Waters of the Waingunga, the Man-Pack have cast me out.  I did
        them no harm, but they were afraid of me.  Why?

     Wolf Pack, ye have cast me out too.  The jungle is shut to me and
        the village gates are shut.  Why?

     As Mang flies between the beasts and birds, so fly I between the
        village and the jungle.  Why?

     I dance on the hide of Shere Khan, but my heart is very heavy.  My
        mouth is cut and wounded with the stones from the village, but
        my heart is very light, because I have come back to the jungle. 
        Why?

     These two things fight together in me as the snakes fight in the
        spring.  The water comes out of my eyes; yet I laugh while it
        falls.  Why?

     I am two Mowglis, but the hide of Shere Khan is under my feet.

     All the jungle knows that I have killed Shere Khan.  Look—­look
        well, O Wolves!

     Ahae!  My heart is heavy with the things that I do not understand.

The White Seal

Oh! hush thee, my baby, the night is behind us,
And black are the waters that sparkled so green. 
The moon, o’er the combers, looks downward to find us
At rest in the hollows that rustle between. 
Where billow meets billow, then soft be thy pillow,
Ah, weary wee flipperling, curl at thy ease! 
The storm shall not wake thee, nor shark overtake thee,
Asleep in the arms of the slow-swinging seas!

Seal Lullaby

All these things happened several years ago at a place called Novastoshnah, or North East Point, on the Island of St. Paul, away and away in the Bering Sea.  Limmershin, the Winter Wren, told me the tale when he was blown on to the rigging of a steamer going to Japan, and I took him down into my cabin and warmed and fed him for a couple of days till he was fit to fly back to St. Paul’s again.  Limmershin is a very quaint little bird, but he knows how to tell the truth.

Nobody comes to Novastoshnah except on business, and the only people who have regular business there are the seals.  They come in the summer months by hundreds and hundreds of thousands out of the cold gray sea.  For Novastoshnah Beach has the finest accommodation for seals of any place in all the world.

Sea Catch knew that, and every spring would swim from whatever place he happened to be in—­would swim like a torpedo-boat straight for Novastoshnah and spend a month fighting with his companions for a good place on the rocks, as close to the sea as possible.  Sea Catch was fifteen years old, a huge gray fur seal with almost a mane on his shoulders, and long, wicked dog teeth.  When he heaved himself up on his front flippers he stood more than four feet clear of the ground, and his weight, if anyone had been bold enough to weigh him, was nearly seven hundred pounds.  He was scarred all over with the marks of savage fights, but he was always ready for just one fight more.  He would put his head on one side, as though he were afraid to look his enemy in the face; then he would shoot it out like lightning, and when the big teeth were firmly fixed on the other seal’s neck, the other seal might get away if he could, but Sea Catch would not help him.