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Ch. 15: The Spring Running

Man goes to Man! Cry the challenge through the Jungle!
He that was our Brother goes away.
Hear, now, and judge, O ye People of the Jungle,--
Answer, who shall turn him--who shall stay?

Man goes to Man! He is weeping in the Jungle:
He that was our Brother sorrows sore!
Man goes to Man! (Oh, we loved him in the Jungle!)
To the Man-Trail where we may not follow more.

The second year after the great fight with Red Dog and the death
of Akela, Mowgli must have been nearly seventeen years old.
He looked older, for hard exercise, the best of good eating,
and baths whenever he felt in the least hot or dusty, had given
him strength and growth far beyond his age. He could swing by
one hand from a top branch for half an hour at a time, when he
had occasion to look along the tree-roads. He could stop a young
buck in mid-gallop and throw him sideways by the head. He could
even jerk over the big, blue wild boars that lived in the
Marshes of the North. The Jungle People who used to fear him
for his wits feared him now for his strength, and when he
moved quietly on his own affairs the mere whisper of his coming
cleared the wood-paths. And yet the look in his eyes was always
gentle. Even when he fought, his eyes never blazed as Bagheera's
did. They only grew more and more interested and excited;
and that was one of the things that Bagheera himself did
not understand.

He asked Mowgli about it, and the boy laughed and said.
"When I miss the kill I am angry. When I must go empty for two
days I am very angry. Do not my eyes talk then?"

"The mouth is hungry," said Bagheera, "but the eyes say nothing.
Hunting, eating, or swimming, it is all one--like a stone in wet
or dry weather." Mowgli looked at him lazily from under his long
eyelashes, and, as usual, the panther's head dropped. Bagheera
knew his master.

They were lying out far up the side of a hill overlooking the
Waingunga, and the morning mists hung below them in bands of
white and green. As the sun rose it changed into bubbling seas
of red gold, churned off, and let the low rays stripe the dried
grass on which Mowgli and Bagheera were resting. It was the end
of the cold weather, the leaves and the trees looked worn and
faded, and there was a dry, ticking rustle everywhere when the
wind blew. A little leaf tap-tap-tapped furiously against a
twig, as a single leaf caught in a current will. It roused
Bagheera, for he snuffed the morning air with a deep, hollow
cough, threw himself on his back, and struck with his fore-paws
at the nodding leaf above.

"The year turns," he said. "The Jungle goes forward. The Time of
New Talk is near. That leaf knows. It is very good."

"The grass is dry," Mowgli answered, pulling up a tuft.
"Even Eye-of-the-Spring [that is a little trumpet-shaped, waxy
red flower that runs in and out among the grasses]--even Eye-of-
the Spring is shut, and . . . Bagheera, IS it well for the Black
Panther so to lie on his back and beat with his paws in the air,
as though he were the tree-cat?"

"Aowh?" said Bagheera. He seemed to be thinking of other things.

"I say, IS it well for the Black Panther so to mouth and cough,
and howl and roll? Remember, we be the Masters of the Jungle,
thou and I."

"Indeed, yes; I hear, Man-cub." Bagheera rolled over hurriedly
and sat up, the dust on his ragged black flanks. (He was
just casting his winter coat.) "We be surely the Masters of
the Jungle! Who is so strong as Mowgli? Who so wise?" There was
a curious drawl in the voice that made Mowgli turn to see
whether by any chance the Black Panther were making fun of him,
for the Jungle is full of words that sound like one thing,
but mean another. "I said we be beyond question the Masters
of the Jungle," Bagheera repeated. "Have I done wrong? I did
not know that the Man-cub no longer lay upon the ground.
Does he fly, then?"

Mowgli sat with his elbows on his knees, looking out across the
valley at the daylight. Somewhere down in the woods below a bird
was trying over in a husky, reedy voice the first few notes of
his spring song. It was no more than a shadow of the liquid,
tumbling call he would be pouring later, but Bagheera heard it.

"I said the Time of New Talk is near," growled the panther,
switching his tail.

"I hear," Mowgli answered. "Bagheera, why dost thou shake all
over? The sun is warm."

"That is Ferao, the scarlet woodpecker," said Bagheera. "HE has
not forgotten. Now I, too, must remember my song," and he began
purring and crooning to himself, harking back dissatisfied
again and again.

"There is no game afoot," said Mowgli.

"Little Brother, are BOTH thine ears stopped? That is no
killing-word, but my song that I make ready against the need."

"I had forgotten. I shall know when the Time of New Talk is
here, because then thou and the others all run away and leave
me alone." Mowgli spoke rather savagely.

"But, indeed, Little Brother," Bagheera began, "we do not

"I say ye do," said Mowgli, shooting out his forefinger angrily.
"Ye DO run away, and I, who am the Master of the Jungle, must
needs walk alone. How was it last season, when I would gather
sugar-cane from the fields of a Man-Pack? I sent a runner--I
sent thee!--to Hathi, bidding him to come upon such a night and
pluck the sweet grass for me with his trunk."

"He came only two nights later," said Bagheera, cowering a
little; "and of that long, sweet grass that pleased thee so he
gathered more than any Man-cub could eat in all the nights of
the Rains. That was no fault of mine."

"He did not come upon the night when I sent him the word.
No, he was trumpeting and running and roaring through the
valleys in the moonlight. His trail was like the trail of
three elephants, for he would not hide among the trees.
He danced in the moonlight before the houses of the Man-Pack.
I saw him, and yet he would not come to me; and _I_ am the
Master of the Jungle!"

"It was the Time of New Talk," said the panther, always very
humble. "Perhaps, Little Brother, thou didst not that time call
him by a Master-word? Listen to Ferao, and be glad!"

Mowgli's bad temper seemed to have boiled itself away. He lay
back with his head on his arms, his eyes shut. "I do not know--
nor do I care," he said sleepily. "Let us sleep, Bagheera.
My stomach is heavy in me. Make me a rest for my head."

The panther lay down again with a sigh, because he could hear
Ferao practising and repractising his song against the
Springtime of New Talk, as they say.

In an Indian Jungle the seasons slide one into the other
almost without division. There seem to be only two--the wet
and the dry; but if you look closely below the torrents of
rain and the clouds of char and dust you will find all four
going round in their regular ring. Spring is the most wonderful,
because she has not to cover a clean, bare field with new leaves
and flowers, but to drive before her and to put away the
hanging-on, over-surviving raffle of half-green things which
the gentle winter has suffered to live, and to make the
partly-dressed stale earth feel new and young once more.
And this she does so well that there is no spring in the world
like the Jungle spring.

There is one day when all things are tired, and the very smells,
as they drift on the heavy air, are old and used. One cannot
explain this, but it feels so. Then there is another day--to the
eye nothing whatever has changed--when all the smells are new
and delightful, and the whiskers of the Jungle People quiver to
their roots, and the winter hair comes away from their sides in
long, draggled locks. Then, perhaps, a little rain falls,
and all the trees and the bushes and the bamboos and the mosses
and the juicy-leaved plants wake with a noise of growing that
you can almost hear, and under this noise runs, day and night,
a deep hum. THAT is the noise of the spring--a vibrating boom
which is neither bees, nor falling water, nor the wind in tree-
tops, but the purring of the warm, happy world.

Up to this year Mowgli had always delighted in the turn of the
seasons. It was he who generally saw the first Eye-of-the-Spring
deep down among the grasses, and the first bank of spring
clouds, which are like nothing else in the Jungle. His voice
could be heard in all sorts of wet, star-lighted, blossoming
places, helping the big frogs through their choruses, or mocking
the little upside-down owls that hoot through the white nights.
Like all his people, spring was the season he chose for his
flittings--moving, for the mere joy of rushing through the warm
air, thirty, forty, or fifty miles between twilight and the
morning star, and coming back panting and laughing and wreathed
with strange flowers. The Four did not follow him on these wild
ringings of the Jungle, but went off to sing songs with other
wolves. The Jungle People are very busy in the spring, and
Mowgli could hear them grunting and screaming and whistling
according to their kind. Their voices then are different from
their voices at other times of the year, and that is one of the
reasons why spring in the Jungle is called the Time of New Talk.

But that spring, as he told Bagheera, his stomach was changed
in him. Ever since the bamboo shoots turned spotty-brown he
had been looking forward to the morning when the smells should
change. But when the morning came, and Mor the Peacock, blazing
in bronze and blue and gold, cried it aloud all along the misty
woods, and Mowgli opened his mouth to send on the cry, the words
choked between his teeth, and a feeling came over him that
began at his toes and ended in his hair--a feeling of pure
unhappiness, so that he looked himself over to be sure that he
had not trod on a thorn. Mor cried the new smells, the other
birds took it over, and from the rocks by the Waingunga he heard
Bagheera's hoarse scream--something between the scream of an
eagle and the neighing of a horse. There was a yelling and
scattering of Bandar-log in the new-budding branches above,
and there stood Mowgli, his chest, filled to answer Mor,
sinking in little gasps as the breath was driven out of it
by this unhappiness.

He stared all round him, but he could see no more than the
mocking Bandar-log scudding through the trees, and Mor, his tail
spread in full splendour, dancing on the slopes below.

"The smells have changed," screamed Mor. "Good hunting,
Little Brother! Where is thy answer?"

"Little Brother, good hunting!" whistled Chil the Kite and his
mate, swooping down together. The two baffed under Mowgli's nose
so close that a pinch of downy white feathers brushed away.

A light spring rain--elephant-rain they call it--drove across
the Jungle in a belt half a mile wide, left the new leaves wet
and nodding behind, and died out in a double rainbow and a light
roll of thunder. The spring hum broke out for a minute, and was
silent, but all the Jungle Folk seemed to be giving tongue at
once. All except Mowgli.

"I have eaten good food," he said to himself. "I have drunk good
water. Nor does my throat burn and grow small, as it did when
I bit the blue-spotted root that Oo the Turtle said was clean
food. But my stomach is heavy, and I have given very bad talk
to Bagheera and others, people of the Jungle and my people.
Now, too, I am hot and now I am cold, and now I am neither hot
nor cold, but angry with that which I cannot see. Huhu! It is
time to make a running! To-night I will cross the ranges; yes,
I will make a spring running to the Marshes of the North, and
back again. I have hunted too easily too long. The Four shall
come with me, for they grow as fat as white grubs."

He called, but never one of the Four answered. They were far
beyond earshot, singing over the spring songs--the Moon and
Sambhur Songs-- with the wolves of the pack; for in the spring-
time the Jungle People make very little difference between the
day and the night. He gave the sharp, barking note, but his only
answer was the mocking maiou of the little spotted tree-cat
winding in and out among the branches for early birds' nests.
At this he shook all over with rage, and half drew his knife.
Then he became very haughty, though there was no one to see him,
and stalked severely down the hillside, chin up and eyebrows
down. But never a single one of his people asked him a question,
for they were all too busy with their own affairs.

"Yes," said Mowgli to himself, though in his heart he knew that
he had no reason. "Let the Red Dhole come from the Dekkan,
or the Red Flower dance among the bamboos, and all the Jungle
runs whining to Mowgli, calling him great elephant-names.
But now, because Eye-of-the-Spring is red, and Mor, forsooth,
must show his naked legs in some spring dance, the Jungle goes
mad as Tabaqui. . . . By the Bull that bought me! am I the
Master of the Jungle, or am I not? Be silent! What do ye here?"

A couple of young wolves of the Pack were cantering down a path,
looking for open ground in which to fight. (You will remember
that the Law of the Jungle forbids fighting where the Pack can
see.) Their neck-bristles were as stiff as wire, and they bayed
furiously, crouching for the first grapple. Mowgli leaped
forward, caught one outstretched throat in either hand,
expecting to fling the creatures backward as he had often done
in games or Pack hunts. But he had never before interfered with
a spring fight. The two leaped forward and dashed him aside,
and without word to waste rolled over and over close locked.

Mowgli was on his feet almost before he fell, his knife and his
white teeth were bared, and at that minute he would have killed
both for no reason but that they were fighting when he wished
them to be quiet, although every wolf has full right under the
Law to fight. He danced round them with lowered shoulders and
quivering hand, ready to send in a double blow when the first
flurry of the scuffle should be over; but while he waited the
strength seemed to ebb from his body, the knife-point lowered,
and he sheathed the knife and watched.

"I have surely eaten poison," he sighed at last. Since I broke
up the Council with the Red Flower--since I killed Shere Khan--
none of the Pack could fling me aside. And these be only tail-
wolves in the Pack, little hunters! My strength is gone from me,
and presently I shall die. Oh, Mowgli, why dost thou not kill
them both?"

The fight went on till one wolf ran away, and Mowgli was left
alone on the torn and bloody ground, looking now at his knife,
and now at his legs and arms, while the feeling of unhappiness
he had never known before covered him as water covers a log.

He killed early that evening and ate but little, so as to be
in good fettle for his spring running, and he ate alone because
all the Jungle People were away singing or fighting. It was a
perfect white night, as they call it. All green things seemed to
have made a month's growth since the morning. The branch that
was yellow-leaved the day before dripped sap when Mowgli broke
it. The mosses curled deep and warm over his feet, the young
grass had no cutting edges, and all the voices of the Jungle
boomed like one deep harp-string touched by the moon--the Moon
of New Talk, who splashed her light full on rock and pool,
slipped it between trunk and creeper, and sifted it through a
million leaves. Forgetting his unhappiness, Mowgli sang aloud
with pure delight as he settled into his stride. It was more
like flying than anything else, for he had chosen the long
downward slope that leads to the Northern Marshes through the
heart of the main Jungle, where the springy ground deadened the
fall of his feet. A man-taught man would have picked his way
with many stumbles through the cheating moonlight, but Mowgli's
muscles, trained by years of experience, bore him up as though
he were a feather. When a rotten log or a hidden stone turned
under his foot he saved himself, never checking his pace,
without effort and without thought. When he tired of ground-
going he threw up his hands monkey-fashion to the nearest
creeper, and seemed to float rather than to climb up into the
thin branches, whence he would follow a tree-road till his mood
changed, and he shot downward in a long, leafy curve to the
levels again. There were still, hot hollows surrounded by wet
rocks where he could hardly breathe for the heavy scents of the
night flowers and the bloom along the creeper buds; dark avenues
where the moonlight lay in belts as regular as checkered marbles
in a church aisle; thickets where the wet young growth stood
breast-high about him and threw its arms round his waist;
and hilltops crowned with broken rock, where he leaped from
stone to stone above the lairs of the frightened little foxes.
He would hear, very faint and far off, the chug-drug of a boar
sharpening his tusks on a bole; and would come across the great
gray brute all alone, scribing and rending the bark of a tall
tree, his mouth dripping with foam, and his eyes blazing like
fire. Or he would turn aside to the sound of clashing horns and
hissing grunts, and dash past a couple of furious sambhur,
staggering to and fro with lowered heads, striped with blood
that showed black in the moonlight. Or at some rushing ford he
would hear Jacala the Crocodile bellowing like a bull,
or disturb a twined knot of the Poison People, but before they
could strike he would be away and across the glistening shingle,
and deep in the Jungle again.

So he ran, sometimes shouting, sometimes singing to himself,
the happiest thing in all the Jungle that night, till the smell
of the flowers warned him that he was near the marshes,
and those lay far beyond his farthest hunting-grounds.

Here, again, a man-trained man would have sunk overhead in three
strides, but Mowgli's feet had eyes in them, and they passed him
from tussock to tussock and clump to quaking clump without
asking help from the eyes in his head. He ran out to the middle
of the swamp, disturbing the duck as he ran, and sat down on a
moss-coated tree-trunk lapped in the black water. The marsh was
awake all round him, for in the spring the Bird People sleep
very lightly, and companies of them were coming or going the
night through. But no one took any notice of Mowgli sitting
among the tall reeds humming songs without words, and looking at
the soles of his hard brown feet in case of neglected thorns.
All his unhappiness seemed to have been left behind in his own
Jungle, and he was just beginning a full-throat song when it came
back again--ten times worse than before.

This time Mowgli was frightened. "It is here also!" he said half
aloud. "It has followed me," and he looked over his shoulder to
see whether the It were not standing behind him. "There is no
one here." The night noises of the marsh went on, but never a
bird or beast spoke to him, and the new feeling of misery grew.

"I have surely eaten poison," he said in an awe-stricken voice.
"It must be that carelessly I have eaten poison, and my strength
is going from me. I was afraid--and yet it was not _I_ that was
afraid--Mowgli was afraid when the two wolves fought. Akela, or
even Phao, would have silenced them; yet Mowgli was afraid.
That is true sign I have eaten poison. . . . But what do they
care in the Jungle? They sing and howl and fight, and run in
companies under the moon, and I--Hai-mai!--I am dying in the
marshes, of that poison which I have eaten." He was so sorry for
himself that he nearly wept. "And after," he went on, "they will
find me lying in the black water. Nay, I will go back to my own
Jungle, and I will die upon the Council Rock, and Bagheera,
whom I love, if he is not screaming in the valley--Bagheera,
perhaps, may watch by what is left for a little, lest Chil use
me as he used Akela."

A large, warm tear splashed down on his knee, and, miserable as
he was, Mowgli felt happy that he was so miserable, if you can
understand that upside-down sort of happiness. "As Chil the
Kite used Akela," he repeated, "on the night I saved the Pack
from Red Dog." He was quiet for a little, thinking of the
last words of the Lone Wolf, which you, of course, remember.
"Now Akela said to me many foolish things before he died,
for when we die our stomachs change. He said . . . None the
less, I AM of the Jungle!"

In his excitement, as he remembered the fight on Waingunga bank,
he shouted the last words aloud, and a wild buffalo-cow among
the reeds sprang to her knees, snorting, "Man!"

"Uhh!" said Mysa the Wild Buffalo (Mowgli could hear him turn
in his wallow), "THAT is no man. It is only the hairless wolf
of the Seeonee Pack. On such nights runs he to and fro."

"Uhh!" said the cow, dropping her head again to graze,
"I thought it was Man."

"I say no. Oh, Mowgli, is it danger?" lowed Mysa.

"Oh, Mowgli, is it danger?" the boy called back mockingly.
"That is all Mysa thinks for: Is it danger? But for Mowgli,
who goes to and fro in the Jungle by night, watching, what
do ye care?"

"How loud he cries!" said the cow. "Thus do they cry," Mysa
answered contemptuously, "who, having torn up the grass,
know not how to eat it."

"For less than this," Mowgli groaned to himself, for less than
this even last Rains I had pricked Mysa out of his wallow,
and ridden him through the swamp on a rush halter." He stretched
a hand to break one of the feathery reeds, but drew it back with
a sigh. Mysa went on steadily chewing the cud, and the long
grass ripped where the cow grazed. "I will not die HERE,"
he said angrily. "Mysa, who is of one blood with Jacala and
the pig, would see me. Let us go beyond the swamp and see what
comes. Never have I run such a spring running--hot and cold
together. Up, Mowgli!"

He could not resist the temptation of stealing across the reeds
to Mysa and pricking him with the point of his knife. The great
dripping bull broke out of his wallow like a shell exploding,
while Mowgli laughed till he sat down.

"Say now that the hairless wolf of the Seeonee Pack once herded
thee, Mysa," he called.

"Wolf! THOU?" the bull snorted, stamping in the mud. "All the
jungle knows thou wast a herder of tame cattle--such a man's
brat as shouts in the dust by the crops yonder. THOU of the
Jungle! What hunter would have crawled like a snake among the
leeches, and for a muddy jest--a jackal's jest--have shamed me
before my cow? Come to firm ground, and I will--I will . . ."
Mysa frothed at the mouth, for Mysa has nearly the worst temper
of any one in the Jungle.

Mowgli watched him puff and blow with eyes that never changed.
When he could make himself heard through the pattering mud,
he said: "What Man-Pack lair here by the marshes, Mysa? This is
new Jungle to me."

"Go north, then," roared the angry bull, for Mowgli had pricked
him rather sharply. "It was a naked cow-herd's jest. Go and tell
them at the village at the foot of the marsh."

"The Man-Pack do not love jungle-tales, nor do I think, Mysa,
that a scratch more or less on thy hide is any matter for a
council. But I will go and look at this village. Yes, I will go.
Softly now. It is not every night that the Master of the Jungle
comes to herd thee."

He stepped out to the shivering ground on the edge of the marsh,
well knowing that Mysa would never charge over it and laughed,
as he ran, to think of the bull's anger.

"My strength is not altogether gone," he said. It may be that
the poison is not to the bone. There is a star sitting low
yonder." He looked at it between his half-shut hands. "By the
Bull that bought me, it is the Red Flower--the Red Flower that
I lay beside before--before I came even to the first Seeonee
Pack! Now that I have seen, I will finish the running."

The marsh ended in a broad plain where a light twinkled.
It was a long time since Mowgli had concerned himself with
the doings of men, but this night the glimmer of the Red Flower
drew him forward.

"I will look," said he, "as I did in the old days, and I will
see how far the Man-Pack has changed."

Forgetting that he was no longer in his own Jungle, where he
could do what he pleased, he trod carelessly through the dew-
loaded grasses till he came to the hut where the light stood.
Three or four yelping dogs gave tongue, for he was on the
outskirts of a village.

"Ho!" said Mowgli, sitting down noiselessly, after sending back
a deep wolf-growl that silenced the curs. "What comes will come.
Mowgli, what hast thou to do any more with the lairs of the
Man-Pack?" He rubbed his mouth, remembering where a stone had
struck it years ago when the other Man-Pack had cast him out.

The door of the hut opened, and a woman stood peering out
into the darkness. A child cried, and the woman said over her
shoulder, "Sleep. It was but a jackal that waked the dogs.
In a little time morning comes."

Mowgli in the grass began to shake as though he had fever.
He knew that voice well, but to make sure he cried softly,
surprised to find how man's talk came back, "Messua! O Messua!"

"Who calls?" said the woman, a quiver in her voice.

"Hast thou forgotten?" said Mowgli. His throat was dry as
he spoke.

"If it be THOU, what name did I give thee? Say!" She had half
shut the door, and her hand was clutching at her breast.

"Nathoo! Ohe, Nathoo!" said Mowgli, for, as you remember, that
was the name Messua gave him when he first came to the Man-Pack.

"Come, my son," she called, and Mowgli stepped into the light,
and looked full at Messua, the woman who had been good to him,
and whose life he had saved from the Man-Pack so long before.
She was older, and her hair was gray, but her eyes and her voice
had not changed. Woman-like, she expected to find Mowgli where
she had left him, and her eyes travelled upward in a puzzled way
from his chest to his head, that touched the top of the door.

"My son," she stammered; and then, sinking to his feet: "But it
is no longer my son. It is a Godling of the Woods! Ahai!"

As he stood in the red light of the oil-lamp, strong, tall,
and beautiful, his long black hair sweeping over his shoulders,
the knife swinging at his neck, and his head crowned with a
wreath of white jasmine, he might easily have been mistaken for
some wild god of a jungle legend. The child half asleep on a cot
sprang up and shrieked aloud with terror. Messua turned to
soothe him, while Mowgli stood still, looking in at the water-
jars and the cooking-pots, the grain-bin, and all the other
human belongings that he found himself remembering so well.

"What wilt thou eat or drink?" Messua murmured. "This is all
thine. We owe our lives to thee. But art thou him I called
Nathoo, or a Godling, indeed?"

"I am Nathoo," said Mowgli, "I am very far from my own place.
I saw this light, and came hither. I did not know thou
wast here."

"After we came to Khanhiwara," Messua said timidly, "the English
would have helped us against those villagers that sought to burn
us. Rememberest thou?"

"Indeed, I have not forgotten."

"But when the English Law was made ready, we went to the village
of those evil people, and it was no more to be found."

"That also I remember," said Mowgli, with a quiver of
his nostril.

"My man, therefore, took service in the fields, and at last--
for, indeed, he was a strong man--we held a little land here.
It is not so rich as the old village, but we do not need much--
we two."

"Where is he the man that dug in the dirt when he was afraid on
that night?"

"He is dead--a year."

"And he?" Mowgli pointed to the child.

"My son that was born two Rains ago. If thou art a Godling,
give him the Favour of the Jungle, that he may be safe among
thy--thy people, as we were safe on that night."

She lifted up the child, who, forgetting his fright, reached out
to play with the knife that hung on Mowgli's chest, and Mowgli
put the little fingers aside very carefully.

"And if thou art Nathoo whom the tiger carried away," Messua
went on, choking, "he is then thy younger brother. Give him an
elder brother's blessing."

"Hai-mai! What do I know of the thing called a blessing?
I am neither a Godling nor his brother, and--O mother, mother,
my heart is heavy in me." He shivered as he set down the child.

"Like enough," said Messua, bustling among the cooking-pots.
"This comes of running about the marshes by night.
Beyond question, the fever had soaked thee to the marrow."
Mowgli smiled a little at the idea of anything in the Jungle
hurting him. "I will make a fire, and thou shalt drink warm
milk. Put away the jasmine wreath: the smell is heavy in so
small a place."

Mowgli sat down, muttering, with his face in his hands.
All manner of strange feelings that he had never felt before
were running over him, exactly as though he had been poisoned,
and he felt dizzy and a little sick. He drank the warm milk in
long gulps, Messua patting him on the shoulder from time to
time, not quite sure whether he were her son Nathoo of the long
ago days, or some wonderful Jungle being, but glad to feel that
he was at least flesh and blood.

"Son," she said at last,--her eyes were full of pride,--
"have any told thee that thou art beautiful beyond all men?"

"Hah?" said Mowgli, for naturally he had never heard anything of
the kind. Messua laughed softly and happily. The look in his
face was enough for her.

"I am the first, then? It is right, though it comes seldom,
that a mother should tell her son these good things. Thou art
very beautiful. Never have I looked upon such a man."

Mowgli twisted his head and tried to see over his own hard
shoulder, and Messua laughed again so long that Mowgli,
not knowing why, was forced to laugh with her, and the child
ran from one to the other, laughing too.

"Nay, thou must not mock thy brother," said Messua, catching
him to her breast. "When thou art one-half as fair we will marry
thee to the youngest daughter of a king, and thou shalt ride
great elephants."

Mowgli could not understand one word in three of the talk here;
the warm milk was taking effect on him after his long run, so he
curled up and in a minute was deep asleep, and Messua put the
hair back from his eyes, threw a cloth over him, and was happy.
Jungle-fashion, he slept out the rest of that night and all the
next day; for his instincts, which never wholly slept, warned
him there was nothing to fear. He waked at last with a bound
that shook the hut, for the cloth over his face made him dream
of traps; and there he stood, his hand on his knife, the sleep
all heavy in his rolling eyes, ready for any fight.

Messua laughed, and set the evening meal before him. There were
only a few coarse cakes baked over the smoky fire, some rice,
and a lump of sour preserved tamarinds--just enough to go on
with till he could get to his evening kill. The smell of the dew
in the marshes made him hungry and restless. He wanted to finish
his spring running, but the child insisted on sitting in his
arms, and Messua would have it that his long, blue-black hair
must he combed out. So she sang, as she combed, foolish little
baby-songs, now calling Mowgli her son, and now begging him to
give some of his jungle power to the child. The hut door was
closed, but Mowgli heard a sound he knew well, and saw Messua's
jaw drop with horror as a great gray paw came under the bottom
of the door, and Gray Brother outside whined a muffled and
penitent whine of anxiety and fear.

"Out and wait! Ye would not come when I called," said Mowgli
in Jungle-talk, without turning his head, and the great gray
paw disappeared.

"Do not--do not bring thy--thy servants with thee," said Messua.
"I--we have always lived at peace with the Jungle."

"It is peace," said Mowgli, rising. "Think of that night on the
road to Khanhiwara. There were scores of such folk before thee
and behind thee. But I see that even in springtime the Jungle
People do not always forget. Mother, I go."

Messua drew aside humbly--he was indeed a wood-god, she thought;
but as his hand was on the door the mother in her made her throw
her arms round Mowgli's neck again and again.

"Come back!" she whispered. "Son or no son, come back, for I
love thee--Look, he too grieves."

The child was crying because the man with the shiny knife was
going away.

"Come back again," Messua repeated. "By night or by day this
door is never shut to thee."

Mowgli's throat worked as though the cords in it were being
pulled, and his voice seemed to be dragged from it as he
answered, "I will surely come back."

"And now," he said, as he put by the head of the fawning wolf on
the threshold, "I have a little cry against thee, Gray Brother.
Why came ye not all four when I called so long ago?"

"So long ago? It was but last night. I--we--were singing in
the Jungle the new songs, for this is the Time of New Talk.
Rememberest thou?"

"Truly, truly."

"And as soon as the songs were sung," Gray Brother went on
earnestly, "I followed thy trail. I ran from all the others and
followed hot-foot. But, O Little Brother, what hast THOU done,
eating and sleeping with the Man-Pack?"

"If ye had come when I called, this had never been," said
Mowgli, running much faster.

"And now what is to be?" said Gray Brother. Mowgli was going to
answer when a girl in a white cloth came down some path that led
from the outskirts of the village. Gray Brother dropped out of
sight at once, and Mowgli backed noiselessly into a field of
high-springing crops. He could almost have touched her with
his hand when the warm, green stalks closed before his face
and he disappeared like a ghost. The girl screamed, for she
thought she had seen a spirit, and then she gave a deep sigh.
Mowgli parted the stalks with his hands and watched her till
she was out of sight.

"And now I do not know," he said, sighing in his turn. "WHY did
ye not come when I called?"

"We follow thee--we follow thee," Gray Brother mumbled, licking
at Mowgli's heel. "We follow thee always, except in the Time of
the New Talk."

"And would ye follow me to the Man-Pack?" Mowgli whispered.

"Did I not follow thee on the night our old Pack cast thee out?
Who waked thee lying among the crops?"

"Ay, but again?"

"Have I not followed thee to-night? "

"Ay, but again and again, and it may be again, Gray Brother?"

Gray Brother was silent. When he spoke he growled to himself,
"The Black One spoke truth."

"And he said?"

"Man goes to Man at the last. Raksha, our mother, said----"

"So also said Akela on the night of Red Dog," Mowgli muttered.

"So also says Kaa, who is wiser than us all."

"What dost thou say, Gray Brother?"

"They cast thee out once, with bad talk. They cut thy mouth
with stones. They sent Buldeo to slay thee. They would have
thrown thee into the Red Flower. Thou, and not I, hast said
that they are evil and senseless. Thou, and not I--I follow
my own people--didst let in the Jungle upon them. Thou, and
not I, didst make song against them more bitter even than our
song against Red Dog."

"I ask thee what THOU sayest?"

They were talking as they ran. Gray Brother cantered on a while
without replying, and then he said,--between bound and bound as
it were,--"Man-cub--Master of the Jungle--Son of Raksha, Lair-
brother to me--though I forget for a little while in the spring,
thy trail is my trail, thy lair is my lair, thy kill is my kill,
and thy death-fight is my death-fight. I speak for the Three.
But what wilt thou say to the Jungle?"

"That is well thought. Between the sight and the kill it is not
good to wait. Go before and cry them all to the Council Rock,
and I will tell them what is in my stomach. But they may not
come--in the Time of New Talk they may forget me."

"Hast thou, then, forgotten nothing?" snapped Gray Brother over
his shoulder, as he laid himself down to gallop, and Mowgli
followed, thinking.

At any other season the news would have called all the Jungle
together with bristling necks, but now they were busy hunting
and fighting and killing and singing. From one to another Gray
Brother ran, crying, "The Master of the Jungle goes back to Man!
Come to the Council Rock." And the happy, eager People only
answered, "He will return in the summer heats. The Rains will
drive him to lair. Run and sing with us, Gray Brother."

"But the Master of the Jungle goes back to Man," Gray Brother
would repeat.

"Eee--Yoawa? Is the Time of New Talk any less sweet for that?"
they would reply. So when Mowgli, heavy-hearted, came up through
the well- remembered rocks to the place where he had been
brought into the Council, he found only the Four, Baloo, who was
nearly blind with age, and the heavy, cold-blooded Kaa coiled
around Akela's empty seat.

"Thy trail ends here, then, Manling?" said Kaa, as Mowgli threw
himself down, his face in his hands. "Cry thy cry. We be of one
blood, thou and I--man and snake together."

"Why did I not die under Red Dog?" the boy moaned. "My strength
is gone from me, and it is not any poison. By night and by day
I hear a double step upon my trail. When I turn my head it is as
though one had hidden himself from me that instant. I go to look
behind the trees and he is not there. I call and none cry again;
but it is as though one listened and kept back the answer. I lie
down, but I do not rest. I run the spring running, but I am not
made still. I bathe, but I am not made cool. The kill sickens
me, but I have no heart to fight except I kill. The Red Flower
is in my body, my bones are water--and--I know not what I know."

"What need of talk?" said Baloo slowly, turning his head to
where Mowgli lay. "Akela by the river said it, that Mowgli
should drive Mowgli back to the Man-Pack. I said it. But who
listens now to Baloo? Bagheera--where is Bagheera this night?--
he knows also. It is the Law."

"When we met at Cold Lairs, Manling, I knew it," said Kaa,
turning a little in his mighty coils. "Man goes to Man at the
last, though the Jungle does not cast him out."

The Four looked at one another and at Mowgli, puzzled
but obedient.

"The Jungle does not cast me out, then?" Mowgli stammered.

Gray Brother and the Three growled furiously, beginning,
"So long as we live none shall dare----" But Baloo checked them.

"I taught thee the Law. It is for me to speak," he said;
"and, though I cannot now see the rocks before me, I see far.
Little Frog, take thine own trail; make thy lair with thine own
blood and pack and people; but when there is need of foot or
tooth or eye, or a word carried swiftly by night, remember,
Master of the Jungle, the Jungle is thine at call."

"The Middle Jungle is thine also," said Kaa. I speak for no
small people."

"Hai-mai, my brothers," cried Mowgli, throwing up his arms with
a sob. "I know not what I know! I would not go; but I am drawn
by both feet. How shall I leave these nights?"

"Nay, look up, Little Brother," Baloo repeated. There is no
shame in this hunting. When the honey is eaten we leave the
empty hive."

"Having cast the skin," said Kaa, "we may not creep into it
afresh. It is the Law."

"Listen, dearest of all to me," said Baloo. There is neither
word nor will here to hold thee back. Look up! Who may question
the Master of the Jungle? I saw thee playing among the white
pebbles yonder when thou wast a little frog; and Bagheera,
that bought thee for the price of a young bull newly killed,
saw thee also. Of that Looking Over we two only remain;
for Raksha, thy lair-mother, is dead with thy lair-father;
the old Wolf-Pack is long since dead; thou knowest whither
Shere Khan went, and Akela died among the dholes, where,
but for thy wisdom and strength, the second Seeonee Pack would
also have died. There remains nothing but old bones. It is no
longer the Man-cub that asks leave of his Pack, but the Master
of the Jungle that changes his trail. Who shall question Man
in his ways?"

"But Bagheera and the Bull that bought me," said Mowgli.
"I would not----"

His words were cut short by a roar and a crash in the thicket
below, and Bagheera, light, strong, and terrible as always,
stood before him.

"Therefore," he said, stretching out a dripping right paw,
"I did not come. It was a long hunt, but he lies dead in the
bushes now--a bull in his second year--the Bull that frees thee,
Little Brother. All debts are paid now. For the rest, my word is
Baloo's word." He licked Mowgli's foot. "Remember, Bagheera
loved thee," he cried, and bounded away. At the foot of the hill
he cried again long and loud, "Good hunting on a new trail,
Master of the Jungle! Remember, Bagheera loved thee."

"Thou hast heard," said Baloo. "There is no more. Go now;
but first come to me. O wise Little Frog, come to me!"

"It is hard to cast the skin," said Kaa as Mowgli sobbed and
sobbed, with his head on the blind bear's side and his arms
round his neck, while Baloo tried feebly to lick his feet.

"The stars are thin," said Gray Brother, snuffing at the dawn
wind. "Where shall we lair to-day? for from now, we follow
new trails."


And this is the last of the Mowgli stories.

Rudyard Kipling