But Mowgli did not trouble his head about the water ; little water in the world could have given him a moment 's fear . He was looking at the gorge on either side and sniffing uneasily , for there was a sweetish-sourish smell in the air , very like the smell of a big ant-hill on a hot day . Instinctively he lowered himself in the water , only raising his head to breathe from time to time , and Kaa came to anchor with a double twist of his tail round a sunken rock , holding Mowgli in the hollow of a coil , while the water raced on . `` This is the Place of Death , '' said the boy . `` Why do we come here ? '' `` They sleep , '' said Kaa . `` Hathi will not turn aside for the Striped One . Yet Hathi and the Striped One together turn aside for the dhole , and the dhole they say turn aside for nothing . And yet for whom do the Little People of the Rocks turn aside ? Tell me , Master of the Jungle , who is the Master of the Jungle ? '' `` These , '' Mowgli whispered . `` It is the Place of Death . Let us go . '' `` Nay , look well , for they are asleep . It is as it was when I was not the length of thy arm . '' The split and weatherworn rocks of the gorge of the Waingunga had been used since the beginning of the Jungle by the Little People of the Rocks -- the busy , furious , black wild bees of India ; and , as Mowgli knew well , all trails turned off half a mile before they reached the gorge . For centuries the Little People had hived and swarmed from cleft to cleft , and swarmed again , staining the white marble with stale honey , and made their combs tall and deep in the dark of the inner caves , where neither man nor beast nor fire nor water had ever touched them . The length of the gorge on both siaes was hung as it were with black shimmery velvet curtains , and Mowgli sank as he looked , for those were the clotted millions of the sleeping bees . There were other lumps and festoons and things like decayed tree-trunks studded on the face of the rock , the old combs of past years , or new cities built in the shadow of the windless gorge , and huge masses of spongy , rotten trash had rolled down and stuck among the trees and creepers that clung to the rock-face . As he listened he heard more than once the rustle and slide of a honey-loaded comb turning over or failing away somewhere in the dark galleries ; then a booming of angry wings , and the sullen drip , drip , drip , of the wasted honey , guttering along till it lipped over some ledge in the open air and sluggishly trickled down on the twigs .
There was a tiny little beach , not five feet broad , on one side of the river , and that was piled high with the rubbish of uncounted XXXXX .
India Kaa Mowgli Striped centuries dhole rock-face siaes tree-trunks years