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- Джек Лондон
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He
worked
faithfully
in
the
harness
,
for
the
toil
had
become
a
delight
to
him
;
yet
it
was
a
greater
delight
slyly
to
precipitate
a
fight
amongst
his
mates
and
tangle
the
traces
.
At
the
mouth
of
the
Tahkeena
,
one
night
after
supper
,
Dub
turned
up
a
snowshoe
rabbit
,
blundered
it
,
and
missed
.
In
a
second
the
whole
team
was
in
full
cry
.
A
hundred
yards
away
was
a
camp
of
the
Northwest
Police
,
with
fifty
dogs
,
huskies
all
,
who
joined
the
chase
.
The
rabbit
sped
down
the
river
,
turned
off
into
a
small
creek
,
up
the
frozen
bed
of
which
it
held
steadily
.
It
ran
lightly
on
the
surface
of
the
snow
,
while
the
dogs
ploughed
through
by
main
strength
.
Buck
led
the
pack
,
sixty
strong
,
around
bend
after
bend
,
but
he
could
not
gain
.
He
lay
down
low
to
the
race
,
whining
eagerly
,
his
splendid
body
flashing
forward
,
leap
by
leap
,
in
the
wan
white
moonlight
.
And
leap
by
leap
,
like
some
pale
frost
wraith
,
the
snowshoe
rabbit
flashed
on
ahead
.
All
that
stirring
of
old
instincts
which
at
stated
periods
drives
men
out
from
the
sounding
cities
to
forest
and
plain
to
kill
things
by
chemically
propelled
leaden
pellets
,
the
blood
lust
,
the
joy
to
kill
--
all
this
was
Buck
's
,
only
it
was
infinitely
more
intimate
.
He
was
ranging
at
the
head
of
the
pack
,
running
the
wild
thing
down
,
the
living
meat
,
to
kill
with
his
own
teeth
and
wash
his
muzzle
to
the
eyes
in
warm
blood
.
There
is
an
ecstasy
that
marks
the
summit
of
life
,
and
beyond
which
life
can
not
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
.
This
ecstasy
,
this
forgetfulness
of
living
,
comes
to
the
artist
,
caught
up
and
out
of
himself
in
a
sheet
of
flame
;
it
comes
to
the
soldier
,
war-mad
on
a
stricken
field
and
refusing
quarter
;
and
it
came
to
Buck
,
leading
the
pack
,
sounding
the
old
wolf-cry
,
straining
after
the
food
that
was
alive
and
that
fled
swiftly
before
him
through
the
moonlight
.
He
was
sounding
the
deeps
of
his
nature
,
and
of
the
parts
of
his
nature
that
were
deeper
than
he
,
going
back
into
the
womb
of
Time
.
He
was
mastered
by
the
sheer
surging
of
life
,
the
tidal
wave
of
being
,
the
perfect
joy
of
each
separate
muscle
,
joint
,
and
sinew
in
that
it
was
everything
that
was
not
death
,
that
it
was
aglow
and
rampant
,
expressing
itself
in
movement
,
flying
exultantly
under
the
stars
and
over
the
face
of
dead
matter
that
did
not
move
.
But
Spitz
,
cold
and
calculating
even
in
his
supreme
moods
,
left
the
pack
and
cut
across
a
narrow
neck
of
land
where
the
creek
made
a
long
bend
around
.
Buck
did
not
know
of
this
,
and
as
he
rounded
the
bend
,
the
frost
wraith
of
a
rabbit
still
flitting
before
him
,
he
saw
another
and
larger
frost
wraith
leap
from
the
overhanging
bank
into
the
immediate
path
of
the
rabbit
.
It
was
Spitz
.
The
rabbit
could
not
turn
,
and
as
the
white
teeth
broke
its
back
in
mid
air
it
shrieked
as
loudly
as
a
stricken
man
may
shriek
.
At
sound
of
this
,
the
cry
of
Life
plunging
down
from
Life
's
apex
in
the
grip
of
Death
,
the
fall
pack
at
Buck
's
heels
raised
a
hell
's
chorus
of
delight
.
Buck
did
not
cry
out
.
He
did
not
check
himself
,
but
drove
in
upon
Spitz
,
shoulder
to
shoulder
,
so
hard
that
he
missed
the
throat
.
They
rolled
over
and
over
in
the
powdery
snow
.
Spitz
gained
his
feet
almost
as
though
he
had
not
been
overthrown
,
slashing
Buck
down
the
shoulder
and
leaping
clear
.
Twice
his
teeth
clipped
together
,
like
the
steel
jaws
of
a
trap
,
as
he
backed
away
for
better
footing
,
with
lean
and
lifting
lips
that
writhed
and
snarled
.
In
a
flash
Buck
knew
it
.
The
time
had
come
.
It
was
to
the
death
.
As
they
circled
about
,
snarling
,
ears
laid
back
,
keenly
watchful
for
the
advantage
,
the
scene
came
to
Buck
with
a
sense
of
familiarity
.
He
seemed
to
remember
it
all
--
the
white
woods
,
and
earth
,
and
moonlight
,
and
the
thrill
of
battle
.
Over
the
whiteness
and
silence
brooded
a
ghostly
calm
.
There
was
not
the
faintest
whisper
of
air
--
nothing
moved
,
not
a
leaf
quivered
,
the
visible
breaths
of
the
dogs
rising
slowly
and
lingering
in
the
frosty
air
.
They
had
made
short
work
of
the
snowshoe
rabbit
,
these
dogs
that
were
ill-tamed
wolves
;
and
they
were
now
drawn
up
in
an
expectant
circle
.
They
,
too
,
were
silent
,
their
eyes
only
gleaming
and
their
breaths
drifting
slowly
upward
.
To
Buck
it
was
nothing
new
or
strange
,
this
scene
of
old
time
.
It
was
as
though
it
had
always
been
,
the
wonted
way
of
things
.
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
.
In
passion
to
rend
and
destroy
,
he
never
forgot
that
his
enemy
was
in
like
passion
to
rend
and
destroy
.
He
never
rushed
till
he
was
prepared
to
receive
a
rush
;
never
attacked
till
he
had
first
defended
that
attack
.
