“Well, look to it then that thou dost not kill the man-cub. He is no tree-trunk to sharpen thy blunt claws upon. But what are those Master Words? I am more likely to give help than to ask it”⁠—Bagheera stretched out one paw and admired the steel-blue ripping-chisel talons at the end of it⁠—“Still I should like to know.”

“I will call Mowgli and he shall say them⁠—if he will. Come, Little Brother!”

“My head is ringing like a bee-tree,” said a sullen voice over their heads, and Mowgli slid down a tree-trunk, very angry and indignant, adding, as he reached the ground: “I come for Bagheera and not for thee , fat old Baloo!”

“That is all one to me,” said Baloo, though he was hurt and grieved. “Tell Bagheera, then, the Master Words of the Jungle that I have taught thee this day.”

“Master Words for which people?” said Mowgli, delighted to show off. “The jungle has many tongues. I know them all.”

“A little thou knowest, but not much. See, O Bagheera, they never thank their teacher! Not one small wolfling has come back to thank old Baloo for his teachings. Say the Word for the Hunting People, then⁠—great scholar!”

“We be of one blood, ye and I,” said Mowgli, giving the words the Bear accent which all the Hunting People of the Jungle use.

“Good! Now for the Birds.”

Mowgli repeated, with the Kite’s whistle at the end of the sentence.

“Now for the Snake People,” said Bagheera.