Зов предков / The Call of the Wild

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Buck did not read the newspapers, or he would have known that trouble was coming, not only for himself, but for every strong dog, muscular and with warm, long hair, from Puget Sound to San Diego. Because men had found a yellow metal, and thousands of them were rushing into the Northland. These men wanted strong dogs.

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, and there were great stables, servants’ cottages, outhouses, grape, berries, green fields, gardens, and an artesian well.

And over this great territory Buck ruled. Here he was born, and here he had lived the four years of his life. Of course, there were other dogs, but they did not count.

Buck was not a house-dog. The whole place was his. He swam in the swimming tank or went hunting with the Judge’s sons; he escorted Mollie and Alice, the Judge’s daughters, on their walks; on winter nights he lay at the Judge’s feet before the library fire; he carried the Judge’s grandsons on his back. He walked imperiously, for he was king, – king over all creeping, crawling, flying things of Judge Miller’s place, humans included.

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