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- Джек Лондон
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- Стр. 32/119
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But
there
was
no
danger
.
Old
One
Eye
was
feeling
the
urge
of
an
impulse
,
that
was
,
in
turn
,
an
instinct
that
had
come
down
to
him
from
all
the
fathers
of
wolves
.
He
did
not
question
it
,
nor
puzzle
over
it
.
It
was
there
,
in
the
fibre
of
his
being
;
and
it
was
the
most
natural
thing
in
the
world
that
he
should
obey
it
by
turning
his
back
on
his
new-born
family
and
by
trotting
out
and
away
on
the
meat-trail
whereby
he
lived
.
Five
or
six
miles
from
the
lair
,
the
stream
divided
,
its
forks
going
off
among
the
mountains
at
a
right
angle
.
Here
,
leading
up
the
left
fork
,
he
came
upon
a
fresh
track
.
He
smelled
it
and
found
it
so
recent
that
he
crouched
swiftly
,
and
looked
in
the
direction
in
which
it
disappeared
.
Then
he
turned
deliberately
and
took
the
right
fork
.
The
footprint
was
much
larger
than
the
one
his
own
feet
made
,
and
he
knew
that
in
the
wake
of
such
a
trail
there
was
little
meat
for
him
.
Half
a
mile
up
the
right
fork
,
his
quick
ears
caught
the
sound
of
gnawing
teeth
.
He
stalked
the
quarry
and
found
it
to
be
a
porcupine
,
standing
upright
against
a
tree
and
trying
his
teeth
on
the
bark
.
One
Eye
approached
carefully
but
hopelessly
.
He
knew
the
breed
,
though
he
had
never
met
it
so
far
north
before
;
and
never
in
his
long
life
had
porcupine
served
him
for
a
meal
.
But
he
had
long
since
learned
that
there
was
such
a
thing
as
Chance
,
or
Opportunity
,
and
he
continued
to
draw
near
.
There
was
never
any
telling
what
might
happen
,
for
with
live
things
events
were
somehow
always
happening
differently
.
The
porcupine
rolled
itself
into
a
ball
,
radiating
long
,
sharp
needles
in
all
directions
that
defied
attack
.
In
his
youth
One
Eye
had
once
sniffed
too
near
a
similar
,
apparently
inert
ball
of
quills
,
and
had
the
tail
flick
out
suddenly
in
his
face
.
One
quill
he
had
carried
away
in
his
muzzle
,
where
it
had
remained
for
weeks
,
a
rankling
flame
,
until
it
finally
worked
out
.
So
he
lay
down
,
in
a
comfortable
crouching
position
,
his
nose
fully
a
foot
away
,
and
out
of
the
line
of
the
tail
.
Thus
he
waited
,
keeping
perfectly
quiet
.
There
was
no
telling
.
Something
might
happen
.
The
porcupine
might
unroll
.
There
might
be
opportunity
for
a
deft
and
ripping
thrust
of
paw
into
the
tender
,
unguarded
belly
.
But
at
the
end
of
half
an
hour
he
arose
,
growled
wrathfully
at
the
motionless
ball
,
and
trotted
on
.
He
had
waited
too
often
and
futilely
in
the
past
for
porcupines
to
unroll
,
to
waste
any
more
time
.
He
continued
up
the
right
fork
.
The
day
wore
along
,
and
nothing
rewarded
his
hunt
.
The
urge
of
his
awakened
instinct
of
fatherhood
was
strong
upon
him
.
He
must
find
meat
.
In
the
afternoon
he
blundered
upon
a
ptarmigan
.
He
came
out
of
a
thicket
and
found
himself
face
to
face
with
the
slow-witted
bird
.
It
was
sitting
on
a
log
,
not
a
foot
beyond
the
end
of
his
nose
.
Each
saw
the
other
.
The
bird
made
a
startled
rise
,
but
he
struck
it
with
his
paw
,
and
smashed
it
down
to
earth
,
then
pounced
upon
it
,
and
caught
it
in
his
teeth
as
it
scuttled
across
the
snow
trying
to
rise
in
the
air
again
.
As
his
teeth
crunched
through
the
tender
flesh
and
fragile
bones
,
he
began
naturally
to
eat
.
Then
he
remembered
,
and
,
turning
on
the
back-track
,
started
for
home
,
carrying
the
ptarmigan
in
his
mouth
.
A
mile
above
the
forks
,
running
velvet-footed
as
was
his
custom
,
a
gliding
shadow
that
cautiously
prospected
each
new
vista
of
the
trail
,
he
came
upon
later
imprints
of
the
large
tracks
he
had
discovered
in
the
early
morning
.
As
the
track
led
his
way
,
he
followed
,
prepared
to
meet
the
maker
of
it
at
every
turn
of
the
stream
.
He
slid
his
head
around
a
corner
of
rock
,
where
began
an
unusually
large
bend
in
the
stream
,
and
his
quick
eyes
made
out
something
that
sent
him
crouching
swiftly
down
.
It
was
the
maker
of
the
track
,
a
large
female
lynx
.
She
was
crouching
as
he
had
crouched
once
that
day
,
in
front
of
her
the
tight-rolled
ball
of
quills
.
If
he
had
been
a
gliding
shadow
before
,
he
now
became
the
ghost
of
such
a
shadow
,
as
he
crept
and
circled
around
,
and
came
up
well
to
leeward
of
the
silent
,
motionless
pair
.
He
lay
down
in
the
snow
,
depositing
the
ptarmigan
beside
him
,
and
with
eyes
peering
through
the
needles
of
a
low-growing
spruce
he
watched
the
play
of
life
before
him
--
the
waiting
lynx
and
the
waiting
porcupine
,
each
intent
on
life
.
