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The Sounding of the Call
Inthesummersthereisonevisitor,however,tothatvalley,ofwhichtheYeehatsdonotknow. Itisagreat,gloriouslycoatedwolf,like,andyetunlike,allotherwolves. Hecrossesalonefromthesmilingtimberlandandcomesdownintoanopenspaceamongthetrees. Hereayellowstreamflowsfromrottedmoose-hidesacksandsinksintotheground,withlonggrassesgrowingthroughitandvegetablemouldoverrunningitandhidingitsyellowfromthesun; andherehemusesforatime,howlingonce,longandmournfully,erehedeparts.
Butheisnotalwaysalone. Whenthelongwinternightscomeonandthewolvesfollowtheirmeatintothelowervalleys,hemaybeseenrunningattheheadofthepackthroughthepalemoonlightorglimmeringborealis,leapinggiganticabovehisfellows,hisgreatthroata-bellowashesingsasongoftheyoungerworld,whichisthesongofthepack.
