White Fang

I was a-thinkin’ what a blame sight luckier he is than you an’ me’ll ever be.

It is not the way of the Wild to like move­ment. Life is an of­fence to it, for life is move­ment;

The land it­self was a des­ol­a­tion, life­less, without move­ment, so lone and cold that the spirit of it was not even that of sad­ness. There was a hint in it of laughter, but of a laughter more ter­rible than any sad­ness—a laughter that was mirth­less as the smile of the sphinx, a laughter cold as the frost and par­tak­ing of the grim­ness of in­fal­lib­il­ity. It was the mas­ter­ful and in­com­mu­nic­able wis­dom of etern­ity laugh­ing at the fu­til­ity of life and the ef­fort of life. It was the Wild, the sav­age, frozen-hearted North­land Wild.

wist­ful­ness

com­mis­er­at­ingly

But scarcely had the cheer of its light departed

hoisted the coffin

Chopping down young saplings, he made them crossbars of a scaffold by lashing them high up to the trunks of standing trees

Chopping down young saplings

A hasty drawing back always resulted