All the Mowgli Stories (Macmillan Collector's Library)

‘Men are always more ready to eat than to run,’ Mowgli answered, trotting in and out between the low scrub bushes of the new Jungle they were exploring. Bagheera, a little to his left, made an indescribable noise in his throat.

‘Here is one that has done with feeding,’ said he. A tumbled bundle of gay-coloured clothes lay under a bush, and round it was some spilt flour.

‘That was done by the bamboo again,’ said Mowgli. ‘See! that white dust is what men eat. They have taken the kill from this one,—he carried their food,—and given him for a kill to Chil, the Kite.’

‘It is the third,’ said Bagheera.

‘I will go with new, big frogs to the Father of Cobras, and feed him fat,’ said Mowgli to himself. ‘The drinker of elephant’s blood is Death himself—but still I do not understand!’

‘Follow!’ said Bagheera.

They had not gone half a mile farther when they heard Ko, the Crow, singing the death-song in the top of a tamarisk under whose shade three men were lying. A half-dead fire smoked in the centre of the circle, under an iron plate which held a blackened and burned cake of unleavened bread. Close to the fire, and blazing in the sunshine, lay the ruby-and-turquoise ankus.

‘The thing works quickly; all ends here,’ said Bagheera. ‘How did these die, Mowgli? There is no mark on any.’

A Jungle-dweller gets to learn by experience as much as many doctors know of poisonous plants and berries. Mowgli sniffed the smoke that came up from the fire, broke off a morsel of the blackened bread, tasted it, and spat it out again.

‘Apple of Death,’ he coughed. ‘The first must have made it ready in the food for these, who killed him, having first killed the Gond.’

‘Good hunting, indeed! The kills follow close,’ said Bagheera.

‘Apple of Death’ is what the Jungle call thorn-apple or dhatura, the readiest poison in all India.

‘What now?’ said the panther. ‘Must thou and I kill each other for yonder red-eyed slayer?’

‘Can it speak?’ said Mowgli in a whisper. ‘Did I do it a wrong when I threw it away? Between us two it can do no wrong, for we do not desire what men desire. If it be left here, it will assuredly continue to kill men one after another as fast as nuts fall in a high wind. I have no love to men, but even I would not have them die six in a night.’

‘What matter? They are only men. They killed one another, and were well pleased,’ said Bagheera. ‘That first little woodman hunted well.’

‘They are cubs none the less; and a cub will drown himself to bite the moon’s light on the water. The fault was mine,’ said Mowgli, who spoke as though he knew all about everything. ‘I will never again bring into the Jungle strange things—not though they be as beautiful as flowers. This’—he handled the ankus gingerly—‘goes back to the Father of Cobras. But first we must sleep, and we cannot sleep near these sleepers. Also we must bury him, lest he run away and kill another six. Dig me a hole under that tree.’

‘But, Little Brother,’ said Bagheera, moving off to the spot, ‘I tell thee it is no fault of the blood-drinker. The trouble is with the men.’

‘All one,’ said Mowgli. ‘Dig the hole deep. When we wake I will take him up and carry him back.’

Two nights later, as the White Cobra sat mourning in the darkness of the vault, ashamed, and robbed, and alone, the turquoise ankus whirled through the hole in the wall, and clashed on the floor of golden coins.

‘Father of Cobras,’ said Mowgli (he was careful to keep the other side of the wall), ‘get thee a young and ripe one of thine own people to help thee guard the King’s Treasure, so that no man may come away alive any more.’

‘Ah-ha! It returns, then. I said the thing was Death. How comes it that thou art still alive?’ the old Cobra mumbled, twining lovingly round the ankus-haft.

‘By the Bull that bought me, I do not know! That thing has killed six times in a night. Let him go out no more.’

The Song of the Little Hunter

Ere Mor the Peacock flutters, ere the Monkey-People cry,

Ere Chil the Kite swoops down a furlong sheer,

Through the Jungle very softly flits a shadow and a sigh—

He is Fear, O Little Hunter, he is Fear!

Very softly down the glade runs a waiting, watching shade,

And the whisper spreads and widens far and near;

And the sweat is on thy brow, for he passes even now—

He is Fear, O Little Hunter, he is Fear!

Ere the moon has climbed the mountain, ere the rocks are ribbed with light,

When the downward-dipping trails are dank and drear,

Comes a breathing hard behind thee—snuffle-snuffle through the night—

It is Fear, O Little Hunter, it is Fear!

On thy knees and draw the bow; bid the shrilling arrow go;

In the empty, mocking thicket plunge the spear;

But thy hands are loosed and weak, and the blood has left thy cheek—

It is Fear, O Little Hunter, it is Fear!

When the heat-cloud sucks the tempest, when the slivered pine-trees fall,

When the blinding, blaring rain-squalls lash and veer;

Through the war-gongs of the thunder rings a voice more loud than all—