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, 
