Many strange legends are told of these jungles of India, but none so strange as the story of a small boy named Mowgli.
It all began when the silence of the jungle was broken by an unfamiliar sound. It was a sound like one never heard before in this part of the jungle. It was a man cub!
Had I known how deeply I was to be involved, I would've obeyed my first impulse and walked away. This man cub would have to have nourishment, and soon. It was many days' travel to the nearest man-village, and without a mother's care, he would soon perish.
Then it occurred to me. A family of wolves I knew had been blessed with a litter of cubs. I knew there'd be no problem with the mother, thanks to the maternal instinct.
Ten times, the rains had come and gone, and I often stopped by to see how Mowgli, the man cub, was getting along. He was a favourite with all the young wolf cubs of the pack. No man cub was ever happier. And yet, I knew that someday he would have to go back to his own kind.
