216 EDGE OP 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, 



