"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


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