"That is Ferao, the scarlet woodpecker," said Bagheera. "_He_ has not forgotten. Now I, too, must remember my song," and he began purring and crooning to himself, harking back dissatisfied again and again. "There is no game afoot," said Mowgli. "Little Brother, are _both_ thine ears stopped? That is no killing-word, but my song that I make ready against the need." "I had forgotten. I shall know when the Time of New Talk is here, because then thou and the others all run away and leave me alone." Mowgli spoke rather savagely. "But, indeed, Little Brother," Bagheera began, "we do not always--" "I say ye do," said Mowgli, shooting out his forefinger angrily. "Ye _do_ run away, and I, who am the Master of the Jungle, must needs walk alone. How was it last season, when I would gather sugar-cane from the fields of a Man-Pack? I sent a runner--I sent thee!--to Hathi, bidding him to come upon such a night and pluck the sweet grass for me with his trunk." "He came only two nights later," said Bagheera, cowering a little; "and of that long, sweet grass that pleased thee so he gathered more than any Man-cub could eat in all the nights of the Rains. That was no fault of mine." "He did not come upon the night when I sent him the word. No, he was trumpeting and running and roaring through the valleys in the moonlight. His trail was like the trail of three elephants, for he would not hide among the trees. He danced in the moonlight before the houses of the Man-Pack. I saw him, and yet he would not come to me; and _I_ am the Master of the Jungle!" "It was the Time of New Talk," said the panther, always very humble. "Perhaps, Little Brother, thou didst not that time call him by a Master-word? Listen to Ferao, and be glad!" Mowgli's bad temper seemed to have boiled itself away. He lay back with his head on his arms, his eyes shut. "I do not know--nor do I care," he said sleepily. "Let us sleep, Bagheera. My stomach is heavy in me. Make me a rest for my head." The panther lay down again with a sigh, because he could hear Ferao practising and repractising his song against the Springtime of New Talk, as they say. In an Indian Jungle the seasons slide one into the other almost without division. There seem to be only two--the wet and the dry; but if you look closely below the torrents of rain and the clouds of char and dust you will find all four going round in their regular ring. Spring is the most wonderful, because she has not to cover a clean, bare field with new leaves and flowers, but to drive before her and to put away the hanging-on, over-surviving raffle of half-green things which the gentle winter has suffered to live, and to make the partly dressed stale earth feel new and young once more. And this she does so well that there is no spring in the world like the Jungle spring.