large/506/short_stories_009_64kb_mp3/sun_dog_trail_london_jwt_64kb_198
large/506/short_stories_009_64kb_mp3/sun_dog_trail_london_jwt_64kb
English
506
It is very quiet. There is no sound. Sometimes it snows, and we are like wandering ghosts. Sometimes it is clear, and at midday the sun looks at us for a moment over the hills to the south. The northern lights flame in the sky, and the sun dogs dance, and the air is filled with frost dust. IT IS VERY QUIET THERE IS NO SOUND SOMETIMES IT SNOWS AND WE ARE LIKE WANDERING GHOSTS SOMETIMES IT IS CLEAR AND AT MIDDAY THE SUN LOOKS AT US FOR A MOMENT OVER THE HILLS TO THE SOUTH THE NORTHERN LIGHTS FLAME IN THE SKY AND THE SUN DOGS DANCE AND THE AIR IS FILLED WITH FROST DUST
t that they try to find? It is not gold. Never do they dig in the ground. I think a long time. Then I think it is a man they try to find. But what man? Never do we see the man. Yet are they like wolves on the trail of the kill. But they are funny wolves, soft wolves, baby wolves who do not understand the way of the trail. They cry aloud in their sleep at night. In their sleep they moan and groan with the pain of their weariness. And in the day, as they stagger along the trail, they cry under their breaths. They are funny wolves. "We pass Fort Yukon. We pass Fort Hamilton. We pass Minook. January has come and nearly gone. The days are very short. At nine o'clock comes daylight. At three o'clock comes night. And it is cold. And even I, Sitka Charley, am tired. Will we go on forever this way without end? I do not know. But always do I look along the trail for that which they try to find. There are few people on the trail. Sometimes we travel one hundred miles and never see a sign of life. THEM ON AND ON ALWAYS ON WHAT IS IT THAT THEY TRY TO FIND IT IS NOT GOLD NEVER DO THEY DIG IN THE GROUND I THINK A LONG TIME THEN I THINK IT IS A MAN THEY TRY TO FIND BUT WHAT MAN NEVER DO WE SEE THE MAN YET THEY ARE LIKE WOLVES ON THE TRAIL OF THE KILL BUT THEY ARE FUNNY WOLVES SOFT WOLVES BABY WOLVES WHO DO NOT UNDERSTAND THE WAY OF THE TRAIL THEY CRY ALOUD IN THEIR SLEEP AT NIGHT IN THEIR SLEEP THEY MOAN AND GROAN WITH THE PAIN OF THEIR WEARINESS AND IN THE DAY AS THEY STAGGER ALONG THE TRAIL THEY CRY UNDER THEIR BREATHS THEY ARE FUNNY WOLVES WE PASS FORT YUKON WE PASS FORT HAMILTON WE PASS MINOOK JANUARY HAS COME AND NEARLY GONE THE DAYS ARE VERY SHORT AT NINE O'CLOCK COMES DAYLIGHT AT THREE O'CLOCK COMES NIGHT AND IT IS COLD AND EVEN I SITKA CHARLIE AM TIRED WILL WE GO ON FOREVER THIS WAY WITHOUT END I DO NOT KNOW BUT ALWAYS DO I LOOK ALONG THE TRAIL FOR THAT WHICH THEY TRY TO FIND THERE ARE FEW PEOPLE ON THE TRAIL SOMETIMES WE TRAVEL ONE HUNDRED MILES AND NEVER SEE A SIGN OF LIFE
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