goose chase after all. This was no fighter, eager and fretting to be at it. His huge brawn counted for nothing. It was nothing new. It was the big fellows that usually had the streak of fat.
But old Pat's Celtic wrath flared up, and his voice was harsh with comm
little later I heard the stroke of oars, growing nearer and nearer, and the calls of a man. When he was very near I heard him crying, in vexed fashion, "Why in hell don't you sing out?" This meant me, I thought, and then the blankness and darkness rose over me.
CHAPTER II
I seemed swinging in a mighty rhythm through orbit vastness. Sparkling points of light spluttered and shot past me. They were stars, I knew, and flaring comets, that peopled my flight among the suns. As I reached the limit of my swing and prepared to rush back on the counter swing, a great gong struck and thundered. For an immeasurable period, lapped in the rippling of placid centuries, I enjoyed and pondered my tremendous flight.
But a change came over the face of the dream, for a dream I told myself it must be. My rhythm grew shorter and shorter. I was jerked from swing to counter swing with irritating haste. I could scarcely catch my breath, so fiercely
"Him fella my brother belong me," was the answer. "Him fella dietoo much."
"You sing out, him fella brother belong you die too much," thewhite man went on in threatening tones. "I cross too much alongyou. What name you sing out, eh? You fat-head make um brotherbelong you die dose up too much. You fella finish sing out,savvee? You fella no finish sing out I make finish damn quick."
He threatened the wailer with his fist, and the black cowered down,glaring at him with sullen eyes.
"Sing out no good little bit," the white man went on, more gently."You no sing out. You chase um fella fly. Too much strong fellafly. You catch water, washee brother belong you; washee plenty toomuch, bime bye brother belong you all right. Jump!" he shoutedfiercely at the end, his will penetrating the low intelligence ofthe black with dynamic force that made him jump to the task ofbrushing the loathsome swarms of flies away.
Again he rode out into the reeking heat. He clutched the black'sneck ti
That night, when supper was finished and they sat on the oblong box and pulled at their pipes, the circle of gleaming eyes drew in even closer than before.
"I wisht they'd spring up a bunch of moose or something, an' go away an' leave us alone," Bill said.
Henry grunted with an intonation that was not all sympathy, and for a quarter of an hour they sat on in silence, Henry staring at the fire, and Bill at the circle of eyes that burned in the darkness just beyond the firelight.
"I wisht we was pullin' into McGurry right now," he began again.
"Shut up your wishin' and your croakin'," Henry burst out angrily. "Your stomach's sour. That's what's ailin' you. Swallow a spoonful of sody, an' you'll sweeten up wonderful an' be more pleasant company."
In the morning Henry was aroused by fervid blasphemy that proceeded from the mouth of Bill. Henry propped himself up on an elbow and looked to see his comrade standing among the dogs beside the replenished fire, his a
Description
White Fang is Jack London’s companion novel to The Call of the Wild. In The Call of the Wild we follow a dog’s journey from domestication to wilderness, but in White Fang we see the opposite: a wild wolf-dog captured by men and eventually domesticated.
White Fang’s journey isn’t an easy one; both the wild and civilization have their share of brutal violence. But he eventually seems happy in a home with a loving family. When read side-by-side with The Call of the Wild, White Fang poses an interesting question: is wilderness really an improvement over civilization? Is there one right way to live?
Description
Jack London spent nearly a year in Alaska and the Klondike, mining for gold and braving the Alaskan winter. There he was inspired to write what would become The Call of the Wild, one of his most famous novels. The Call of the Wild tells the tale of a domesticated dog stolen from his California family and sold to sledders in Alaska. As he adapts to the harsh and wild environment, he slowly sheds domestication and returns to his primal roots.
The Call of the Wild was London’s first major success, ensuring he’d have a readership for his future writing and paving the way for him to become one of the first writers to amass a fortune from just his fiction.
e, grunted an affirmative.
"How much you make that one pack?"
"Fifty dollar."
Here Kit slid out of the conversation. A young woman, standing inthe doorway, had caught his eye. Unlike other women landing fromthe steamers, she was neither short-skirted nor bloomer-clad. Shewas dressed as any woman travelling anywhere would be dressed.What struck him was the justness of her being there, a feeling thatsomehow she belonged. Moreover, she was young and pretty. Thebright beauty and colour of her oval face held him, and he lookedover-long--looked till she resented, and her own eyes, long-lashedand dark, met his in cool survey.
From his face they travelled in evident amusement down to the bigrevolver at his thigh. Then her eyes came back to his, and in themwas amused contempt. It struck him like a blow. She turned to theman beside her and indicated Kit. The man glanced him over with thesame amused contempt.
"Chechako," the girl said.
The man, who looked like a tramp in his cheap
theRussians. There's bound to be Greek priests among them, and they'll seeyou safe through to Bering Sea,--that's where the Yukon empties,--andfrom there it won't be hard to get back to civilization. Take my wordfor it and get out of here as fast as God'll let you."
"He who carries the Lord in his heart and the Gospel in his hand hath nofear of the machinations of man or devil," the missionary answeredstoutly. "I will see this man and wrestle with him. One backsliderreturned to the fold is a greater victory than a thousand heathen. Hewho is strong for evil can be as mighty for good, witness Saul when hejourneyed up to Damascus to bring Christian captives to Jerusalem. Andthe voice of the Saviour came to him, crying, 'Saul, Saul, whypersecutest thou me?' And therewith Paul arrayed himself on the side ofthe Lord, and thereafter was most mighty in the saving of souls. Andeven as thou, Paul of Tarsus, even so do I work in the vineyard of theLord, bearing trials and tribulations, scoffs a
easier tolearn to smoke than to learn to drink. They learned becausealcohol was so accessible. The women know the game. They pay forit--the wives and sisters and mothers. And when they come tovote, they will vote for prohibition. And the best of it is thatthere will be no hardship worked on the coming generation. Nothaving access to alcohol, not being predisposed toward alcohol, itwill never miss alcohol. It will mean life more abundant for themanhood of the young boys born and growing up--ay, and life moreabundant for the young girls born and growing up to share thelives of the young men."
"Why not write all this up for the sake of the men and womencoming?" Charmian asked. "Why not write it so as to help thewives and sisters and mothers to the way they should vote?"
"The 'Memoirs of an Alcoholic,'" I sneered--or, rather, JohnBarleycorn sneered; for he sat with me there at table in mypleasant, philanthropic jingle, and it is a trick of JohnBarleycorn to turn the smile to a sneer w
re whitening the hilltops. The air about him thickened and grew white while he made a fire and boiled more water. It was wet snow, half rain, and the flakes were large and soggy. At first they melted as soon as they came in contact with the earth, but ever more fell, covering the ground, putting out the fire, spoiling his supply of moss-fuel.
This was a signal for him to strap on his pack and stumble onward, he knew not where. He was not concerned with the land of little sticks, nor with Bill and the cache under the upturned canoe by the river Dease. He was mastered by the verb "to eat." He was hunger- mad. He took no heed of the course he pursued, so long as that course led him through the swale bottoms. He felt his way through the wet snow to the watery muskeg berries, and went by feel as he pulled up the rush-grass by the roots. But it was tasteless stuff and did not satisfy. He found a weed that tasted sour and he ate all he could find of it, which was not much, for it was a creeping growth, easily
Stubener, "an' a trail that'd break your heart."
Breakfast consisted of black coffee, sourdough bread, and an immense quantity of bear-meat broiled over the coals. Of this the young fellow ate ravenously, and Stubener divined that both the Glendons were accustomed to an almost straight meat diet. Old Pat did all the talking, though it was not till the meal was ended that he broached the subject he had at heart.
"Pat, boy," he began, "you know who the gentleman is?"
Young Pat nodded, and cast a quick, comprehensive glance at the manager.
"Well, he'll be takin' you away with him and down to San Francisco."
"I'd sooner stay here, dad," was the answer.
Stubener felt a prick of disappointment. It was a wild goose chase after all. This was no fighter, eager and fretting to be at it. His huge brawn counted for nothing. It was nothing new. It was the big fellows that usually had the streak of fat.
But old Pat's Celtic wrath flared up, and his voice was harsh with comm
little later I heard the stroke of oars, growing nearer and nearer, and the calls of a man. When he was very near I heard him crying, in vexed fashion, "Why in hell don't you sing out?" This meant me, I thought, and then the blankness and darkness rose over me.
CHAPTER II
I seemed swinging in a mighty rhythm through orbit vastness. Sparkling points of light spluttered and shot past me. They were stars, I knew, and flaring comets, that peopled my flight among the suns. As I reached the limit of my swing and prepared to rush back on the counter swing, a great gong struck and thundered. For an immeasurable period, lapped in the rippling of placid centuries, I enjoyed and pondered my tremendous flight.
But a change came over the face of the dream, for a dream I told myself it must be. My rhythm grew shorter and shorter. I was jerked from swing to counter swing with irritating haste. I could scarcely catch my breath, so fiercely
"Him fella my brother belong me," was the answer. "Him fella dietoo much."
"You sing out, him fella brother belong you die too much," thewhite man went on in threatening tones. "I cross too much alongyou. What name you sing out, eh? You fat-head make um brotherbelong you die dose up too much. You fella finish sing out,savvee? You fella no finish sing out I make finish damn quick."
He threatened the wailer with his fist, and the black cowered down,glaring at him with sullen eyes.
"Sing out no good little bit," the white man went on, more gently."You no sing out. You chase um fella fly. Too much strong fellafly. You catch water, washee brother belong you; washee plenty toomuch, bime bye brother belong you all right. Jump!" he shoutedfiercely at the end, his will penetrating the low intelligence ofthe black with dynamic force that made him jump to the task ofbrushing the loathsome swarms of flies away.
Again he rode out into the reeking heat. He clutched the black'sneck ti
That night, when supper was finished and they sat on the oblong box and pulled at their pipes, the circle of gleaming eyes drew in even closer than before.
"I wisht they'd spring up a bunch of moose or something, an' go away an' leave us alone," Bill said.
Henry grunted with an intonation that was not all sympathy, and for a quarter of an hour they sat on in silence, Henry staring at the fire, and Bill at the circle of eyes that burned in the darkness just beyond the firelight.
"I wisht we was pullin' into McGurry right now," he began again.
"Shut up your wishin' and your croakin'," Henry burst out angrily. "Your stomach's sour. That's what's ailin' you. Swallow a spoonful of sody, an' you'll sweeten up wonderful an' be more pleasant company."
In the morning Henry was aroused by fervid blasphemy that proceeded from the mouth of Bill. Henry propped himself up on an elbow and looked to see his comrade standing among the dogs beside the replenished fire, his a