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- Джек Лондон
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Then
an
old
wolf
,
gaunt
and
battle-scarred
,
came
forward
.
Buck
writhed
his
lips
into
the
preliminary
of
a
snarl
,
but
sniffed
noses
with
him
.
Whereupon
the
old
wolf
sat
down
,
pointed
nose
at
the
moon
,
and
broke
out
the
long
wolf
howl
.
The
others
sat
down
and
howled
.
And
now
the
call
came
to
Buck
in
unmistakable
accents
.
He
,
too
,
sat
down
and
howled
.
This
over
,
he
came
out
of
his
angle
and
the
pack
crowded
around
him
,
sniffing
in
half-friendly
,
half-savage
manner
.
The
leaders
lifted
the
yelp
of
the
pack
and
sprang
away
into
the
woods
.
The
wolves
swung
in
behind
,
yelping
in
chorus
.
And
Buck
ran
with
them
,
side
by
side
with
the
wild
brother
,
yelping
as
he
ran
.
And
here
may
well
end
the
story
of
Buck
.
The
years
were
not
many
when
the
Yeehats
noted
a
change
in
the
breed
of
timber
wolves
;
for
some
were
seen
with
splashes
of
brown
on
head
and
muzzle
,
and
with
a
rift
of
white
centring
down
the
chest
.
But
more
remarkable
than
this
,
the
Yeehats
tell
of
a
Ghost
Dog
that
runs
at
the
head
of
the
pack
.
They
are
afraid
of
this
Ghost
Dog
,
for
it
has
cunning
greater
than
they
,
stealing
from
their
camps
in
fierce
winters
,
robbing
their
traps
,
slaying
their
dogs
,
and
defying
their
bravest
hunters
.
Nay
,
the
tale
grows
worse
.
Hunters
there
are
who
fail
to
return
to
the
camp
,
and
hunters
there
have
been
whom
their
tribesmen
found
with
throats
slashed
cruelly
open
and
with
wolf
prints
about
them
in
the
snow
greater
than
the
prints
of
any
wolf
.
Each
fall
,
when
the
Yeehats
follow
the
movement
of
the
moose
,
there
is
a
certain
valley
which
they
never
enter
.
And
women
there
are
who
become
sad
when
the
word
goes
over
the
fire
of
how
the
Evil
Spirit
came
to
select
that
valley
for
an
abiding-place
.
In
the
summers
there
is
one
visitor
,
however
,
to
that
valley
,
of
which
the
Yeehats
do
not
know
.
It
is
a
great
,
gloriously
coated
wolf
,
like
,
and
yet
unlike
,
all
other
wolves
.
He
crosses
alone
from
the
smiling
timber
land
and
comes
down
into
an
open
space
among
the
trees
.
Here
a
yellow
stream
flows
from
rotted
moose-hide
sacks
and
sinks
into
the
ground
,
with
long
grasses
growing
through
it
and
vegetable
mould
overrunning
it
and
hiding
its
yellow
from
the
sun
;
and
here
he
muses
for
a
time
,
howling
once
,
long
and
mournfully
,
ere
he
departs
.
But
he
is
not
always
alone
.
When
the
long
winter
nights
come
on
and
the
wolves
follow
their
meat
into
the
lower
valleys
,
he
may
be
seen
running
at
the
head
of
the
pack
through
the
pale
moonlight
or
glimmering
borealis
,
leaping
gigantic
above
his
fellows
,
his
great
throat
a-bellow
as
he
sings
a
song
of
the
younger
world
,
which
is
the
song
of
the
pack
.