Reading America

But he is not always alone.  When the long winter nights come on and the wolves follow the meat into the lower valleys, he may be seen running at the head of the pack through the pale moonlight or glimmering borealis, leaping gigantic above his fellows, his great throat a-bellow as he sings a song of the younger world, which is the song of the pack.  (From Jack London’s, The Call of the Wild.)