Complete Works of Rudyard Kipling (Illustrated) (1049 page)

The Moon of Other Days

Beneath the deep veranda’s shade,
  When bats begin to fly,
I sit me down and watch — alas! —
  Another evening die.
Blood-red behind the sere
ferash
  She rises through the haze.
Sainted Diana! can that be
  The Moon of Other Days?

Ah! shade of little Kitty Smith,
  Sweet Saint of Kensington!
Say, was it ever thus at Home
  The Moon of August shone,
When arm in arm we wandered long
  Through Putney’s evening haze,
And Hammersmith was Heaven beneath
  The moon of Other Days?

But Wandle’s stream is Sutlej now,
  And Putney’s evening haze
The dust that half a hundered kine
  Before my window raise.
Unkempt, unclean, athwart the mist
  The seething city looms,
In place of Putney’s golden gorse
  The sickly
babul
blooms.

Glare down, old Hecate, through the dust,
  And bid the pie-dog yell,
Draw from the drain its typhoid-term,
  From each bazaar its smell;
Yea, suck the fever from the tank
  And sap my strength therewith:
Thank Heaven, you show a smiling face
  To little Kitty Smith!

The Moral

Author Unknown
 — The Muse Among the Motors (1900-1936)

You mustn’t groom an Arab with a file.
  You hadn’t ought to tension-spring a mule.
You couldn’t push a brumby fifty mile
  And drop him in a boiler-shed to cool.
I’ll sling you through six counties in a day.
  I’ll hike you up a grade of one in ten.
I am Duty, Law and Order under way,
  I’m the Mentor of banana-fingered men!
I will make you I know your left hand from your right.
  I will teach you  not to drink about your biz.
I’m the only temperance advocate in sight!
  I am all the Education Act there is!

Morning Song in the Jungle

“Letting in the Jungle” — The Second Jungle Book

One moment past our bodies cast
  No shadow on the plain;
Now clear and black they stride our track,
  And we run home again.
In morning-hush, each rock and bush
  Stands hard, and high, and raw:
Then give the Call: 
“Good rest to all
  That keep the Jungle Law!”

Now horn and pelt our peoples melt
  In covert to abide;
Now, crouched and still, to cave and hill
  Our  Jungle Barons glide.
Now, stark and plain, Man’s oxen strain,
  That draw the new-yoked plough;
Now, stripped and dread, the dawn is red
  Above the lit
talao.

Ho! Get to lair! The sun’s aflare
  Behind the breathing grass:
And creaking through the young bamboo
  The warning whispers pass.
By day made strange, the woods we range
  With blinking eyes we scan;
While down the skies the wild duck cries:
 
“The Day — the Day to Man!”

The dew is dried that drenched our hide,
  Or washed about our way;
And where we drank, the puddled bank
  Is crisping into clay.
The traitor Dark gives up each mark
  Of stretched or hooded claw:
Then hear the Call: 
“Good rest to all
  That keep the Jungle Law!”

The Mother-Lodge

There was Rundle, Station Master,
 An’ Beazeley of the Rail,
An’ ‘Ackman, Commissariat,
 An’ Donkin’ o’ the Jail;
An’ Blake, Conductor-Sargent,
 Our Master twice was ‘e,
With ‘im that kept the Europe-shop,
 Old Framjee Eduljee.

Outside — “Sergeant!  Sir!  Salute!  Salaam!”
Inside — “Brother”, an’ it doesn’t do no ‘arm.
We met upon the Level an’ we parted on the Square,
An’ I was Junior Deacon in my Mother-Lodge out there!

We’d Bola Nath, Accountant,
 An’ Saul the Aden Jew,
An’ Din Mohammed, draughtsman
 Of the Survey Office too;
There was Babu Chuckerbutty,
 An’ Amir Singh the Sikh,
An’ Castro from the fittin’-sheds,
 The Roman Catholick!

We ‘adn’t good regalia,
 An’ our Lodge was old an’ bare,
But we knew the Ancient Landmarks,
 An’ we kep’ ‘em to a hair;
An’ lookin’ on it backwards
 It often strikes me thus,
There ain’t such things as infidels,
 Excep’, per’aps, it’s us.

For monthly, after Labour,
 We’d all sit down and smoke
(We dursn’t give no banquits,
 Lest a Brother’s caste were broke),
An’ man on man got talkin’
 Religion an’ the rest,
An’ every man comparin’
 Of the God ‘e knew the best.

So man on man got talkin’,
 An’ not a Brother stirred
Till mornin’ waked the parrots
 An’ that dam’ brain-fever-bird;
We’d say ‘twas ‘ighly curious,
 An’ we’d all ride ‘ome to bed,
With Mo’ammed, God, an’ Shiva
 Changin’ pickets in our ‘ead.

Full oft on Guv’ment service
 This rovin’ foot ‘ath pressed,
An’ bore fraternal greetin’s
 To the Lodges east an’ west,
Accordin’ as commanded
 From Kohat to Singapore,
But I wish that I might see them
 In my Mother-Lodge once more!

I wish that I might see them,
 My Brethren black an’ brown,
With the trichies smellin’ pleasant
 An’ the
hog-darn
passin’ down;                          [Cigar-lighter.]
An’ the old khansamah snorin’          [Butler.]
 On the bottle-khana floor,      [Pantry.]
Like a Master in good standing
 With my Mother-Lodge once more!

Outside — “Sergeant!  Sir!  Salute!  Salaam!”
Inside — “Brother”, an’ it doesn’t do no ‘arm.
We met upon the Level an’ we parted on the Square,
An’ I was Junior Deacon in my Mother-Lodge out there!

Mother o’ Mine

DEDICATION TO “THE LIGHT THAT FAILED”
If I were hanged on the highest hill,
Mother o’ mine, O mother o’ mine!
I know whose love would follow me still,
Mother o’ mine, O mother o’ mine!

If I were drowned in the deepest sea,
Mother o’ mine, O mother o’ mine!
I know whose tears would come down to me,
Mother o’ mine, O mother o’ mine!

If I were damned of body and soul,
I know whose prayers would make me whole,
Mother o’ mine, O mother o’ mine!

The Mother’s Son

“Fairy Kist”
From “Limits and Renewals” (1932)
I have a dream — a dreadful dream —
  A dream that is never done.
I watch a man go out of his mind,
  And he is My Mother’s Son.

They pushed him into a Mental Home,
  And that is like the grave:
For they do not let you sleep upstairs,
  And you aren’t allowed to shave.

And it was
not
disease or crime
  Which got him landed there,
But because They laid on My Mother’s Son
  More than a man could bear.

What with noise, and fear of death,
  Waking, and wounds and cold,
They filled the Cup for My Mother’s Son
  Fuller than it could hold.

They broke his body and his mind
  And yet They made him live,
And They asked more of My Mother’s Son
  Than any man could give.

For, just because he had not died,
  Nor been discharged nor sick,
They dragged it out with My Mother’s Son
  Longer than he could stick....

And no one knows when he’ll get well —
  So, there he’ll have to be:
 And, ‘spite of the beard in the looking-glass,
   I know that man is me!

Mowgli’s Song

THAT HE SANG AT THE COUNCIL ROCK WHEN HE DANCED ON SHERE KHAN’S HIDE
(From The Jungle Book)

The Song of Mowgli — I, Mowgli, am singing. Let
      the jungle listen to the things I have done.
Shere Khan said he would kill — would kill! At the
      gates in the twilight he would kill Mowgli, the
      Frog!
He ate and he drank. Drink deep, Shere Khan, for
      when wilt thou drink again? Sleep and dream
      of the kill.
I am alone on the grazing-grounds. Gray Brother,
      come to me! Come to me, Lone Wolf, for there
      is big game afoot.
Bring up the great bull-buffaloes, the blue-skinned
      herd-bulls with the angry eyes. Drive them to
      and fro as I order.
Sleepest thou still, Shere Khan? Wake, O wake!
      Here come I, and the bulls are behind.
Rama, the King of the Buffaloes, stamped with his
      foot. Waters of the Waingunga, whither went
      Shere Khan?
He is not Ikki to dig holes, nor Mao, the Peacock, that
      he should fly. He is not Mang, the Bat, to hang
      in the branches. Little bamboos that creak to-
      gether, tell me where he ran?
Ow! He is there. Ahoo! He is there. Under the
      feet of Rama lies the Lame One! Up, Shere
      Khan! Up and kill! Here is meat; break the
      necks of the bulls!
Hsh! He is asleep. We will not wake him, for his
      strength is very great. The kites have come down
      to see it. The black ants have come up to know
      it. There is a great assembly in his honour.
Alala! I have no cloth to wrap me. The kites will
      see that I am naked. I am ashamed to meet all
      these people.
Lend me thy coat, Shere Khan. Lend me thy gay
      striped coat that I may go to the Council Rock.
By the Bull that bought me I have made a promise —
      a little promise. Only thy coat is lacking before I
      keep my word.
With the knife — with the knife that men use — with
      the knife of the hunter, the man, I will stoop down
      for my gift.
Waters of the Waingunga, bear witness that Shere
      Khan gives me his coat for the love that he bears
      me. Pull, Gray Brother! Pull, Akela! Heavy is
      the hide of Shere Khan.
The Man Pack are angry. They throw stones and talk
      child’s talk. My mouth is bleeding. Let us run
      away.
Through the night, through the hot night, run swiftly
      with me, my brothers. We will leave the lights
      of the village and go to the low moon.
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 the 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.

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, there 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.

Mowgli’s Song Against People

“Letting in the Jungle” — The Second Jungle Book

I will let loose against you the fleet-footed vines —
I will call in the Jungle to stamp out your lines!
     The roofs shall fade before it,
       The house-beams shall  fall;
     And the Karela,. the bitter Karela,
       Shall cover it all!

In the gates of these your councils my people shall sing.
In the doors of these your garners the Bat-folk shall cling;
     And the snake shall be your watchman,
       By a hearthstone unswept;
     For the Karela, the bitter Karela,
       Shall fruit where ye slept!

Ye shall not see my strikers; ye shall hear them and guess.
By night, before the moon-rise, I will send for my cess,
     And the wolf shall be your herdsman
       By a landmark removed;
     For the Karela, the bitter Karela,
       Shall seed where ye loved!

I will reap your fields before you at the hands of a host.
Ye shall glean behind my reapers for the bread that is lost;
     And the deer shall be your oxen
       On a headland untilled;
     For the Karela, the bitter Karela,
       Shall leaf where ye build!

I have untied against you the club-footed vines —
I have sent in the Jungle to swamp out your lines!
     The trees — the trees are on you!
       The house-beams shall fall;
     And the Karela, the bitter Karela,
       Shall cover you all!