an, and we will talk to thee; and we
will come into the crop-lands to play with thee by night.'

'Come soon!' said Father Wolf. 'Oh, wise little frog, come again
soon; for we be old, thy mother and I.'

'Come soon,' said Mother Wolf, 'little naked son of mine; for,
listen, child of man, I loved thee more than ever I loved my cubs.'

'I will surely come,' said Mowgli; 'and when I come it will be to
lay out Shere Khan's hide upon the Council Rock. Do not forget me!
Tell them in the jungle never to forget me!'

The dawn was beginning to break when Mowgli went down the hillside
alone, to meet those mysterious things that are called men.

THE LOST LEGION.

When the Indian Mutiny broke out, and a little time before the siege
of Delhi, a regiment of Native Irregular Horse was stationed at
Peshawur on the Frontier of India. That regiment caught what John
Lawrence called at the time 'the prevalent mania,' and would have
thrown in its lot with the mutineers had it been allowed to do so.
The chance never came, for, as the regiment swept off down south, it
was headed up by a remnant of an English corps into the hills of
Afghanistan, and there the newly-conquered tribesmen turned against
it as wolves turn against buck. It was hunted for the sake of its
arms and accoutrements from hill to hill, from ravine to ravine, up
and down the dried beds of rivers and round the shoulders of bluffs,
till it disappeared as water sinks in the sand--this officerless,
rebel regiment. The only trace left of its existence to-day is a
nominal roll drawn up in neat round hand and countersigned by an
officer who called himself 'Adjutant, late ---- Irregular Cavalry.'
The paper is yellow with years and dirt, but on the back of it you
can still read a pencil note by John Lawrence, to this effect: 'See
that the two native officers who remained loyal are not deprived of
their estates.--J.L.' Of six hundred and fifty sabres only two stood
strain, and John Lawrence in the midst of all the agony of the first
months of the mutiny found time to think about their merits.

That was more than thirty years ago, and the tribesmen across the
Afghan border who helped to annihilate the regiment are now old men.
Sometimes a graybeard speaks of his share in the massacre. 'They
came,' he will say, 'across the border, very proud, calling upon us
to rise and kill the English, and go down to the sack of Delhi. But
we who had just been conquered by the same E