The Word Is Too Weak. There Is

As One Grows Weaker One Is Less Susceptible To Suffering. There Is Less Hurt Because There Is Less To Hurt.

Somehow, The Love Of The Islands, Like The Love Of A Woman, Just Happens. One Cannot Determine In Advance To Love A Particular Woman, Nor Can One So Determine To Love Hawaii.

The First Theft Marked Buck As Fit To Survive In The Hostile Northland Environment. It Marked His Adaptability, His Capacity To Adjust Himself To Changing Conditions, The Lack Of Which Would Have Meant Swift And Terrible Death. It Marked, Further, The Decay Or Going To Pieces Of His Moral Nature, A Vain Thing And A Handicap In The Ruthless Struggle For Existence.

The Word Is Too Weak. There Is No Word In The Language Strong Enough To Describe My Feelings.

On The Sled, In The Box, Lay A Third Man Whose Toil Was Over, - A Man Whom The Wild Had Conquered And Beaten Down Until He Would Never Move Nor Struggle Again. It Is Not The Way Of The Wild To Like Movement. Life Is An Offense To It, For Life Is Movement; And The Wild Aims Always To Destroy Movement.