A thousand deaths by Jack London

episode, he showed some stories to his aunt, Mrs. Everhard, in St. Joseph,

Michigan. And in the ensuing months of that year, 1894, she received other

romances mailed at his stopping places along the eastward route, alone or with

Kelly’s Industrial Army. As yet it had not sunk into his consciousness that his

unyouthful knowledge of life in the raw would be the means of success in

literature; therefore he discoursed of imaginary things and persons, lords and

ladies, days of chivalry and what not —anything but out of his priceless first-hand

lore. At the same time, however, he kept a small diary which, in the days when he

had found himself, helped in visualizing his tramp life, in “The Road.”

The only out and out “juvenile” in the Jack London list prior to his death is “The

Cruise of the Dazzler,” published in 1902. At that it is a good and authentic

maritime study of its kind, and not lacking in honest thrills. “Tales of the Fish

Patrol” comes next as a book for boys; but the happenings told therein are

perilous enough to interest many an older reader.

I am often asked which of his books have made the strongest appeal to youth. The

impulse is to answer that it depends upon the particular type of youth. As

example, there lies before me a letter from a friend: “Ruth (she is eleven) has been

reading every book of your husband’s that she can get hold of. She is crazy over

the stories. I have bought nearly all of them, but cannot find `The Son of the

Wolf,’ `Moon Face,’ and ‘Michael Brother of Jerry.’ Will you tell me where I can

order these?” I have not yet learned Ruth’s favorites; but I smile to myself at

thought of the re-reading she may have to do when her mind has more fully

developed.

The youth of every country who read Jack London naturally turn to his adventure

stories —particularly “The Call of the Wild” and its companion “White Fang,”

“The Sea Wolf,” “The Cruise of the Snark,” and my own journal, “The Log of the

Snark,” and ” Our Hawaii,” ” Smoke Bellew Tales,” “Ad- ` venture,” “The Mutiny

of the Elsinore,” as well as “Before Adam,” “The Game,” “The Abysmal Brute,”

“The Road,” “Jerry of the Islands” and its sequel “Michael Brother of Jerry.” And

because of the last named, the youth of many lands are enrolling in the famous

Jack London Club. This was inspired by Dr. Francis H. Rowley, President of the

Massachusetts S. P. C. A. The Club expects no dues. Membership is automatic

through the mere promise to leave any playhouse during an animal performance.

The protest thereby registered is bound, in good time, to do away with the abuses

that attend animal training for show purposes. “Michael Brother of Jerry” was

DUTCH COURAGE AND OTHER STORIES

5

written out of Jack London’s ; heart of love and head of understanding of t

animals, aided by a years’-long study of the conditions of which he treats.

Incidentally this book contains one of the most charming bits of seafaring

romance of the Southern Ocean that he ever wrote.

During the Great War, the English speaking soldiers called freely for the

foregoing novels, dubbing them “The Jacklondons”; and there was also lively

demand for “Burning Daylight,” ” The Scarlet Plague,” “The Star Rover,” “The

Little Lady of the Big House,” “The Valley of the Moon,” and, because of its

prophetic spirit, “The Iron Heel.” There was likewise a desire for the short-story

collections, such as “The God of His Fathers,” “Children of the Frost,” “The Faith

of Men,” “Love of Life,” “Lost Face,” “When God Laughs,” and later groups like

“South Sea Tales,” “A Son of the Sun,” “The Night Born,” and “The House of

Pride,” and a long list beside.

But for the serious minded youth of America, Great Britain, and all countries

where Jack London’s work has been translated—youth considering life with a

purpose—” Martin Eden” is the beacon. Passing years only augment the number

of messages that find their way to me from near and far, attesting the worth to

thoughtful boys and girls, young men and women, of the author’s own formative

struggle in life and letters as partially outlined in ” Martin Eden.”

The present sheaf of young folk’s stories were written during the latter part of that

battle for recognition, and my gathering of them inside book covers is pursuant of

his own intention at the time of his death on November 22, 1916.

—Charmian London

Jack London Ranch,

Glen Ellen, Sonoma County, California.

August 1, 1922.

DUTCH COURAGE

(First published in The Youth’s Companion, November 29, 1900)

“Just our luck!”

Gus Lafee finished wiping his hands and sullenly threw the towel upon the rocks.

His attitude was one of deep dejection. The light seemed gone out of the day and

DUTCH COURAGE AND OTHER STORIES

6

the glory from the golden sun. Even the keen mountain air was devoid of relish,

and the early morning no longer yielded its customary zest.

“Just our luck!” Gus repeated, this time avowedly for the edification of another

young fellow who was busily engaged in sousing his head in the water of the lake.

“What are you grumbling about, anyway?” Hazard Van Dorn lifted a soaprimmed

face questioningly. His eyes were shut. “What’s our luck?”

“Look there!” Gus threw a moody glance skyward. “Some duffer’s got ahead of

us. We’ve been scooped, that’s all!”

Hazard opened his eyes, and caught a fleeting glimpse of a white flag waving

arrogantly on the edge of a wall of rock nearly a mile above his head. Then his

eyes closed with a snap, and his face wrinkled spasmodically. Gus threw him the

towel, and uncommi seratingly watched him wipe out the offending soap. He felt

too blue himself to take stock in trivialities.

Hazard groaned.

“Does it hurt-much?” Gus queried, coldly, without interest, as if it were no more

than his duty to ask after the welfare of his comrade.

“I guess it does,” responded the suffering one.

“Soap’s pretty strong, eh? — Noticed it myself.”

“‘Tisn’t the soap. It’s-it’s that!” He opened his reddened eyes and pointed toward

the innocent white little flag. “That’s what hurts.”

Gus Lafee did not reply, but turned away to start the fire and begin cooking

breakfast. His disappointment and grief were too deep for anything but silence,

and Hazard, who felt likewise, never opened his mouth as he fed the horses, nor

once laid his head against their arching necks or passed caressing fingers through

their manes. The two boys were blind, also, to the manifold glories of Mirror

Lake which reposed at their very feet. Nine times, had they chosen to move along

its margin the short distance of a hundred yards, could they have seen the sunrise

repeated; nine times, from behind as many successive peaks, could they have seen

the great orb rear his blazing rim; and nine times, had they but looked into the

waters of the lake, could they have seen the phenomena reflected faithfully and

vividly. But all the Titanic grandeur of the scene was lost to them. They had been

robbed of the chief pleasure of their trip to Yosemite Valley. They had been

frustrated in their long-cherished design upon Half Dome , and hence were

rendered disconsolate and blind to the beauties and the wonders of the place.

DUTCH COURAGE AND OTHER STORIES

7

Half Dome rears its ice-scarred head fully five thousand feet above the level floor

of Yosemite Valley. In the name itself of this great rock lies an accurate and

complete description. Nothing more nor less is it than a cyclopean, rounded dome,

split in half as cleanly as an apple that is divided by a knife. It is, perhaps, quite

needless to state that but onehalf remains, hence its name, the other half having

been carried away by the great ice-river in the stormy time of the Glacial Period.

In that dim day one of those frigid rivers gouged a mighty channel from out the

solid rock. This channel to-day is Yosemite Valley. But to return to the Half

Dome. On its northeastern side, by circuitous trails and stiff climbing, one may

gain the Saddle. Against the slope of the Dome the Saddle leans like a gigantic

slab, and from the top of this slab, one thousand feet in length, curves the great

circle to the summit of the Dome. A few degrees too steep for unaided climbing,

these one thousand feet defied for years the adventurous spirits who fixed

yearning eyes upon the crest above.

One day, a couple of clear-headed mountaineers had proceeded to insert iron eyebolts

into holes which they drilled into the rock every few feet apart. But when

they found themselves three hundred feet above the Saddle, clinging like flies to

the precario us wall with on either hand a yawning abyss, their nerves failed them