White Fang Imagery in Chapters 7-12
"Nevertheless, he felt a little prick of ambition , a sneaking desire to have another battle with that ptarmigan hen--only the hawk had carried her away. Maybe there were other ptarmigan hens. He would go and see. He came down a shelving bank to the stream. He had never seen water before. The footing looked good. There were no inequalities of surface. He stepped boldly out on it; and went down, crying with fear, into the embrace of the unknown. It was cold, and he gasped, breathing quickly. The water rushed into his lungs instead of the air that had always accompanied his act of breathing. The suffocation he experienced was like the pang of death.
(Page 159, Chapter 7, The Wall Of The World)
"He was always a little demon of fury when he chanced upon a stray ptarmigan. Never did he fail to respond savagely to the chatter of the squirrel he had first met on the blasted pine. While the sight of a moosebird almost invariably put him into the wildest of rages; for he never forgot the peck on the nose he had received from the first of the ilk he encountered. But there were times when even a moosebird failed to affect him, and those were the times when he felt himself to be in danger from some other prowling meat-hunter. He never forgot the hawk, and its moving shadow always sent him crouching into the nearest thicket. He no longer sprawled and straddled, and already he was developing the gait of his mother, slinking and furtive, apparently without exertion, yet sliding along with swiftness that was as deceptive as it was imperceptible.
(Pages. 162-163, Chapter 8, The Law Of Meat)
"But the cub knew what it was, and with a last, long wail that had in it more triumph than grief, he ceased his noise and waited for the coming of his mother, of his ferocious and indomitable mother who fought and killed all things and was never afraid. She was snarling as she ran. She had heard the cry of her cub and was dashing to save him. She bounded in amongst them, her anxious and militant motherhood making her anything but a pretty sight. But to the cub the spectacle of her protective rage was pleasing. He uttered a glad little cry and bounded to meet her, while the man-animals went back hastily several steps. The she-wolf stood over he cub, facing the men, with bristling hair, a snarl rumbled deep in her throat. Her face was distorted and malignant with menace, even the bridge of the nose wrinkling from tip to eyes so prodigious was her snarl."
(Page 169, Chapter 9, The Makers Of Fire)
"Dashing at top speed around a tepee, he ran full tilt into Kiche lying at the end of her stick. He gave one yelp of consternation, and then her punishing jaws closed upon him. She was tied, but he could not get away from her easily. She rolled him off his legs so that he could not run, while she repeatedly ripped and slashed him with her fangs. When at last he succeeded in rolling clear of her, he crawled to his feet, badly disheveled, hurt both in body and in spirit. His hair was standing out all over him in tufts where her teeth had mauled. He stood where he had arisen, and broke out the long, heartbroken, puppy wail."
(Page 180, Chapter 10, The Bondage)
"He pointed his nose at the moon. His throat was afflicted with rigid spasms, his mouth opened, and in a heart-broken cry bubbled up his loneliness and fear, his grief for Kiche, all his past sorrows and miseries as well as his apprehension of sufferings and danger to come. It was the long wolf-howl, full-throated and mournful, the first howl he had ever uttered."
(Pages 191, Chapter 12, The Trail Of The Gods)