You men who live in cities—who toil, day in and day out, in the thick of
noisy, teeming multitudes, under artificial lights, under roofs, behind
glass, in offices and factories far away from the sun and the air, the
light and the wind—don’t you feel at times something tugging at your
heart-strings?
Don’t you feel a great longing for something new, something clean,
something different from what you have been accustomed to? Don’t you
hear, now and then, a whispering coming from nowhere in particular and
calling you? Calling and calling in the middle of the night when you lie
awake; in the flush of dawn when you catch a gleam of the sky from your
open window; in the evening when your work is done and when you find
yourself going home? Do you know what I mean? Have you felt it?
It is the “Call of the Wild”, the oldest call of all—the call coming to
you through generations and generations who have ignored it.
Some people may laugh; others may wonder. But the man who has answered
that call will never forget it. He may return to civilization. He may
cling to the memory of the discomforts and hardships only. He may
endeavor not to wipe out of his mind the haunting feeling of solitude
and loneliness which gripped him at times in the bleak wilderness
through which he roamed. But sooner or later, the longing to go back
there will come to him again and, if he cannot do so, he will always
regret it.
Utter freedom! A camp pitched here, a meal cooked there. The sun rising
while the crimson of sunset is still glowing in the West. The dull roar
of the rapid in the distance. The sharp howl of the hunting wolf. The
shimmer of the birch leaves. The hammering of the woodpecker. The splash
of the fish rising to the surface of the lake. The plaintive call of the
reed-warbler. The murmuring of the jack-pines. The Northern lights
dancing silently in the sky. Peace and utter freedom!
[Illustration: Adventure north of Fifty-three]