The Call of the Wild & White Fang

By Jack London

White Fang is a companion novel (and a thematic mirror) to London's best-known work, The Call of the Wild, which concerns a kidnapped, domesticated dog turning into a wild animal.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Start Publishing LLC
• Release date: Feb 20, 2013
• ISBN: 9781625582959

Jack London

Jack London (1876-1916) was an American novelist and journalist. Born in San Francisco to Florence Wellman, a spiritualist, and William Chaney, an astrologer, London was raised by his mother and her husband, John London, in Oakland. An intelligent boy, Jack went on to study at the University of California, Berkeley before leaving school to join the Klondike Gold Rush. His experiences in the Klondike—hard labor, life in a hostile environment, and bouts of scurvy—both shaped his sociopolitical outlook and served as powerful material for such works as “To Build a Fire” (1902), The Call of the Wild (1903), and White Fang (1906). When he returned to Oakland, London embarked on a career as a professional writer, finding success with novels and short fiction. In 1904, London worked as a war correspondent covering the Russo-Japanese War and was arrested several times by Japanese authorities. Upon returning to California, he joined the famous Bohemian Club, befriending such members as Ambrose Bierce and John Muir. London married Charmian Kittredge in 1905, the same year he purchased the thousand-acre Beauty Ranch in Sonoma County, California. London, who suffered from numerous illnesses throughout his life, died on his ranch at the age of 40. A lifelong advocate for socialism and animal rights, London is recognized as a pioneer of science fiction and an important figure in twentieth century American literature.

Book preview

The Call of the Wild

Chapter I. Into the Primitive

"Old longings nomadic leap,

Chafing at custom’s chain;

Again from its brumal sleep

Wakens the ferine strain."

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. Because men, groping in the Arctic darkness, had found a yellow metal, and because steamship and transportation companies were booming the find, thousands of men were rushing into the Northland. These men wanted dogs, and the dogs they wanted were heavy dogs, with strong muscles by which to toil, and furry coats to protect them from the frost.

Buck lived at a big house in the sun-kissed Santa Clara Valley. Judge Miller’s place, it was called. It stood back from the road, half hidden among the trees, through which glimpses could be caught of the wide cool veranda that ran around its four sides. The house was approached by gravelled driveways which wound about through wide-spreading lawns and under the interlacing boughs of tall poplars. At the rear things were on even a more spacious scale than at the front. There were great stables, where a dozen grooms and boys held forth, rows of vine-clad servants’ cottages, an endless and orderly array of outhouses, long grape arbors, green pastures, orchards, and berry patches. Then there was the pumping plant for the artesian well, and the big cement tank where Judge Miller’s boys took their morning plunge and kept cool in the hot afternoon.

And over this great demesne Buck ruled. Here he was born, and here he had lived the four years of his life. It was true, there were other dogs, There could not but be other dogs on so vast a place, but they did not count. They came and went, resided in the populous kennels, or lived obscurely in the recesses of the house after the fashion of Toots, the Japanese pug, or Ysabel, the Mexican hairless,—strange creatures that rarely put nose out of doors or set foot to ground. On the other hand, there were the fox terriers, a score of them at least, who yelped fearful promises at Toots and Ysabel looking out of the windows at them and protected by a legion of housemaids armed with brooms and mops.

But Buck was neither house-dog nor kennel-dog. The whole realm was his. He plunged into the swimming tank or went hunting with the Judge’s sons; he escorted Mollie and Alice, the Judge’s daughters, on long twilight or early morning rambles; on wintry nights he lay at the Judge’s feet before the roaring library fire; he carried the Judge’s grandsons on his back, or rolled them in the grass, and guarded their footsteps through wild adventures down to the fountain in the stable yard, and even beyond, where the paddocks were, and the berry patches. Among the terriers he stalked imperiously, and Toots and Ysabel he utterly ignored, for he was king,—king over all creeping, crawling, flying things of Judge Miller’s place, humans included.

His father, Elmo, a huge St. Bernard, had been the Judge’s inseparable companion, and Buck bid fair to follow in the way of his father. He was not so large,—he weighed only one hundred and forty pounds,—for his mother, Shep, had been a Scotch shepherd dog. Nevertheless, one hundred and forty pounds, to which was added the dignity that comes of good living and universal respect, enabled him to carry himself in right royal fashion. During the four years since his puppyhood he had lived the life of a sated aristocrat; he had a fine pride in himself, was even a trifle egotistical, as country gentlemen sometimes become because of their insular situation. But he had saved himself by not becoming a mere pampered house-dog. Hunting and kindred outdoor delights had kept down the fat and hardened his muscles; and to him, as to the cold-tubbing races, the love of water had been a tonic and a health preserver.

And this was the manner of dog Buck was in the fall of 1897, when the Klondike strike dragged men from all the world into the frozen North. But Buck did not read the newspapers, and he did not know that Manuel, one of the gardener’s helpers, was an undesirable acquaintance. Manuel had one besetting sin. He loved to play Chinese lottery. Also, in his gambling, he had one besetting weakness—faith in a system; and this made his damnation certain. For to play a system requires money, while the wages of a gardener’s helper do not lap over the needs of a wife and numerous progeny.

The Judge was at a meeting of the Raisin Growers’ Association, and the boys were busy organizing an athletic club, on the memorable night of Manuel’s treachery. No one saw him and Buck go off through the orchard on what Buck imagined was merely a stroll. And with the exception of a solitary man, no one saw them arrive at the little flag station known as College Park. This man talked with Manuel, and money chinked between them.

You might wrap up the goods before you deliver ‘m, the stranger said gruffly, and Manuel doubled a piece of stout rope around Buck’s neck under the collar.

Twist it, an’ you’ll choke ‘m plentee, said Manuel, and the stranger grunted a ready affirmative.

Buck had accepted the rope with quiet dignity. To be sure, it was an unwonted performance: but he had learned to trust in men he knew, and to give them credit for a wisdom that outreached his own. But when the ends of the rope were placed in the stranger’s hands, he growled menacingly. He had merely intimated his displeasure, in his pride believing that to intimate was to command. But to his surprise the rope tightened around his neck, shutting off his breath. In quick rage he sprang at the man, who met him halfway, grappled him close by the throat, and with a deft twist threw him over on his back. Then the rope tightened mercilessly, while Buck struggled in a fury, his tongue lolling out of his mouth and his great chest panting futilely. Never in all his life had he been so vilely treated, and never in all his life had he been so angry. But his strength ebbed, his eyes glazed, and he knew nothing when the train was flagged and the two men threw him into the baggage car.

The next he knew, he was dimly aware that his tongue was hurting and that he was being jolted along in some kind of a conveyance. The hoarse shriek of a locomotive whistling a crossing told him where he was. He had travelled too often with the Judge not to know the sensation of riding in a baggage car. He opened his eyes, and into them came the unbridled anger of a kidnapped king. The man sprang for his throat, but Buck was too quick for him. His jaws closed on the hand, nor did they relax till his senses were choked out of him once more.

Yep, has fits, the man said, hiding his mangled hand from the baggageman, who had been attracted by the sounds of struggle. I’m takin’ ‘m up for the boss to ‘Frisco. A crack dog-doctor there thinks that he can cure ‘m.

Concerning that night’s ride, the man spoke most eloquently for himself, in a little shed back of a saloon on the San Francisco water front.

All I get is fifty for it, he grumbled; an’ I wouldn’t do it over for a thousand, cold cash.

His hand was wrapped in a bloody handkerchief, and the right trouser leg was ripped from knee to ankle.

How much did the other mug get? the saloon-keeper demanded.

A hundred, was the reply. Wouldn’t take a sou less, so help me.

That makes a hundred and fifty, the saloon-keeper calculated; and he’s worth it, or I’m a squarehead.

The kidnapper undid the bloody wrappings and looked at his lacerated hand. If I don’t get the hydrophoby—

It’ll be because you was born to hang, laughed the saloon-keeper. Here, lend me a hand before you pull your freight, he added.

Dazed, suffering intolerable pain from throat and tongue, with the life half throttled out of him, Buck attempted to face his tormentors. But he was thrown down and choked repeatedly, till they succeeded in filing the heavy brass collar from off his neck. Then the rope was removed, and he was flung into a cagelike crate.

There he lay for the remainder of the weary night, nursing his wrath and wounded pride. He could not understand what it all meant. What did they want with him, these strange men? Why were they keeping him pent up in this narrow crate? He did not know why, but he felt oppressed by the vague sense of impending calamity. Several times during the night he sprang to his feet when the shed door rattled open, expecting to see the Judge, or the boys at least. But each time it was the bulging face of the saloon-keeper that peered in at him by the sickly light of a tallow candle. And each time the joyful bark that trembled in Buck’s throat was twisted into a savage growl.

But the saloon-keeper let him alone, and in the morning four men entered and picked up the crate. More tormentors, Buck decided, for they were evil-looking creatures, ragged and unkempt; and he stormed and raged at them through the bars. They only laughed and poked sticks at him, which he promptly assailed with his teeth till he realized that that was what they wanted. Whereupon he lay down sullenly and allowed the crate to be lifted into a wagon. Then he, and the crate in which he was imprisoned, began a passage through many hands. Clerks in the express office took charge of him; he was carted about in another wagon; a truck carried him, with an assortment of boxes and parcels, upon a ferry steamer; he was trucked off the steamer into a great railway depot, and finally he was deposited in an express car.

For two days and nights this express car was dragged along at the tail of shrieking locomotives; and for two days and nights Buck neither ate nor drank. In his anger he had met the first advances of the express messengers with growls, and they had retaliated by teasing him. When he flung himself against the bars, quivering and frothing, they laughed at him and taunted him. They growled and barked like detestable dogs, mewed, and flapped their arms and crowed. It was all very silly, he knew; but therefore the more outrage to his dignity, and his anger waxed and waxed. He did not mind the hunger so much, but the lack of water caused him severe suffering and fanned his wrath to fever-pitch. For that matter, high-strung and finely sensitive, the ill treatment had flung him into a fever, which was fed by the inflammation of his parched and swollen throat and tongue.

He was glad for one thing: the rope was off his neck. That had given them an unfair advantage; but now that it was off, he would show them. They would never get another rope around his neck. Upon that he was resolved. For two days and nights he neither ate nor drank, and during those two days and nights of torment, he accumulated a fund of wrath that boded ill for whoever first fell foul of him. His eyes turned blood-shot, and he was metamorphosed into a raging fiend. So changed was he that the Judge himself would not have recognized him; and the express messengers breathed with relief when they bundled him off the train at Seattle.

Four men gingerly carried the crate from the wagon into a small, high-walled back yard. A stout man, with a red sweater that sagged generously at the neck, came out and signed the book for the driver. That was the man, Buck divined, the next tormentor, and he hurled himself savagely against the bars. The man smiled grimly, and brought a hatchet and a club.

You ain’t going to take him out now? the driver asked.

Sure, the man replied, driving the hatchet into the crate for a pry.

There was an instantaneous scattering of the four men who had carried it in, and from safe perches on top the wall they prepared to watch the performance.

Buck rushed at the splintering wood, sinking his teeth into it, surging and wrestling with it. Wherever the hatchet fell on the outside, he was there on the inside, snarling and growling, as furiously anxious to get out as the man in the red sweater was calmly intent on getting him out.

Now, you red-eyed devil, he said, when he had made an opening sufficient for the passage of Buck’s body. At the same time he dropped the hatchet and shifted the club to his right hand.

And Buck was truly a red-eyed devil, as he drew himself together for the spring, hair bristling, mouth foaming, a mad glitter in his blood-shot eyes. Straight at the man he launched his one hundred and forty pounds of fury, surcharged with the pent passion of two days and nights. In mid air, just as his jaws were about to close on the man, he received a shock that checked his body and brought his teeth together with an agonizing clip. He whirled over, fetching the ground on his back and side. He had never been struck by a club in his life, and did not understand. With a snarl that was part bark and more scream he was again on his feet and launched into the air. And again the shock came and he was brought crushingly to the ground. This time he was aware that it was the club, but his madness knew no caution. A dozen times he charged, and as often the club broke the charge and smashed him down.

After a particularly fierce blow, he crawled to his feet, too dazed to rush. He staggered limply about, the blood flowing from nose and mouth and ears, his beautiful coat sprayed and flecked with bloody slaver. Then the man advanced and deliberately dealt him a frightful blow on the nose. All the pain he had endured was as nothing compared with the exquisite agony of this. With a roar that was almost lionlike in its ferocity, he again hurled himself at the man. But the man, shifting the club from right to left, coolly caught him by the under jaw, at the same time wrenching downward and backward. Buck described a complete circle in the air, and half of another, then crashed to the ground on his head and chest.

For the last time he rushed. The man struck the shrewd blow he had purposely withheld for so long, and Buck crumpled up and went down, knocked utterly senseless.

He’s no slouch at dog-breakin’, that’s wot I say, one of the men on the wall cried enthusiastically.

Druther break cayuses any day, and twice on Sundays, was the reply of the driver, as he climbed on the wagon and started the horses.

Buck’s senses came back to him, but not his strength. He lay where he had fallen, and from there he watched the man in the red sweater.

’Answers to the name of Buck,’ the man soliloquized, quoting from the saloon-keeper’s letter which had announced the consignment of the crate and contents. Well, Buck, my boy, he went on in a genial voice, we’ve had our little ruction, and the best thing we can do is to let it go at that. You’ve learned your place, and I know mine. Be a good dog and all ‘ll go well and the goose hang high. Be a bad dog, and I’ll whale the stuffin’ outa you. Understand?

As he spoke he fearlessly patted the head he had so mercilessly pounded, and though Buck’s hair involuntarily bristled at touch of the hand, he endured it without protest. When the man brought him water he drank eagerly, and later bolted a generous meal of raw meat, chunk by chunk, from the man’s hand.

He was beaten (he knew that); but he was not broken. He saw, once for all, that he stood no chance against a man with a club. He had learned the lesson, and in all his after life he never forgot it. That club was a revelation. It was his introduction to the reign of primitive law, and he met the introduction halfway. The facts of life took on a fiercer aspect; and while he faced that aspect uncowed, he faced it with all the latent cunning of his nature aroused. As the days went by, other dogs came, in crates and at the ends of ropes, some docilely, and some raging and roaring as he had come; and, one and all, he watched them pass under the dominion of the man in the red sweater. Again and again, as he looked at each brutal performance, the lesson was driven home to Buck: a man with a club was a lawgiver, a master to be obeyed, though not necessarily conciliated. Of this last Buck was never guilty, though he did see beaten dogs that fawned upon the man, and wagged their tails, and licked his hand. Also he saw one dog, that would neither conciliate nor obey, finally killed in the struggle for mastery.

Now and again men came, strangers, who talked excitedly, wheedlingly, and in all kinds of fashions to the man in the red sweater. And at such times that money passed between them the strangers took one or more of the dogs away with them. Buck wondered where they went, for they never came back; but the fear of the future was strong upon him, and he was glad each time when he was not selected.

Yet his time came, in the end, in the form of a little weazened man who spat broken English and many strange and uncouth exclamations which Buck could not understand.

Sacredam! he cried, when his eyes lit upon Buck. Dat one dam bully dog! Eh? How moch?

Three hundred, and a present at that, was the prompt reply of the man in the red sweater. And seem’ it’s government money, you ain’t got no kick coming, eh, Perrault?

Perrault grinned. Considering that the price of dogs had been boomed skyward by the unwonted demand, it was not an unfair sum for so fine an animal. The Canadian Government would be no loser, nor would its despatches travel the slower. Perrault knew dogs, and when he looked at Buck he knew that he was one in a thousand—One in ten t’ousand, he commented mentally.

Buck saw money pass between them, and was not surprised when Curly, a good-natured Newfoundland, and he were led away by the little weazened man. That was the last he saw of the man in the red sweater, and as Curly and he looked at receding Seattle from the deck of the Narwhal, it was the last he saw of the warm Southland. Curly and he were taken below by Perrault and turned over to a black-faced giant called Francois. Perrault was a French-Canadian, and swarthy; but Francois was a French-Canadian half-breed, and twice as swarthy. They were a new kind of men to Buck (of which he was destined to see many more), and while he developed no affection for them, he none the less grew honestly to respect them. He speedily learned that Perrault and Francois were fair men, calm and impartial in administering justice, and too wise in the way of dogs to be fooled by dogs.

In the ‘tween-decks of the Narwhal, Buck and Curly joined two other dogs. One of them was a big, snow-white fellow from Spitzbergen who had been brought away by a whaling captain, and who had later accompanied a Geological Survey into the Barrens. He was friendly, in a treacherous sort of way, smiling into one’s face the while he meditated some underhand trick, as, for instance, when he stole from Buck’s food at the first meal. As Buck sprang to punish him, the lash of Francois’s whip sang through the air, reaching the culprit first; and nothing remained to Buck but to recover the bone. That was fair of Francois, he decided, and the half-breed began his rise in Buck’s estimation.

The other dog made no advances, nor received any; also, he did not attempt to steal from the newcomers. He was a gloomy, morose fellow, and he showed Curly plainly that all he desired was to be left alone, and further, that there would be trouble if he were not left alone. Dave he was called, and he ate and slept, or yawned between times, and took interest in nothing, not even when the Narwhal crossed Queen Charlotte Sound and rolled and pitched and bucked like a thing possessed. When Buck and Curly grew excited, half wild with fear, he raised his head as though annoyed, favored them with an incurious glance, yawned, and went to sleep again.

Day and night the ship throbbed to the tireless pulse of the propeller, and though one day was very like another, it was apparent to Buck that the weather was steadily growing colder. At last, one morning, the propeller was quiet, and the Narwhal was pervaded with an atmosphere of excitement. He felt it, as did the other dogs, and knew that a change was at hand. Francois leashed them and brought them on deck. At the first step upon the cold surface, Buck’s feet sank into a white mushy something very like mud. He sprang back with a snort. More of this white stuff was falling through the air. He shook himself, but more of it fell upon him. He sniffed it curiously, then licked some up on his tongue. It bit like fire, and the next instant was gone. This puzzled him. He tried it again, with the same result. The onlookers laughed uproariously, and he felt ashamed, he knew not why, for it was his first snow.

Chapter II. The Law of Club and Fang

Buck’s first day on the Dyea beach was like a nightmare. Every hour was filled with shock and surprise. He had been suddenly jerked from the heart of civilization and flung into the heart of things primordial. No lazy, sun-kissed life was this, with nothing to do but loaf and be bored. Here was neither peace, nor rest, nor a moment’s safety. All was confusion and action, and every moment life and limb were in peril. There was imperative need to be constantly alert; for these dogs and men were not town dogs and men. They were savages, all of them, who knew no law but the law of club and fang.

He had never seen dogs fight as these wolfish creatures fought, and his first experience taught him an unforgetable lesson. It is true, it was a vicarious experience, else he would not have lived to profit by it. Curly was the victim. They were camped near the log store, where she, in her friendly way, made advances to a husky dog the size of a full-grown wolf, though not half so large as she. There was no warning, only a leap in like a flash, a metallic clip of teeth, a leap out equally swift, and Curly’s face was ripped open from eye to jaw.

It was the wolf manner of fighting, to strike and leap away; but there was more to it than this. Thirty or forty huskies ran to the spot and surrounded the combatants in an intent and silent circle. Buck did not comprehend that silent intentness, nor the eager way with which they were licking their chops. Curly rushed her antagonist, who struck again and leaped aside. He met her next rush with his chest, in a peculiar fashion that tumbled her off her feet. She never regained them, This was what the onlooking huskies had waited for. They closed in upon her, snarling and yelping, and she was buried, screaming with agony, beneath the bristling mass of bodies.

So sudden was it, and so unexpected, that Buck was taken aback. He saw Spitz run out his scarlet tongue in a way he had of laughing; and he saw Francois, swinging an axe, spring into the mess of dogs. Three men with clubs were helping him to scatter them. It did not take long. Two minutes from the time Curly went down, the last of her assailants were clubbed off. But she lay there limp and lifeless in the bloody, trampled snow, almost literally torn to pieces, the swart half-breed standing over her and cursing horribly. The scene often came back to Buck to trouble him in his sleep. So that was the way. No fair play. Once down, that was the end of you. Well, he would see to it that he never went down. Spitz ran out his tongue and laughed again, and from that moment Buck hated him with a bitter and deathless hatred.

Before he had recovered from the shock caused by the tragic passing of Curly, he received another shock. Francois fastened upon him an arrangement of straps and buckles. It was a harness, such as he had seen the grooms put on the horses at home. And as he had seen horses work, so he was set to work, hauling Francois on a sled to the forest that fringed the valley, and returning with a load of firewood. Though his dignity was sorely hurt by thus being made a draught animal, he was too wise to rebel. He buckled down with a will and did his best, though it was all new and strange. Francois was stern, demanding instant obedience, and by virtue of his whip receiving instant obedience; while Dave, who was an experienced wheeler, nipped Buck’s hind quarters whenever he was in error. Spitz was the leader, likewise experienced, and while he could not always get at Buck, he growled sharp reproof now and again, or cunningly threw his weight in the traces to jerk Buck into the way he should go. Buck learned easily, and under the combined tuition of his two mates and Francois made remarkable progress. Ere they returned to camp he knew enough to stop at ho, to go ahead at mush, to swing wide on the bends, and to keep clear of the wheeler when the loaded sled shot downhill at their heels.

T’ree vair’ good dogs, Francois told Perrault. Dat Buck, heem pool lak hell. I tich heem queek as anyt’ing.

By afternoon, Perrault, who was in a hurry to be on the trail with his despatches, returned with two more dogs. Billee and Joe he called them, two brothers, and true huskies both. Sons of the one mother though they were, they were as different as day and night. Billee’s one fault was his excessive good nature, while Joe was the very opposite, sour and introspective, with a perpetual snarl and a malignant eye. Buck received them in comradely fashion, Dave ignored them, while Spitz proceeded to thrash first one and then the other. Billee wagged his tail appeasingly, turned to run when he saw that appeasement was of no avail, and cried (still appeasingly) when Spitz’s sharp teeth scored his flank. But no matter how Spitz circled, Joe whirled around on his heels to face him, mane bristling, ears laid back, lips writhing and snarling, jaws clipping together as fast as he could snap, and eyes diabolically gleaming—the incarnation of belligerent fear. So terrible was his appearance that Spitz was forced to forego disciplining him; but to cover his own discomfiture he turned upon the inoffensive and wailing Billee and drove him to the confines of the camp.

By evening Perrault secured another dog, an old husky, long and lean and gaunt, with a battle-scarred face and a single eye which flashed a warning of prowess that commanded respect. He was called Sol-leks, which means the Angry One. Like Dave, he asked nothing, gave nothing, expected nothing; and when he marched slowly and deliberately into their midst, even Spitz left him alone. He had one peculiarity which Buck was unlucky enough to discover. He did not like to be approached on his blind side. Of this offence Buck was unwittingly guilty, and the first knowledge he had of his indiscretion was when Sol-leks whirled upon him and slashed his shoulder to the bone for three inches up and down. Forever after Buck avoided his blind side, and to the last of their comradeship had no more trouble. His only apparent ambition, like Dave’s, was to be left alone; though, as Buck was afterward to learn, each of them possessed one other and even more vital ambition.

That night Buck faced the great problem of sleeping. The tent, illumined by a candle, glowed warmly in the midst of the white plain; and when he, as a matter of course, entered it, both Perrault and Francois bombarded him with curses and cooking utensils, till he recovered from his consternation and fled ignominiously into the outer cold. A chill wind was blowing that nipped him sharply and bit with especial venom into his wounded shoulder. He lay down on the snow and attempted to sleep, but the frost soon drove him shivering to his feet. Miserable and disconsolate, he wandered about among the many tents, only to find that one place was as cold as another. Here and there savage dogs rushed upon him, but he bristled his neck-hair and snarled (for he was learning fast), and they let him go his way unmolested.

Finally an idea came to him. He would return and see how his own team-mates were making out. To his astonishment, they had disappeared. Again he wandered about through the great camp, looking for them, and again he returned. Were they in the tent? No, that could not be, else he would not have been driven out. Then where could they possibly be? With drooping tail and shivering body, very forlorn indeed, he aimlessly circled the tent. Suddenly the snow gave way beneath his fore legs and he sank down. Something wriggled under his feet. He sprang back, bristling and snarling, fearful of the unseen and unknown. But a friendly little yelp reassured him, and he went back to investigate. A whiff of warm air ascended to his nostrils, and there, curled up under the snow in a snug ball, lay Billee. He whined placatingly, squirmed and wriggled to show his good will and intentions, and even ventured, as a bribe for peace, to lick Buck’s face with his warm wet tongue.

Another lesson. So that was the way they did it, eh? Buck confidently selected a spot, and with

Reviews for The Call of the Wild & White Fang

[dominiquemarie-1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

This is a beautiful cloth-bound copy of The Call of the Wild and White Fang. I received a copy of this book from Goodreads Giveaways. I love it! It is even nicer than it looks online, and the paper even feels nice and "fancy". These are two of favorite stories, and I love that they are included in one volume.

[madepercy-1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Brilliant. No wonder these are regarded as classics. As the synopsis suggests, reading the two novella together is a good idea. These reminded me of Black Beauty in style, yet London captures the harshness of the Northland and its people with the ever-present "Wild" that sets these two works apart.

[sarahliz2182 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Took forever for me to have time to finish all of this but we loved it. The descriptiveness and clarity used had an entrancing effect on me as stories of my childhood. I loved it. My daughter (10) also kept asking for more every night.

[justmum · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Excellently written. I skipped the dog-fighting part - not too keen on that-but nevertheless a great read.

[imperfectcj · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

If I'd known ahead of time how many throats would be ripped out in the course of these stories, I might not have picked these as lunchtime audiobooks.In both The Call of the Wild and White Fang, I found Jack London's manner of seeing the world through a dog's or wolf's eyes intriguing. Often, it wasn't like he was seeing things as a human mind inside of a dog but rather seeing directly through the dog's eyes. Of course, there's no way to know if his interpretation is accurate. The canine perspective, particularly White Fang's, certainly seems colored by the author's race biases, a distinction that I doubt that a wolf or dog would make. But London's exploration wolf and dog behavior, of the factors that lead to loyalty within a dog, and his descriptions of dog sledding and of different dog fighting techniques are interesting enough that my eleven-year-old was willing to look past some inconsistencies with wolf behavior she spotted ("Mom, wolves don't really form packs that large unless they're banding together temporarily to bring down large prey. But then it wouldn't be considered a pack...").

[shanaqui_1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

For some reason, though I had it when I was little, I never read White Fang. I think I was afraid of anthropomorphism. I figured it was going to be kind of cutesy, not really worth my time. Much as I liked Narnia and the like, in fiction based in the real world, I wanted more realism. I obviously never even started reading it. I think the book does a good job of portraying the wolf as a completely different creature from the human -- as well as a human can do without becoming a wolf for a while himself. The slow taming of White Fang seemed more or less realistic to me, and my heart was in my mouth in the last couple of pages. The book does make you care about the characters, particularly White Fang and his final master.

I was especially intrigued by the idea of wolves/dogs seeing humans as their gods. White Fang's view of his gods reminded me of the ancient Greek pantheon -- all those jealous and fighting gods, some more powerful than others...

I'm glad I finally did read this book.

[marsap_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

A classic by Jack London, White Fang could be considered the companion to London’s Call of the Wild, except in reserve. Whereas Buck from Call of the Wild finds his wild nature—White Fang finds his human love and is able to integrate into domestic life. White Fang is born in the wild to a wolf father and a half wolf mother. When he is made captive by humans, he is outcast from the other dogs because of his wildness. He learns to fight for his life. Finally, he has an opportunity to experience a new life away from the violence and savagery—but will he learn to embrace it is the question. I loved this book despite the violence and the brutality of the life led by White Fang—and the cruelty of the humans he encounters. A 4 out of 5 stars.

[karenleefield · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I first read this book when I was a young teenager. I remember crying then. I didn’t cry this time round but the actions in this book did strike a chord with me. I really do detest cruelty to animals; the cruelty in this book is paramount.White Fang is a product of his past. He has been taught to hate. He has been taught to survive at any measure. He is vicious. He is a killer! Yet he’s these things because he has to be. His other choice is to be the weak link and die.It’s a powerful story. Well told. No holding back; aimed straight for the jugular. The biggest lesson learned by reading White Fang is that you can beat an animal (and I believe this relates to people too) into doing what you want but loving them produces a much better (long-lasting) result. A beaten animal will do as you want, but will rip your throat out if given the opportunity. A loved animal will be faithful, loyal and forever.There’s little more to be said about this book except that it’s worth reading. I highly recommend it.

[evan719 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Book ReviewBy: Evan MercadoThis is a classic story about survival (in my eyes). This starts off interesting with a pack of 6 wolfs, and ends up with, well, you have to read the book for that :). It ends up in a good home after attacking it's owner's family. No one knows for sure, but the other wolfs might still be alive. Only 1 dies that I know of) the rest (except for 1 who goes solo) and they travel in a pack of 4. That until they came across this tribe of Indians (I called them Indians because in the book they were called Indians, if that offends anyone).Thats when one wolf turns on the rest of it’s pack, and leaves. It found a home, owner , until a Dog Musher wants this dog. But the owner (Scott) keeps the dog and moves to Sierra Vista, with his family.

[davidgnp · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Though I responded with boyish enthusiasm to 'The Call of the Wild' many years ago and it re-echoes in memory, I had not read 'White Fang' or any of London's other books until now. I don't think 'White Fang' quite compares with its companion novel stylistically - the later chapters in particular are too obviously allegorical and predictable - but it is equally rugged, energetic and thrilling. London excels at seeing the world through the dog wolf's eyes, and he also manages the difficult and necessary task of shifting the narrative viewpoint occasionally to move the story along at critical points. He is least successful with his human portrayals, especially the dialogue which reads as if it has been written on cardboard with too thick a pen, but he is entirely at home in the Yukon where it stands on the cusp between traditional existence and 'civilisation' in the trail of the gold rush. His evocation of the animal and human struggles in these harsh surroundings - with very survival constantly under threat - is supremely vivid and vital, inked as it were in blood.

[kenzie12368 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

White Fang is a very good book which I recommend to 4th grade and higher readers. I think anybody would love to read this action-packed book!!!!!!!!

[theseus75 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Having only a cursory knowledge of London's work, I decided to choose White Fang first when considering which public domain works to record as audio books. I've only "read" it once, but have listened to it probably a half-dozen more times in the editing process. It's very well written, accessible, and very involved. At no time did I feel as if London was writing without a clear purpose and passion. Excellent read and rather timeless. As a side note, there are some very decent young adult versions with illustrations and even one with a sidebar defining more complex words. Very useful for young readers.

[corinneblackmer · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Jack London imports Social Darwinist credo, used more clumsily and less divertingly by authors such as Frank Norris, into letters with fervor, conviction, and skill. We encounter White Fang, a part domestic dog and mostly wolf dog that lives with a pack in the wilderness and whose mother had once been domesticated by the Native Americans. As in the case of its companion volume, "Call of the Wild," (where the dog Buck moves from domesticity to the wild, as opposed to vice versa), White Fang has abusive owners who want White Fang to fight for money, but White Fang is rescued by a man who is called, under the regime of London's casually assumed racism, one of the "white human gods." A great tale, and a book that serves as an excellent introduction to literature for young adolescents, bit can be relished at all ages.

[fuzzi_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I bought this book at a book fair at school when I was nine. I cannot tell how many times I have read it. As a child, I mainly read it for the 'wolf' story, but as an adult, I have appreciated the deeper aspects of the writing. London was big on analyzing why people do what they do, not always correct imo. It's still a good read, forget the movie(s).

[eilantha_le_fay · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

This is an amazing book, highly addictive. I just couldn’t put it down. Jack London writes with detail and emotion!The story’s about a wolf named White Fang and its life through the hands of many masters. This is one of those books that transports you to another place and time while you’re reading it - a real time machine. And since it’s always told from the wolf’s point of view, sometimes it made me remember the National Geographic TV documentaries I watched in awe when I was a child.It also focuses on the man-animal relationship, and how the environment and society shape spirits and behaviours.After reading it I learned that this book is a companion novel for Jack London’s most famous novel, “Call of the Wild”, in which a dog becomes wild again, in contrast to White Fang, a wolf that becomes domesticated.

[missboyer3 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

This is the story of White Fang - 3/4 wolf and 1/4 dog. It tells of White Fangs parentage, his birth, his early days in the wild, his meeting with men and learning to live with them, of his meeting with white men and learning to live with them. Along the way, he learns some terribly hard lessons, and also learns some great joys as well.

[faitharo5_1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I loved this book. It chronicles the life of a wolf(half dog) through the harse wilderness, brutal treatment at the hand of man, and then ultimately friendship and love. The book is written from the aspect of the wolf. Truly a great book. Highly recommend for dog lovers!

[lizzybeth23 · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

Not as good as Call of the Wild, but still one of Jack London's best books.

[pummelson · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

White Fang is the story of a wolf, the likes of which has never been heard of before. It takes place in Yukon Territory, Canada, and follows the life of White Fang, a crossbreed of wolf and dog, through the many twists and turns that make a story memorable. White Fang begins his life in a small cave, with very little more than a mother and an instinct: Survive. Following a chance encounter with Grey Beaver, an Indian that was once his mother’s master, his life begins to change drastically. Once a young wolf struggling to learn the ways of the wild, then a furious devil in awe of the power of man, White Fang struggles with conflicts. When he is bought by Beauty Smith, a coward with a brutal nature, and made to fight in an arena against other animals, his rage only worsens. Then he is rescued from certain death by Weedon Scott, the son of an influential Judge, and his life begins to take a turn for the better. But can White Fang overcome his killer instinct and lead a different life? One of Love, instead of hate?White Fang is one of the best books I have read for a long time. Once I picked it up, it was truly impossible to put it down again. Every page I turned only made me more curious as to how the story would end. Like Call of the Wild, Jack London has worked his magic again. A truly memorable read.

[peleiades22 · Rating: 1 out of 5 stars]

I don't think I've ever read such an offensive, disturbing book in my life. I've never encountered a book with so much violence, nor have I ever read a book that so clearly advocated for violence on every front. I have no idea why this book is geared towards children??? I would NEVER give my child this book.On top of that, I don't think enough people pay attention to what a flagrant racist London was. For example, "Those white gods [white men] were strong. They possessed greater mastery over matter than the gods [Native Americans White Fang] had known, most powerful among which was Grey Beaver [a Native American]. And yet Grey Beaver was a child-god among these white-skinned ones" (162).Beyond this, London is unendingly pessimistic and depressing. He has a horrendously ugly worldview in which the world is "a chaos of gluttony and slaughter, ruled over by chance, merciless, planless, endless" (90). And he is incredibly disrespectful towards religion -- I'm not a particularly religious person, but even I was offended.However, after reading this book, I would have to say I am thankful for a few things. First, I am thankful I never have to read this book again or be curious about it or get snookered into reading another London text. Second, I am thankful tenfold for the fact that I will never know Jack London. I have never disliked an author more and I will never read another London book as long as I live. Half a star is too good for this book.

[oreillynsf_1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

If you have kids you are trying to interest in reading more, White Fang is a great book suggestion. Especially if they are boys yes go ahead call me sexist. The story is gripping. the language is gripping, and London paints a scene like no one else. It's a book that kids can understand, but it is not a kids book, which I bet your children or nephews or nieces or whatnot will appreciate.

[carolyn7727 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Powerfully written and heart wrenching. The story of an abused wolf-dog- beat, abandoned, and only let loose in a dog fight ring. Made vicious and wary of all, but still going strong, waiting for a kind heart.

[dvansuch · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I love this book. I have read this upwards of 20 times, and it never gets old! His description of wolves is almost magical. Very interesting perspective and easy to read.

[amyelizabeth_1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I think I tried to read this book when I was a lot younger and it just didn’t do anything for me. I got bored and ended up putting it down before I really gave it a chance. This time, however, I got hooked. In fact, I read more than half of it in one afternoon. The tale of White Fang is many things: intense, sad, funny, depressing, and happy. You’ll run the whole gamut of emotions with this story.The story is set in the late 1800s when the Wild was really wild and life was much tougher for men and animals alike. London gives us a nice back story – before we even meet White Fang we meet his mother and learn about her cunning and her past. When White Fang is born, we see through his eyes and discover the cold and dangerous Arctic along with him. We learn that man is godlike in his way to control things both dead and alive and that while man means food and shelter, he also means pain and discipline. White Fang must learn to adapt to two worlds, that of the Wild and his inner wolf, and the world of humans where he must find his inner dog. I won’t give anything away, but throughout the story you’re also torn between wanting him to live in the Wild and wanting him to find love in the human world.This is a great, short read for a summer afternoon or two. Read it when it’s too hot to do anything outside and you’ll be transported to the cold Arctic for a few hours. I understand now why this book has become a classic. The story of White Fang is unforgettable and touches the heart.5 out of 5 stars because this has quickly become one of my favorite books.

[kuiperdolin · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

A strange, strange book. But powerful.

[jwong_719695 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

This story follows the life of White Fang who is part dog and part wolf from puppyhood to maturity. The descriptive writing by the author is poetic and extensive to illustrate the interactive dynamics in White Fang's life. The reader is drawn into White Fang's impressions and thoughts as he moves through the brutality and cruelty of his fellow canines and owners until he is rescued by Wendon Scott. The emotional learning from hatred to love is complex but the author is able to evolve these emotions with great expertise. The author's use of vocabulary is effective and picturesque. A wonderful read.!

[fwendy_3 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Avoided reading this for many years despite it being recommended by many. Guess the name suggested gory violence, and there is very little of that. The tale of this dog/wolf mix from puppy to adult is a loving, curious, sorrowful, and joyful adventure. The human/dog relationships depicted are realistic. A captivating read.

[kimmclean · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

White Fang is the story of wolf/dog who descend from Kiche, a wolf/dog who runs the wild in ??anartica? The story begins with two man traveling across the dark frozen tundra with 8 dogs a sled and a coffin. But the wolf continuously attacks all the dogs and the one man traveler. The wolf is then found by it's "owner" gray bear where White Fang grows up, learning to become a fighter to survive in the pack for food and for his life. The vocabulary and the writing style takes some time to get your mouth around. This is an intriguing and sometimes intense story, but not a fast read.

[melea_says · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I loved this book....I've read other books from the point of view of animals and they have all seemed to fall flat..but this book was so exciting and inciteful. I felt that the writer truly understood the canine mind. You absolutely fall in love with White Fang and want to stand up for him, cheer for him, or cry for him throughout the book...it's a heartwarming story.

[tonyasb · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I drive a lot for work and get bored with listening to the radio after a while. A lot of times I'll listen to audiobooks but they're so expensive that I haven't listened to one in a while. So I was happily surprised when I found White Fang and The Call of the Wild on audio for $4 apiece at Half Price Books. If you are not familiar with this store, I am very sorry. It's absolutely wonderful (but not near as wonderful as our own Recycled Books here in Denton - I really love that store).So I remember reading The Call of the Wild when I was kid and I think I saw a movie on White Fang at some point in my life but they're both very fuzzy and needless to say I had the two confused in my head. Well, maybe not confused but merged is the better word. I had somehow remembered a wild half-wolf dog that was captured and tortured to fight other dogs then rescued and taught be a sled dog who eventually went back to the wild. Yeah. Just remember it had been a long time.After listening to the two back to back, I believe that The Call of the Wild is my favorite of the two simply because I'm not fond of the narrative in White Fang. The narrator keeps referring to people as "gods" in White Fangs eyes. Also, he sees power as coming from material possessions. This is a human qualification and I have never seen animals give deference to another animal because of possessions. They base power on strength. It is possible with some animals that the leader may have access to more food and other possessions but that is because he/she is ALREADY leader. Those things do not make the leader. So, because the wolf apparently sees materials possessions as power he sees white people as being superior to all others. See where I'm going here? Very irritating.Ok, here's another problem: inconsistency. I realize these are different stories but they both concern sled dogs at some point. In The Call of the Wild, the sled dogs regard the lead sled dog with deference and treat him as leader in all other aspects of life. In White Fang, the other dogs view the lead dog as running away from them and therefore a coward to be tormented. The lead dog must sit with the people in order to be protected. WHAT??!! I don't know anything about sledding but I know about dogs and this simply doesn't make sense. The Call of the Wild was written first so maybe he discovered something that I don't know about. I tried to find some other reviews to see if there was any mention of this but all I could find were school papers and descriptions of the book. Anyone know where I can find good critiques not written by 6th graders?Ok, so I didn't completely dislike White Fang. I was irritated by those things but the storyline is very good. I was surprised when I found out it was written after The Call of the Wild because it seems a little more rough. It reads like a first book, where The Call of the Wild seems more polished. In both books I really enjoyed the interplay between the main characters and the other dogs. The dogs seemed more real than the people. This makes complete sense, since the story is told from the point of view of the dog. The other dogs would be the ones that Buck and White Fang knew the best. London accomplishes this very well. I also enjoyed the exchange between Buck and Thornton and White Fang and Scott. Being an animal lover and having dogs all my life, I know the power of the love from an animal. I was impressed by how Scott won over White Fang. His devotion to Scott reminds me of my boyfriend's dog, Skillet, who treats Jeff as if he hung the moon and my dog, Loki, who treats me the same way. Both of these dogs were rescued also. There seems to be something that happens to a dog who is rescued and loved that makes them more devoted than a dog who comes to you as a puppy, like my other dog, Aurora. She obviously loves me and I love her very much but Loki and Skillet become visibly upset just being out of our presence. I was also impressed that Buck remained with Thornton even when he wanted to be free simply because he loved this man. Many people may say this is anthropomorphizing, that animals can't love like this. I say they have never given themselves to an animal enough to feel that love.