216 EDGE OF THE JUNGLE 



if he were going deeper into the woods, I heard 

 him once more tuning up his pipes; but he did 

 not play again. 



Beside me, I heard the low voice of one of my 

 natives murmuring, ''Muerte ha pasado," My 

 mind took up this phrase, repeating it, giving it 

 the rhythm of Pan's song — a rhythm delicate, 

 sustained, full of color and meaning in itself. 

 I was ashamed that one of my kind could trans- 

 late such sweet and poignant music into a super- 

 stition, could believe that it was the song of 

 death, — the death that passes, — and not the voice 

 of life. But it may have been that he was wiser 

 in such matters than I; superstitions are many 

 times no more than truth in masquerade. For 

 I could call it by no name — whether bird or beast, 

 creature of fur or feather or scale. And not 

 for one, but for a thousand creatures within my 

 hearing, any obscure nocturnal sound may have 

 heralded the end of life. Song and death may 

 go hand in hand, and such a song may be a beau- 

 tiful one, unsung, unuttered until this moment 

 when Nature demands the final payment for 

 what she has given so lavishly. In the open, the 

 dominant note is the call to a mate, and with it, 

 that there may be color and form and contrast. 



