Joseph Rudyard Kipling

Ten minutes later little Kotick did not recognize his friends any more, for their skins were ripped off from the nose to the hind flippers, whipped off and thrown down on the ground in a pile.

The rea­son the beasts give among them­selves is that Man is the weak­est and most de­fense­less of all liv­ing things, and it is un­sports­man­like to touch him. They say too—and it is true—that man-eaters be­come mangy, and lose their teeth.

have heard now and again of such a thing, but never in our pack or in my time,

have seen Mowgli among the Ban­dar-log. He bade me tell you. I watched. The Ban­dar-log have taken him be­yond the river to the Mon­key City—to the Cold Lairs. They may stay there for a night, or ten nights, or an hour. I have told the bats to watch through the dark time. That is my mes­sage. Good hunt­ing, all you be­low!”

called me speck­led frog.”
“

mon­keys called the place their city, and pre­tended to de­spise the Jun­gle Peo­ple be­cause they lived in the for­est. And yet they never knew what the build­ings were made for nor how to use them. They would sit in cir­cles on the hall of the king’s coun­cil-cham­ber, and scratch for fleas and pre­tend to be men; or they would run in and out of the roof­less houses and col­lect pieces of plas­ter and old bricks i

It was the jackal—Tabaqui, the Dish-licker—and the wolves of In­dia de­spise Tabaqui be­cause he runs about mak­ing mis­chief, and telling tales, and eat­ing rags and pieces of leather from the vil­lage rub­bish-heaps. They are afraid of him too, be­cause Tabaqui, more than any­one else in the jun­gle, is apt to go mad, and then he for­gets that he was ever afraid of any­one, and runs through the for­est bit­ing ev­ery­thing in his way. Even the tiger hides when lit­tle Tabaqui goes mad, for mad­ness is the most dis­grace­ful thing that can over­take a wild crea­ture. We call it hy­dropho­bia, but they call it de­wa­nee—the mad­ness—and run.

I have no gift of words, but I speak the truth. Let him run with the Pack, and be en­tered with the oth­ers. I my­self will teach him.”

The whine had changed to a sort of hum­ming purr that seemed to roll from ev­ery quar­ter of the com­pass.

A black shadow dropped down into the cir­cle. It was Bagheera, the Black Pan­ther, inky black all over, but with the pan­ther mark­ings show­ing up in cer­tain lights like the pat­tern of wa­tered silk. Every­body knew Bagheera, and no­body cared to cross his path; for he was as cun­ning as Tabaqui, as bold as the wild buf­falo, and as reck­less as the wounded ele­phant. But he had a voice as soft as wild honey drip­ping from a tree, and a skin softer than down.