“For a wolf, no,” said Tabaqui “but for so mean a person as myself a dry bone is a good feast. “Enter, then, and look,” said Father Wolf, stiffly “but there is no food here.” We call it hydrophobia, but they call it dewanee – the madness – and run. Even the tiger hides when little Tabaqui goes mad, for madness is the most disgraceful thing that can overtake a wild creature.
They are afraid of him too, because Tabaqui, more than any one else in the jungle, is apt to go mad, and then he forgets that he was ever afraid of any one, and runs through the forest biting everything in his way. It was the jackal – Tabaqui, the Dish-licker – and the wolves of India despise Tabaqui because he runs about making mischief, and telling tales, and eating rags and pieces of leather from the village rubbish-heaps. “Augrh!” said Father Wolf, “it is time to hunt again” and he was going to spring downhill when a little shadow with a bushy tail crossed the threshold and whined: “Good luck go with you, O Chief of the Wolves and good luck and strong white teeth go with the noble children, that they may never forget the hungry in this world.” Mother Wolf lay with her big gray nose dropped across her four tumbling, squealing cubs, and the moon shone into the mouth of the cave where they all lived. IT was seven o’clock of a very warm evening in the Seeonee hills when Father Wolf woke up from his day’s rest, scratched himself, yawned, and spread out his paws one after the other to get rid of the sleepy feeling in the tips. Now Rann, the Kite, brings home the night
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