By Jack London
Old Koskoosh listened greedily. Though his sight had longsince faded， his hearing was still acute， and the slightest soundpenetrated to the glimmering intelligence which yet abodebehind the withered forehead， but which no longer gazedforth upon the things of the world. Ah！ that was Sit-cum-toha，shrilly anathematizing the dogs as she cuffed and beatthem into the harnesses. Sit-cum-to-ha was his daughter’sdaughter， but she was too busy to waste a thought upon herbroken grandfather， sitting alone there in the snow， forlorn andhelpless. Camp must be broken. The long trail waited whilethe short day refused to linger. Life called her， and the dutiesof life， not death. And he was very close to death now.
The thought made the old man panicky for the moment， andhe stretched forth a palsied hand which wandered tremblinglyover the small heap of dry wood beside him. Reassured that itwas indeed there， his hand returned to the shelter of his mangyfurs， and he again fell to listening. The sulky crackling of halffrozenhides told him that the chief’s moose-skin lodge hadbeen struck， and even then was being rammed and jammedinto portable compass. The chief was his son， stalwart andstrong， head man of the tribesmen， and a mighty hunter. As thewomen toiled with the camp luggage， his voice rose， chidingthem for their slowness. Old Koskoosh strained his ears. It wasthe last time he would hear that voice. There went Geehow’slodge！ And Tusken’s！ Seven， eight， nine； only the shaman’scould be still standing. There！ They were at work upon it now.
He could hear the shaman grunt as he piled it on the sled. Achild whimpered， and a woman soothed it with soft， crooninggutturals. Little Koo-tee， the old man thought， a fretful child，and not overstrong. It would die soon， perhaps， and they wouldburn a hole through the frozen tundra and pile rocks aboveto keep the wolverines away. Well， what did it matter？ A fewyears at best， and as many an empty belly as a full one. And inthe end， Death waited， ever-hungry and hungriest of them all.
What was that？ Oh， the men lashing the sleds and drawingtight the thongs. He listened， who would listen no more. Thewhip-lashes snarled and bit among the dogs. Hear them whine！
How they hated the work and the trail！ They were off！ Sledafter sled churned slowly away into the silence. They weregone. They had passed out of his life， and he faced the lastbitter hour alone. No. The snow crunched beneath a moccasin；a man stood beside him； upon his head a hand rested gently.
His son was good to do this thing. He remembered other oldmen whose sons had not waited after the tribe. But his son had.
He wandered away into the past， till the young man’s voicebrought him back.
“Is it well with you？” he asked.
And the old man answered， “It is well.”
“There be wood beside you，” the younger man continued，“and the fire burns bright. The morning is gray， and the coldhas broken. It will snow presently. Even now is it snowing.”
“Ay， even now is it snowing.”
“The tribesmen hurry. Their bales are heavy， and their belliesflat with lack of feasting. The trail is long and they travel fast.
I go now. It is well？”
“It is well. I am as a last year’s leaf， clinging lightly to thestem. The first breath that blows， and I fall. My voice is becomelike an old woman’s. My eyes no longer show me the way of myfeet， and my feet are heavy， and I am tired. It is well.”
He bowed his head in content till the last noise of thecomplaining snow had died away， and he knew his son wasbeyond recall. Then his hand crept out in haste to the wood.
It alone stood between him and the eternity that yawned inupon him. At last the measure of his life was a handful offagots. One by one they would go to feed the fire， and just so，step by step， death would creep upon him. When the last stickhad surrendered up its heat， the frost would begin to gatherstrength. First his feet would yield， then his hands； and thenumbness would travel， slowly， from the extremities to thebody. His head would fall forward upon his knees， and hewould rest. It was easy. All men must die.
He did not complain. It was the way of life， and it wasjust. He had been born close to the earth， close to the earthhad he lived， and the law thereof was not new to him. It wasthe law of all flesh. Nature was not kindly to the flesh. Shehad no concern for that concrete thing called the individual.
Her interest lay in the species， the race. This was the deepestabstraction old Koskoosh’s barbaric mind was capable of， buthe grasped it firmly. He saw it exemplified in all life. The riseof the sap， the bursting greenness of the willow bud， the fall ofthe yellow leaf—in this alone was told the whole history. Butone task did Nature set the individual. Did he not perform it，he died. Did he perform it， it was all the same， he died. Naturedid not care； there were plenty who were obedient， and it wasonly the obedience in this matter， not the obedient， which livedand lived always. The tribe of Koskoosh was very old. The oldmen he had known when a boy， had known old men beforethem. Therefore it was true that the tribe lived， that it stood forthe obedience of all its members， way down into the forgottenpast， whose very resting-places were unremembered. Theydid not count； they were episodes. They had passed away likeclouds from a summer sky. He also was an episode， and wouldpass away. Nature did not care. To life she set one task， gaveone law. To perpetuate was the task of life， its law was death.
