So Mowgli went away and hunted with the four cubs in the jungle from that day on.  But he was not always alone, because, years afterward, he became a man and married.

But that is a story for grown-ups.

Mowgli’s Song

     That he sang at the council rock when he
     danced on Shere Khan’s hide

     The Song of Mowgli—­I, Mowgli, am singing.  Let the jungle
        listen to the things I have done.

     Shere Khan said he would kill—­would kill!  At the gates in the
        twilight he would kill Mowgli, the Frog!

     He ate and he drank.  Drink deep, Shere Khan, for when wilt thou
        drink again?  Sleep and dream of the kill.

     I am alone on the grazing-grounds.  Gray Brother, come to me! 
        Come to me, Lone Wolf, for there is big game afoot!

     Bring up the great bull buffaloes, the blue-skinned herd bulls
        with the angry eyes.  Drive them to and fro as I order.

     Sleepest thou still, Shere Khan?  Wake, oh, wake!  Here come I,
        and the bulls are behind.

     Rama, the King of the Buffaloes, stamped with his foot.  Waters of
        the Waingunga, whither went Shere Khan?

     He is not Ikki to dig holes, nor Mao, the Peacock, that he should
        fly.  He is not Mang the Bat, to hang in the branches.  Little
        bamboos that creak together, tell me where he ran?

     Ow!  He is there.  Ahoo!  He is there.  Under the feet of Rama
        lies the Lame One!  Up, Shere Khan!

     Up and kill!  Here is meat; break the necks of the bulls!

     Hsh!  He is asleep.  We will not wake him, for his strength is
        very great.  The kites have come down to see it.  The black
        ants have come up to know it.  There is a great assembly in his
        honor.

     Alala!  I have no cloth to wrap me.  The kites will see that I am
        naked.  I am ashamed to meet all these people.

     Lend me thy coat, Shere Khan.  Lend me thy gay striped coat that I
        may go to the Council Rock.

     By the Bull that bought me I made a promise—­a little promise. 
        Only thy coat is lacking before I keep my word.

     With the knife, with the knife that men use, with the knife of the
        hunter, I will stoop down for my gift.

     Waters of the Waingunga, Shere Khan gives me his coat for the love
        that he bears me.  Pull, Gray Brother!  Pull, Akela!  Heavy is
        the hide of Shere Khan.

     The Man Pack are angry.  They throw stones and talk child’s talk. 
        My mouth is bleeding.  Let me run away.

     Through the night, through the hot night, run swiftly with me, my
        brothers.  We will leave the lights of the village and go to
        the low moon.