The Voice of the Pack

going was one of the mysteries of Gitcheapolis. It appealed to a person rather as does a river: eternal, infinite, having no control over its direction or movement, but only subject to

pe. No one glanced at him in particular. He was enough like the other drops of water not to attract attention. He wore fairly passable clothes, neither rich nor shabby. He was a tall man, but gave no impression of

the silence of the wild place. The gravel path that slanted through the green lawns did not lead anywhere in particular. It made a big loop and came out almost where it went in. Perhaps that is the reason that the busy crowds did not launch forth upon it. Crowds, like electricit

to penetrate the thick branches of the trees. He could even hear the leaves whisking and flicking together, and when a man can discern this, he can hear the cushions of a mounta

epeating themselves over and over in his ears, and the doctor's face was still before his eyes. It had been a kind face; the lips had even curled in a little smile of encouragement.

course, you can go to some sanitarium, if you've got the money.

lied. He had smiled a little, too. He was still rather p

shorter. I think

her effort to keep him from the "rough games" of the boys of his own age. He realized now that he had been an under-weight all his life,-that the frailty that had thrust him to the edge of the grave had begun in his earliest boyhood. But it wasn't that he was born with physical handicaps. He had weighed a full ten pounds; and the doctor had

. She had done what she thought was best. And he began to wonder in what

ndless wilderness, and here and there were strange, many-toed tracks that could be followed in the icy dawns. He didn't ever know just what made the tracks, except that they were creatures of fang and talon that no law had ever tamed. But of course it was just a fancy. He wasn't in the least misled about it. He knew that he had never, in his lifetime, seen the wilderness. Of course his grandfather had been a frontiersman of the first order, and all his ancestors before him-a rangy, hardy breed whose wings would crumple in civilization-but he hi

rather large and perhaps the wasted flesh around them made them seem larger than they were. But it was a little hard to see them, as he w

the stark whiteness of his skin. He was newly shaven, and his lips and chin looked somewhat blue from the heavy growth of hair under the skin. Perhaps an observer would have noticed lean hands, with big-knuckled fingers, a rather firm mout

r him. Here the leaves were flicking and rustling over his head, and the shadows made a curious patchwork on the green lawns. He became quite calm and reflective. And then he s

ght him great tales of France. It might be nice to go to France and live in some country inn until he died. But he

of Destiny. But Dan

ody of a domestic hen. Just what is the value of such a proceeding is rather hard to explain, as quail have neither the instincts nor the training to enjoy life in a barnyard. Yet occasionally it is done, and the little quail

of the wild creatures. There are certain breeds of men, used to the far-lying hills, who, if inclosed in cities, run up and down them until they die. T

would sit on the grass not a dozen feet away to gather such as were thrown to him. But all the time he kept one sharp eye open for any sudden or dangerous motions. And every instinct warned him against coming nearer than a dozen feet. After several generations, probably the squirrels of this park would c

l about the doctor's words and his own prospects in his bitter regrets that he had not brought a pocketfu

hat was his only purpose,-just to see how close the squirrel would come to him. He thought he would like to look into the bright eyes at close range. All he di

s. They know, in the first place, that intimacy with them is solely a matter of sitting still and making no sudden motions. It is motion, not shape, that frightens them. If a hunter is among a herd of deer and wishes to pick the

mportant. It is considerably easier to exercise with dumb-bells for five minutes than to sit absolutely without motion for the same length of time. Hunters and naturalists acquire the art with training. It was therefore rather curious that Dan succeeded so well t

g time with his left eye. Then he turned his head and looked very carefully with his right. Then he bac

d powerful living creatures in the world-had been sitting on the park bench. Now his poor litt

e hiding. But the squirrel had learned to judge all life by its motion alone,

child's hand were blasted. But he turned to look once more. The figure still sat utterly in

ing his head as he moved. He was more puzzled than ever, but he was no longer afraid. His curios

the light in his eyes. But the squirrel didn't see it. It takes

stopping to stare with one eye and another, just devoured from

. It was true that he was faintly worried by the smell that reached his nostrils. But all it really did was further to incite his cur

o Dan's. It had been the most astounding incident in the man's life. He sat still, tingling wit

and outdoor naturalists who never wrote books. Was it possible that they had bequeathed to him an understanding and love of the wild that most men did not have? But be

in Dan's garret there used to be old mementoes and curios from these savage days,-a few claws and teeth, and a fragment of an old diary. The call had come to hi