uvenile collections. _Just-So Stories_ and the two
_Jungle Books_ (prose interspersed with lively rhymes) are classics
for young people of all ages. _Kim_, the novel of a super-Mowgli grown
up, is a more mature masterpiece.

Considered solely as a poet (see Preface) he is one of the most
vigorous and unique figures of his time. The spirit of romance surges
under his realities. His brisk lines conjure up the tang of a
countryside in autumn, the tingle of salt spray, the rude sentiment of
ruder natures, the snapping of a banner, the lurch and rumble of the
sea. His poetry is woven of the stuff of myths; but it never loses its
hold on actualities. Kipling himself in his poem "The Benefactors"
(from _The Years Between_ [1919]) writes:

Ah! What avails the classic bent
And what the cultured word,
Against the undoctored incident
That actually occurred?

Kipling won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1907. His varied poems
have finally been collected in a remarkable one-volume _Inclusive
Edition_ (1885-1918), an indispensable part of any student's library.
This gifted and prolific creator, whose work was affected by the war,
has frequently lapsed into bombast and a journalistic imperialism. At
his best he is unforgettable, standing mountain-high above his host of
imitators. His home is at Burwash, Sussex.

GUNGA DIN

You may talk o' gin an' beer
When you're quartered safe out 'ere,
An' you're sent to penny-fights an' Aldershot it;
But if it comes to slaughter
You will do your work on water,
An' you'll lick the bloomin' boots of 'im that's got it
Now in Injia's sunny clime,
Where I used to spend my time
A-servin' of 'Er Majesty the Queen,
Of all them black-faced crew
The finest man I knew
Was our regimental _bhisti_,[5] Gunga Din.

It was "Din! Din! Din!
You limping lump o' brick-dust, Gunga Din!
Hi! _slippy hitherao!_
Water, get it! _Panee lao!_[6]
You squidgy-nosed old idol, Gunga Din!"

The uniform 'e wore
Was nothin' much before,
An' rather less than 'arf o' that be'ind,
For a twisty piece o' rag
An' a goatskin water-bag
Was all the field-equipment 'e could find.
When the sweatin' troop-train lay
In a sidin' through the day,
Where the 'eat would make your bloomin' eyebrows crawl,
We shouted "_Harry By!_"[7]
Till our throats were bricky-dry,
Then we