er 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 always----"

"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 aw