So That Was The Way.

There Is An Ecstasy That Marks The Summit Of Life, And Beyond Which Life Cannot 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.

Buck Did Not Read The Newspapers, Or He Would Have Known That Trouble Was Brewing, Not Alone For Himself, But For Every Tide-water Dog, Strong Of Muscle And With Warm, Long Hair, From Puget Sound To San Diego.

But Nobody Else Ever Romped With White Fang. He Did Not Permit It. He Stood On His Dignity, And When They Attempted It, His Warning Snarl And Bristling Mane Were Anything But Playful. That He Allowed The Master These Liberties Was No Reason That He Should Be A Common Dog, Loving Here And Loving There, Everybody's Property For A Romp And Good Time. He Loved With Single Heart And Refused To Cheapen Himself Or His Love.

Had The Cub Thought In Man-fashion, He Might Have Epitomized Life As A Voracious Appetite, And The World As A Place Wherein Ranged A Multitude Of Appetites, Pursuing And Being Pursued, Hunting And Being Hunted, Eating And Being Eaten, All In Blindness And Confusion, With Violence And Disorder, A Chaos Of Gluttony And Slaughter, Ruled Over By Chance, Merciless, Planless, Endless.

Fear Urged Him To Go Back, But Growth Drove Him On.