Jack London. Before Adam -
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from time to time stray from her, and stray farther and
farther. And these were the opportunities that the Chatterer
waited for. (I may as well explain that we bore no names in
those days; were not known by any name. For the sake of
convenience I have myself given names to the various Folk I was
more closely in contact with, and the "Chatterer" is the most
fitting description I can find for that precious stepfather of
mine. As for me, I have named myself "Big-Tooth." My eye-teeth
were pronouncedly large.)
But to return to the Chatterer. He persistently terrorized
me. He was always pinching me and cuffing me, and on occasion
he was not above biting me. Often my mother interfered, and the
way she made his fur fly was a joy to see. But the result of
all this was a beautiful and unending family quarrel, in which
I was the bone of contention.
No, my home-life was not happy. I smile to myself as I
write the phrase. Home-life! Home! I had no home in the modern
sense of the term. My home was an association, not a
habitation. I lived in my mother's care, not in a house. And my
mother lived anywhere, so long as when night came she was above
the ground.
My mother was old-fashioned. She still clung to her trees.
It is true, the more progressive members of our horde lived in
the caves above the river. But my mother was suspicious and
unprogressive. The trees were good enough for her. Of course,
we had one particular tree in which we usually roosted, though
we often roosted in other trees when nightfall caught us. In a
convenient fork was a sort of rude platform of twigs and
branches and creeping things. It was more like a huge bird-nest
than anything else, though it was a thousand times cruder in