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Down a frozen waterway in the wild Northland, a string of wolfish dogs drag a sled without runners, a sled of birch bark, its front end turned up like a scroll, its full surface resting on the snow. A long, narrow oblong box is lashed securely to the sled. There are other objects, too—blankets, an axe, a coffee pot and frying pan—but the coffin is the main cargo. In advance of the sled, on wide snowshoes, toils a man; a second toils behind the sled. Their task is to deliver the remains of one who succumbed to Fort McHenry.
Night falls, and with its falling a faint, far cry arises on the still air, a cry that seems to be a combination of sad fierceness and hungry eagerness. Both men and dogs recognize the cry of hungry wolves . . . And the stage is set for Jack London's classic adventure story, White Fang. | 
