As I write it
all comes rushing and roaring to mind as if I were again in the heart of
it. Again I see the gray flying clouds with their rain-floods and snow,
the ice-cliffs towering above the shrinking forest, the majestic
ice-cascade, the vast glacier outspread before its white mountain
fountains, and in the heart of it the tremendous crevasse,--emblem of
the valley of the shadow of death,--low clouds trailing over it, the
snow falling into it; and on its brink I see little Stickeen, and I hear
his cries for help and his shouts of joy. I have known many dogs, and
many a story I could tell of their wisdom and devotion; but to none do I
owe so much as to Stickeen. At first the least promising and least known
of my dog-friends, he suddenly became the best known of them all. Our
storm-battle for life brought him to light, and through him as through a
window I have ever since been looking with deeper sympathy into all my
fellow mortals.
None of Stickeen's friends knows what finally became of him. After my
work for the season was done I departed for California, and I never saw
the dear little fellow again.
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