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 . There is one day when all things are tired , and the very smells , as they drift on the heavy air , are old and used . One can not explain this , but it feels so . Then there is another day -- to the eye nothing whatever has changed -- when all the smells are new and delightful , and the whiskers of the Jungle People quiver to their roots , and the winter hair comes away from their sides in long , draggled locks . Then , perhaps , a little rain falls , and all the trees and the bushes and the bamboos and the mosses and the juicy-leaved plants wake with a noise of growing that you can almost hear , and under this noise runs , day and night , a deep hum . THAT is the noise of the spring -- a vibrating boom which is neither bees , nor falling water , nor the wind in tree-tops , but the purring of the warm , happy world . Up to this year Mowgli had always delighted in the turn of the seasons . It was he who generally saw the first Eye-of-the-Spring deep down among the grasses , and the first bank of spring clouds , which are like nothing else in the Jungle . His voice could be heard in all sorts of wet , star-lighted , blossoming places , helping the big frogs through their choruses , or mocking the little upside-down owls that hoot through the white nights . Like all his people , spring was the season he chose for his flittings -- moving , for the mere joy of rushing through the warm air , thirty , forty , or fifty miles between twilight and the morning star , and coming back panting and laughing and wreathed with strange flowers . The Four did not follow him on these wild ringings of the Jungle , but went off to sing songs with other wolves . The Jungle People are very busy in the spring , and Mowgli could hear them grunting and screaming and whistling according to their kind . Their voices then are different from their voices at other times of the year , and that is one of the reasons why spring in the Jungle is called the Time of New Talk . But that spring , as he told Bagheera , his stomach was changed in him . Ever since the bamboo shoots turned spotty-brown he had been looking forward to the morning when the smells should change .
But when the XXXXX came , and Mor the Peacock , blazing in bronze and blue and gold , cried it aloud all along the misty woods , and Mowgli opened his mouth to send on the cry , the words choked between his teeth , and a feeling came over him that began at his toes and ended in his hair -- a feeling of pure unhappiness , so that he looked himself over to be sure that he had not trod on a thorn .
Bagheera Ferao bamboo bamboos hanging-on morning mosses night raffle twilight