22 EDGE OF THE JUNGLE 
Now and then I caught a familiar sound,—faint, 
but not to be forgotten,—the clattering of palm 
fronds. But this came from Boomboom Point, 
fifty yards away (an outjutting of rocks where 
we had secured our first giant catfish of that 
name). The steady rhythm of sound which rose 
and fell with the breeze and sifted into my win- 
dow with the moonbeams, was the gentlest 
shussssssing, a fine whispering, a veritable fern 
of a sound, high and crisp and wholly apart from 
the moaning around the eaves which arose at 
stronger gusts. It brought to mind the steep 
mountain-sides of Pahang, and windy nights 
which presaged great storms in high passes of 
‘Yunnan. . 
But these wonder times lived only through 
memory and were misted with intervening years, 
while it came upon me during early nights, again 
and again, that this was Now, and that into the 
hour-glass neck of Now was headed a maelstrom 
of untold riches of the Future—minutes and 
hours and sapphire days ahead—a Now which 
was wholly unconcerned with leagues and liquor, 
with strikes and salaries. So I turned over with 
the peace which passes all telling—the forecast 
of delving into the private affairs of birds and 
