Fiction Narration of White Fang
Description
Vocal Characteristics
Language
EnglishVoice Age
Young Adult (18-35)Accents
North American (General) North American (US Midwest- Chicago, Great Lakes)Transcript
Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
Doc Spruce Forest found on either side of the frozen waterway. The trees have been stripped by his recent wind of their white covering of frost, and they seem to lean towards each other, black and ominous in the fading light. That silence reigned over the land, the land itself with the desolation, life with without movement, so loan and cold that the spirit of it was not even that of sadness. There was a hand in it of laughter, but I laughed and more terrible than any sadness, a laughter that was mirthless as a smile of the sinks. A laughter cold is the frost and partaking of the grimness of infallibility. It was the master, full and in communicable wisdom of eternity, lasting at the futility of life and the effort of life. It was the wild, the savage, frozen hearted north land wild. But there was life abroad in the land and defied down the frozen waterway Toyota string of will fish dogs. The bristly fur was rimmed with frost. The breath froze in the air as a left, their mouth spouting fours and spams a vapor that settled upon the hair of their bodies. Informed into crystals of frost. The the hardest was on the dogs, and leather traces attach them to a sled, which dragged along behind. This led was without runners. It was made of stout birch bark, and it's full service rested on the snow. The front end of the sled was turned up like a scroll in order to force down and under the bore of soft snow. That search, like a wave before it on the sled. Security lashed was a long and narrow oblong box. There were other things on the sled blankets, an ax and a coffee pot and frying pan. But prominent, occupying most of the states was a long and they're oblong box and advanced of the dogs on wide snowshoes. 12 demand at the rear of the second man on the sled in the box, 1/3 man whose toil was over, a man whom the Wild had conquered and beaten down and so he would never move north struggle again. It is not the way of the while to like life is an offense to it, for life is movement, and the wild aims always to destroy movement. It freezes the water to prevent it from running to the sea. It drives the sap out of the trees till they are frozen to their mighty heart. And most ferociously and terribly of all, there's a wild, hairy and crush into submission, man man who is the most restless of life ever in revolt against the dictum that all movement must, in the end come to the cessation of movement but at front and rear on on an indomitable the two men, So we're not yet dead. The bodies were covered with fur and soft, tanned leather eyelashes and cheeks and lips. We're so coated with the crystals from their frozen breath that their faces were not discernable. This gave them the seeming of ghostly masks, undertakers in a spectral world at the funeral of some ghost. But under it all, they were men penetrating the land, desolation and mockery and silence puny adventurers bent on colossal adventure, pitting themselves against the might of a world as remote and alien and post loose as the best of space. They traveled on without speech, saving their breath for the work of their bodies. On every side was the silence, pressing upon them with the tangible presence it affected. Their minds of the many atmospheres of deep water affect the body of the diver. It crushed them with the weight of unending vastness and unalterable decrease. It crushed them into the remotest recesses of their own minds, pressing out of them like juices from the great all the false all doors and expectations and under yourself, values of the human soul. And so they perceive themselves finish in small specs and moats, moving with weak counting and little wisdom, admits the play and interplay of the great blind elements and forces and I went by and the second hour, the payroll light of the short, sunless day was beginning to fade when a faint far cry a rose on the still air. It's sort upward with the swift rush to reach to the top. Most note, where persisted, competent, intense and then slowly died away. It might have been a lost soul wailing had it not been invested With a certain sad fierceness and hungry eagerness, the front man turned his head until his eyes met the eyes of the man behind and then across the narrow oblong box, each not into the other. A second cry rose piercing the silence with the needle actual ness. Both men located the sound. It was to the rear somewhere in the snow expense. They had just reverse 1/3 and answering cry arose also to the rear and to the left of the second cry the bill. So the man of the front. His voice sounded hoarse and unreal, and he had spoken with an apparent effort. Media scares entered this car. I haven't seen a rabbit sign for days. They're after they spoke no more so, their ears working for the hunting cries that continued to rise behind them. At the fall of darkness, they strong the dogs into a cluster of spruce trees at the edge of the waterway and made a camp the cost. And at the side of the fire search for seat and table. The wolf dogs clustered on the far side of the fire, snarled and bickered among themselves, but events no inclination to stray off into the darkness.