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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.
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."
"I said the Time of New Talk is near," growled the panther, switching his tail. "I hear," Mowgli answered. "Bagheera, why dost thou shake all over? The sun is warm." "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.
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