"To Build a Fire and Other Stories" is a classic collection of some of Jack London's most loved short stories. In this volume you will find the following stories: To The Man On The Trail, The White Silence, In A Far Country, The Wisdom Of The Trail, An Odyssey Of The North, The Law Of Life, The God Of His Fathers, Bâtard, The League Of The Old Men, Love Of Life, The Wit Of Porportuk, To Build A Fire, All Gold Canyon, The Apostate, South Of The Slot, The Chinago, A Piece Of Steak, Mauki, Koolau The Leper, The Strength Of The Strong, War, The Mexican, Told In The Drooling Ward, The Water Baby, and The Red One.
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About the Author
Jack London was born in San Francisco in 1876. After he was deserted by his father, an itinerant astrologer, he was raised in Oakland by his mother. Although his youth was marked by poverty, he became an avid reader by the age of ten. Young Jack frequented the Oakland Public Library, where he was influenced by the works of Flaubert, Tolstoy, and other major novelists. After leaving school at the age of fourteen, London worked as a seaman, rode freight trains as a hobo, and joined in protest armies of the unemployed during the hard times of the 1890s. In 1894, he was arrested in Niagara Falls and jailed for vagrancy. He then made a vow to better himself. Later these hard-life adventures provided rich material for his well known works, such as The Sea-Wolf. London educated himself in public libraries, and at the age of nineteen, he was accepted to the University of California at Berkeley. However, London left the school before the year was over and went to seek a fortune in the Klondike gold rush of 1897. His attempt to find gold was unsuccessful, and he spent a harsh winter near Dawson City suffering from scurvy before returning to San Francisco.For the remainder of 1898, London tried to earn his living by writing, finding his first success with The Son of the Wolf in 1900. That same year he married Elisabeth Maddern, but left her and their two daughters three years later to marry Charmian Kittredge. After publishing his first book, he produced a steady stream of fiction novels and short stories. In 1901, London ran unsuccessfully on the Socialist Party ticket for mayor of Oakland. In 1902, he went to England, where he studied the backside of the British Empire. His report about the economic degradation of the poor in The People of the Abyss became a surprise success in the United States but was decried in England. In 1904, London traveled to Korea as a correspondent for one of William Randolph Hearst's newspapers to cover the war between Russia and Japan. The next year he published his first collection of nonfiction pieces, The War of the Classes, which included lectures on socialism.In 1907, London and his second wife attempted a sailing trip around the world aboard the Snark. They aborted the journey in Australia due to hardships. In 1910, London purchased a ranch land near Glen Ellen, California, and devoted all his energy and money to improving it. He also traveled widely and reported on the Mexican Revolution. In 1913, London's ranch house burned to the ground.Debts, alcoholism, illness, and fear of losing his creativity darkened the author's last years. Jack London died on November 22, 1916. An AudioFile Earphones Award winner and Audie Award finalist, Patrick Lawlor is also an accomplished stage actor, director, and combat choreographer. His recent audio includes the New York Times bestseller The Last True Story I'll Ever Tell (Tantor). "Lawlor is masterful." ---The Philadelphia Inquirer
--This text refers to the
Audio CD
edition.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
To the Man on Trail
“Dump it in."
"But I say, Kid, is n't that going it a little too strong? Whiskey and alcohol's bad enough: but when it comes to brandy and pepper-sauce and"–
"Dump it in. Who 's making this punch, anyway?" And Malemute Kid smiled benignantly through the clouds of steam. "By the time you've been in this country as long as I have, my son, and lived on rabbit-tracks and salmon-belly, you'll learn that Christmas comes only once per annum. And a Christmas without punch is sinking a hole to bedrock with nary a pay-streak."
"Stack up on that fer a high cyard," approved Big Jim Belden, who had come down from his claim on Mazy May to spend Christmas, and who, as every one knew, had been living the two months past on straight moose-meat. "Hain't fergot the hooch we-uns made on the Tanana, hev yeh?"
"Well, I guess yes. Boys, it would have done your hearts good to see that whole tribe fighting drunk–and all because of a glorious ferment of sugar and sour dough. That was before your time," Malemute Kid said as he turned to Stanley Prince, a young mining expert who had been in two years. "No white women in the country then, and Mason wanted to get married. Ruth's father was chief of the Tananas, and objected, like the rest of the tribe. Stiff? Why, I used my last pound of sugar; finest work in that line I ever did in my life. You should have seen the chase, down the river and across the portage."
"But the squaw?" asked Louis Savoy, the tall French-Canadian, becoming interested; for he had heard of this wild deed, when at Forty Mile the preceding winter.
Then Malemute Kid, who was a born raconteur, told the unvarnished tale of the Northland Lochinvar. More than one rough adventurer of the North felt his heartstrings draw closer, and experienced vague yearnings for the sunnier pastures of the Southland, where life promised something more than a barren struggle with cold and death.
"We struck the Yukon just behind the first ice-run," he concluded, "and the tribe only a quarter of an hour behind. But that saved us; for the second run broke the jam above and shut them out. When they finally got into Nuklukyeto, the whole Post was ready for them. And as to the foregathering, ask Father Roubeau here: he performed the ceremony."
The Jesuit took the pipe from his lips, but could only express his gratification with patriarchal smiles, while Protestant and Catholic vigorously applauded.
"By gar!" ejaculated Louis Savoy, who seemed overcome by the romance of it. "La petite squaw; mon Mason brav. By gar!"
Then, as the first tin cups of punch went round, Bettles the Unquenchable sprang to his feet and struck up his favorite drinking song:–
"There 's Henry Ward Beecher
And Sunday-school teachers,
All drink of the sassafras root;
But you bet all the same,
If it had its right name,
It 's the juice of the forbidden fruit."
"Oh the juice of the forbidden fruit,"
roared out the Bacchanalian chorus,–
"Oh the juice of the forbidden fruit:
But you bet all the same,
If it had its right name,
It's the juice of the forbidden fruit."
Malemute Kid's frightful concoction did its work; the men of the camps and trails unbent in its genial glow, and jest and song and tales of past adventure went round the board. Aliens from a dozen lands, they toasted each and all. It was the Englishman, Prince, who pledged "Uncle Sam, the precocious infant of the New World"; the Yankee, Bettles, who drank to "The Queen, God bless her"; and together, Savoy and Meyers, the German trader, clanged their cups to Alsace and Lorraine.
Then Malemute Kid arose, cup in hand, and glanced at the greased-paper window, where the frost stood full three inches thick. "A health to the man on trail this night; may his grub hold out; may his dogs keep their legs; may his matches never miss fire."
Crack! Crack!–they heard the familiar music of the dogwhip, the whining howl of the Malemutes, and the crunch of a sled as it drew up to the cabin. Conversation languished while they waited the issue.
"An old-timer; cares for his dogs and then himself," whispered Malemute Kid to Prince, as they listened to the snapping jaws and the wolfish snarls and yelps of pain which proclaimed to their practiced ears that the stranger was beating back their dogs while he fed his own.
Then came the expected knock, sharp and confident, and the stranger entered. Dazzled by the light, he hesitated a moment at the door, giving to all a chance for scrutiny. He was a striking personage, and a most picturesque one, in his Arctic dress of wool and fur. Standing six foot two or three, with proportionate breadth of shoulders and depth of chest, his smooth-shaven face nipped by the cold to a gleaming pink, his long lashes and eyebrows white with ice, and the ear and neck flaps of his great wolfskin cap loosely raised, he seemed, of a verity, the Frost King, just stepped in out of the night. Clasped outside his mackinaw jacket, a beaded belt held two large Colt's revolvers and a hunting-knife, while he carried, in addition to the inevitable dogwhip, a smokeless rifle of the largest bore and latest pattern. As he came forward, for all his step was firm and elastic, they could see that fatigue bore heavily upon him.
An awkward silence had fallen, but his hearty "What cheer, my lads?" put them quickly at ease, and the next instant Malemute Kid and he had gripped hands. Though they had never met, each had heard of the other, and the recognition was mutual. A sweeping introduction and a mug of punch were forced upon him before he could explain his errand.
"How long since that basket-sled, with three men and eight dogs, passed?" he asked.
"An even two days ahead. Are you after them?"
"Yes; my team. Run them off under my very nose, the cusses. I 've gained two days on them already,–pick them up on the next run."
"Reckon they 'll show spunk?" asked Belden, in order to keep up the conversation, for Malemute Kid already had the coffee-pot on and was busily frying bacon and moose-meat.
The stranger significantly tapped his revolvers.
"When 'd yeh leave Dawson?"
"Twelve o'clock."
"Last night?"–as a matter of course.
"To-day."
A murmur of surprise passed round the circle. And well it might; for it was just midnight, and seventy-five miles of rough river trail was not to be sneered at for a twelve hours' run.
The talk soon became impersonal, however, harking back to the trails of childhood. As the young stranger ate of the rude fare, Malemute Kid attentively studied his face. Nor was he long in deciding that it was fair, honest, and open, and that he liked it. Still youthful, the lines had been firmly traced by toil and hardship. Though genial in conversation, and mild when at rest, the blue eyes gave promise of the hard steel-glitter which comes when called into action, especially against odds. The heavy jaw and square-cut chin demonstrated rugged pertinacity and indomitability. Nor, though the attributes of the lion were there, was there wanting the certain softness, the hint of womanliness, which bespoke the emotional nature.
"So thet 's how me an' the ol' woman got spliced," said Belden, concluding the exciting tale of his courtship. " 'Here we be, dad,' sez she. 'An' may yeh be damned,' sez he to her, an' then to me, 'Jim, yeh–yeh git outen them good duds o' yourn; I want a right peart slice o' thet forty acre ploughed 'fore dinner.' An' then he turns on her an' sez, 'An' yeh, Sal; yeh sail inter them dishes.' An' then he sort o' sniffled an' kissed her. An' I was thet happy,–but he seen me an' roars out, 'Yeh, Jim!' An' yeh bet I dusted fer the barn."
"Any kids waiting for you back in the States?" asked the stranger.
"Nope; Sal died 'fore any come. Thet 's why I 'm here." Belden abstractedly began to light his pipe, which had failed to go out, and then brightened up with, "How 'bout yerself, stranger,–married man?"
For reply, he opened his watch, slipped it from the thong which served for a chain, and passed it over. Belden pricked up the slush-lamp, surveyed the inside of the case critically, and swearing admiringly to himself, handed it over to Louis Savoy. With numerous "By gars!" he finally surrendered it to Prince, and they noticed that his hands trembled and his eyes took on a peculiar softness. And so it passed from horny hand to horny hand–the pasted photograph of a woman, the clinging kind that such men fancy, with a babe at the breast. Those who had not yet seen the wonder were keen with curiosity; those who had, became silent and retrospective. They could face the pinch of famine, the grip of scurvy, or the quick death by field or flood; but the pictured semblance of a stranger woman and child made women and children of them all.
"Never have seen the youngster yet,–he 's a boy, she says, and two years old," said the stranger as he received the treasure back. A lingering moment he gazed upon it, then snapped the case and turned away, but not quick enough to hide the restrained rush of tears.
Malemute Kid led him to a bunk and bade him turn in.
"Call me at four, sharp. Don't fail me," were his last words, and a moment later he was breathing in the heaviness of exhausted sleep.
"By Jove! he 's a plucky chap," commented Prince. "Three hours' sleep after seventy-five miles with the dogs, and then the trail again. Who is he, Kid?"
"Jack Westondale. Been in going on three years, with nothing but the name of working like a horse, an... --This text refers to the Mass Market Paperback edition.
“Dump it in."
"But I say, Kid, is n't that going it a little too strong? Whiskey and alcohol's bad enough: but when it comes to brandy and pepper-sauce and"–
"Dump it in. Who 's making this punch, anyway?" And Malemute Kid smiled benignantly through the clouds of steam. "By the time you've been in this country as long as I have, my son, and lived on rabbit-tracks and salmon-belly, you'll learn that Christmas comes only once per annum. And a Christmas without punch is sinking a hole to bedrock with nary a pay-streak."
"Stack up on that fer a high cyard," approved Big Jim Belden, who had come down from his claim on Mazy May to spend Christmas, and who, as every one knew, had been living the two months past on straight moose-meat. "Hain't fergot the hooch we-uns made on the Tanana, hev yeh?"
"Well, I guess yes. Boys, it would have done your hearts good to see that whole tribe fighting drunk–and all because of a glorious ferment of sugar and sour dough. That was before your time," Malemute Kid said as he turned to Stanley Prince, a young mining expert who had been in two years. "No white women in the country then, and Mason wanted to get married. Ruth's father was chief of the Tananas, and objected, like the rest of the tribe. Stiff? Why, I used my last pound of sugar; finest work in that line I ever did in my life. You should have seen the chase, down the river and across the portage."
"But the squaw?" asked Louis Savoy, the tall French-Canadian, becoming interested; for he had heard of this wild deed, when at Forty Mile the preceding winter.
Then Malemute Kid, who was a born raconteur, told the unvarnished tale of the Northland Lochinvar. More than one rough adventurer of the North felt his heartstrings draw closer, and experienced vague yearnings for the sunnier pastures of the Southland, where life promised something more than a barren struggle with cold and death.
"We struck the Yukon just behind the first ice-run," he concluded, "and the tribe only a quarter of an hour behind. But that saved us; for the second run broke the jam above and shut them out. When they finally got into Nuklukyeto, the whole Post was ready for them. And as to the foregathering, ask Father Roubeau here: he performed the ceremony."
The Jesuit took the pipe from his lips, but could only express his gratification with patriarchal smiles, while Protestant and Catholic vigorously applauded.
"By gar!" ejaculated Louis Savoy, who seemed overcome by the romance of it. "La petite squaw; mon Mason brav. By gar!"
Then, as the first tin cups of punch went round, Bettles the Unquenchable sprang to his feet and struck up his favorite drinking song:–
"There 's Henry Ward Beecher
And Sunday-school teachers,
All drink of the sassafras root;
But you bet all the same,
If it had its right name,
It 's the juice of the forbidden fruit."
"Oh the juice of the forbidden fruit,"
roared out the Bacchanalian chorus,–
"Oh the juice of the forbidden fruit:
But you bet all the same,
If it had its right name,
It's the juice of the forbidden fruit."
Malemute Kid's frightful concoction did its work; the men of the camps and trails unbent in its genial glow, and jest and song and tales of past adventure went round the board. Aliens from a dozen lands, they toasted each and all. It was the Englishman, Prince, who pledged "Uncle Sam, the precocious infant of the New World"; the Yankee, Bettles, who drank to "The Queen, God bless her"; and together, Savoy and Meyers, the German trader, clanged their cups to Alsace and Lorraine.
Then Malemute Kid arose, cup in hand, and glanced at the greased-paper window, where the frost stood full three inches thick. "A health to the man on trail this night; may his grub hold out; may his dogs keep their legs; may his matches never miss fire."
Crack! Crack!–they heard the familiar music of the dogwhip, the whining howl of the Malemutes, and the crunch of a sled as it drew up to the cabin. Conversation languished while they waited the issue.
"An old-timer; cares for his dogs and then himself," whispered Malemute Kid to Prince, as they listened to the snapping jaws and the wolfish snarls and yelps of pain which proclaimed to their practiced ears that the stranger was beating back their dogs while he fed his own.
Then came the expected knock, sharp and confident, and the stranger entered. Dazzled by the light, he hesitated a moment at the door, giving to all a chance for scrutiny. He was a striking personage, and a most picturesque one, in his Arctic dress of wool and fur. Standing six foot two or three, with proportionate breadth of shoulders and depth of chest, his smooth-shaven face nipped by the cold to a gleaming pink, his long lashes and eyebrows white with ice, and the ear and neck flaps of his great wolfskin cap loosely raised, he seemed, of a verity, the Frost King, just stepped in out of the night. Clasped outside his mackinaw jacket, a beaded belt held two large Colt's revolvers and a hunting-knife, while he carried, in addition to the inevitable dogwhip, a smokeless rifle of the largest bore and latest pattern. As he came forward, for all his step was firm and elastic, they could see that fatigue bore heavily upon him.
An awkward silence had fallen, but his hearty "What cheer, my lads?" put them quickly at ease, and the next instant Malemute Kid and he had gripped hands. Though they had never met, each had heard of the other, and the recognition was mutual. A sweeping introduction and a mug of punch were forced upon him before he could explain his errand.
"How long since that basket-sled, with three men and eight dogs, passed?" he asked.
"An even two days ahead. Are you after them?"
"Yes; my team. Run them off under my very nose, the cusses. I 've gained two days on them already,–pick them up on the next run."
"Reckon they 'll show spunk?" asked Belden, in order to keep up the conversation, for Malemute Kid already had the coffee-pot on and was busily frying bacon and moose-meat.
The stranger significantly tapped his revolvers.
"When 'd yeh leave Dawson?"
"Twelve o'clock."
"Last night?"–as a matter of course.
"To-day."
A murmur of surprise passed round the circle. And well it might; for it was just midnight, and seventy-five miles of rough river trail was not to be sneered at for a twelve hours' run.
The talk soon became impersonal, however, harking back to the trails of childhood. As the young stranger ate of the rude fare, Malemute Kid attentively studied his face. Nor was he long in deciding that it was fair, honest, and open, and that he liked it. Still youthful, the lines had been firmly traced by toil and hardship. Though genial in conversation, and mild when at rest, the blue eyes gave promise of the hard steel-glitter which comes when called into action, especially against odds. The heavy jaw and square-cut chin demonstrated rugged pertinacity and indomitability. Nor, though the attributes of the lion were there, was there wanting the certain softness, the hint of womanliness, which bespoke the emotional nature.
"So thet 's how me an' the ol' woman got spliced," said Belden, concluding the exciting tale of his courtship. " 'Here we be, dad,' sez she. 'An' may yeh be damned,' sez he to her, an' then to me, 'Jim, yeh–yeh git outen them good duds o' yourn; I want a right peart slice o' thet forty acre ploughed 'fore dinner.' An' then he turns on her an' sez, 'An' yeh, Sal; yeh sail inter them dishes.' An' then he sort o' sniffled an' kissed her. An' I was thet happy,–but he seen me an' roars out, 'Yeh, Jim!' An' yeh bet I dusted fer the barn."
"Any kids waiting for you back in the States?" asked the stranger.
"Nope; Sal died 'fore any come. Thet 's why I 'm here." Belden abstractedly began to light his pipe, which had failed to go out, and then brightened up with, "How 'bout yerself, stranger,–married man?"
For reply, he opened his watch, slipped it from the thong which served for a chain, and passed it over. Belden pricked up the slush-lamp, surveyed the inside of the case critically, and swearing admiringly to himself, handed it over to Louis Savoy. With numerous "By gars!" he finally surrendered it to Prince, and they noticed that his hands trembled and his eyes took on a peculiar softness. And so it passed from horny hand to horny hand–the pasted photograph of a woman, the clinging kind that such men fancy, with a babe at the breast. Those who had not yet seen the wonder were keen with curiosity; those who had, became silent and retrospective. They could face the pinch of famine, the grip of scurvy, or the quick death by field or flood; but the pictured semblance of a stranger woman and child made women and children of them all.
"Never have seen the youngster yet,–he 's a boy, she says, and two years old," said the stranger as he received the treasure back. A lingering moment he gazed upon it, then snapped the case and turned away, but not quick enough to hide the restrained rush of tears.
Malemute Kid led him to a bunk and bade him turn in.
"Call me at four, sharp. Don't fail me," were his last words, and a moment later he was breathing in the heaviness of exhausted sleep.
"By Jove! he 's a plucky chap," commented Prince. "Three hours' sleep after seventy-five miles with the dogs, and then the trail again. Who is he, Kid?"
"Jack Westondale. Been in going on three years, with nothing but the name of working like a horse, an... --This text refers to the Mass Market Paperback edition.
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Most Helpful Customer Reviews
14 of 14 people found the following review helpful:
4.0 out of 5 stars
London at his best and worst,
By Matt Hetling "Matt" (Bethel, ME USA) - See all my reviews
This review is from: To Build a Fire and Other Stories (Bantam Classics) (Mass Market Paperback)
The stories that have been selected for this collection show the entire range of Jack London; roughly half of the book features his trademark setting of the Klondike, while the other half showcases some of his less-well-known subjects, ranging from American cities to Pacific Asian islands.
On balance, the Klondike stories comprise the better half of the book. London is more at home in the far north, and every story shows us a new facet of the astonishing blend of cultures that must learn to cope with one another in a land that brooks no foolishness. Taken together, the stories give us an astonishingly comprehensive portrait of the region. London's writing ages well; his cut-to-the-chase prose and fact-oriented descriptions are still riveting a hundred years after the fact. Additionally, his ear for dialogue and ability to insert philosophical musings into the story without compromising any forward motion are reminiscent of Twain. Despite the fact that many of them end bleakly, the Klondike tales include a healthy dose of the fierce, joyful vitality that burns brightly in the chests of so many of his characters. He paints a picture of harsh men and harsh conditions, but the men are capable of great joy; the conditions great beauty. While I enjoyed almost all of the Klondike writings, one of the great standouts was the epic "An Odyssey of the North," which features a man from a simple northern village whose prospective bride is stolen away by a visiting ship captain. The story is complex and unfolds over decades, leading up to a climax that keeps us in suspense until the last couple of pages. The characters and images were so vivid that I could easily imagine the thirty-page tale being turned into an epic trio of movies ala "Lord of the Rings." Other Klondike stories that stood out include "The League of the Old Men," "Love of Life," and the titular "To Build a Fire." The second half of the book fares less well than the first. While the backdrops are interesting and varied, London never seems as at ease as he does in the far north. He relies more heavily on simple narratives that illustrates an obvious "point" or "message," said message being telegraphed in the first couple of pages. Also, the characters often lack that spark of life that enlivened so many of the Klondike-dwellers; we are sometimes left to ask why these characters exist, and the answers are invariably depressing. Perhaps the worst story is "South of the Slot," which features a man whose academic interest in the working class soon leads to a secret life as a blue collar worker that he enjoys more than his real life. While the values are admirable, the story itself is repetitive and predictable, which makes for a slow read. But even though the quality isn't consistent, there are some real brilliant gems. "All Gold Canyon" gives us an entertaining and knowledgeable portrait of a gold prospector. "A Piece of Steak" is a heartbreaking and disturbing look at a desperate, aging boxer. "The Mexican" is another, very different, boxing story, which gives us a hero who we can't help but admire, even if we don't support his cause. And "Told in the Drooling Ward" might feature the most surprisingly likeable character London has ever created, an asylum resident who gives us a first-person account of his life. As a reader, I strongly recommend this vibrant and engaging book. You are bound to find a story or two that speak very personally to you. Ideologically, this book shows us a marriage between rugged individualism and socialism that may give you pause. There aren't many writers who have the entertaining storytelling capabilities of a Louis Lamour, and the academic credentials of a Melville, but London was just such a man. Enjoy!
6 of 6 people found the following review helpful:
5.0 out of 5 stars
Against Nature,
By Lloyd Greg (houston, texas) - See all my reviews
This review is from: To Build a Fire and Other Stories (Bantam Classics) (Mass Market Paperback)
About 6 months ago our battery First Sgt. decided to have everybody ruck with over 40 pounds on their back through 12 inch snow and negative degree temperatures at 5 in the morning. I lasted through that march because I had been there before. Thanks to this GREAAAAAAT BOOOOOK. If you read London you actually get tougher!!! One of my favorite short stories is entitled THe ODYSSEY. It tells the story of a great young indian who pursues the maiden of his heart across the globe. She was captured by a rich,large and white conqueror. The ending is spectacular because you understand how this new frontierland could never go back to it's way of life. In addition to detailing man at his toughest London has a rich understanding of man's compassion. Also unlike all those writers who live in New York and hit the coctail circuit, London actually lived the stuff he wrote about. He lived on ships, met trappers, drank a lot of whisky and actually froze his behind many a night in Alaska. This is not fiction he is writing about but are stories he lived through or gathered on many a cold night, while a fire burned with his frontier bretheren out in the last North American frontier.
5 of 5 people found the following review helpful:
5.0 out of 5 stars
One of the Greats!,
By Nguyen H. (Orange County, CA USA, formerly Saigon) - See all my reviews
This review is from: To Build a Fire and Other Stories (Bantam Classics) (Mass Market Paperback)
This was one of the first short stories I read to improve my English when I arrived in the United States. It still grips me because of how well the main story is written!
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drooling ward, muskeg berries, slush lamp, coal waggon, shortest tail, sick wolf, loom room, fat roots, old uns, foolish noises, dog drivers Key Phrases - Capitalized Phrases (CAPs): (learn more)
Malemute Kid, Freddie Drummond, Ali Cho, Red One, Bill Totts, Tom King, Sitka Charley, Lord Howe, Mary Condon, Catherine Van Vorst, Hay Stockard, May Sethby, Sturges Owen, Water Baby, Baptiste the Red, Sea Valley, Port Adams, Tana-naw Station, Emily Travis, Timothy Brown, Sulphur Creek, United States, Miss Kelsey, Spider Hagerty, Stowsher Bill Browse Sample Pages:
Front Cover | Table of Contents | First Pages | Back Cover | Surprise Me!
drooling ward, muskeg berries, slush lamp, coal waggon, shortest tail, sick wolf, loom room, fat roots, old uns, foolish noises, dog drivers Key Phrases - Capitalized Phrases (CAPs): (learn more)
Malemute Kid, Freddie Drummond, Ali Cho, Red One, Bill Totts, Tom King, Sitka Charley, Lord Howe, Mary Condon, Catherine Van Vorst, Hay Stockard, May Sethby, Sturges Owen, Water Baby, Baptiste the Red, Sea Valley, Port Adams, Tana-naw Station, Emily Travis, Timothy Brown, Sulphur Creek, United States, Miss Kelsey, Spider Hagerty, Stowsher Bill Browse Sample Pages:
Front Cover | Table of Contents | First Pages | Back Cover | Surprise Me!
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