"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 tidewater 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