"_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 translate such sweet and poignant music into a superstition,
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 beautiful 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,
there is that note of pure vocal exuberance which is beauty for beauty
and for nothing else; but in this harmony there is sometimes the cry
of a creature who has come upon death unawares, a creature who has
perhaps been dumb all the days of his life, only to cry aloud this
once for pity, for mercy, or for faith, in this hour of his extremity.
Of all, the most terrible is the death-scream of a horse,--a cry of
frightful timbre,--treasured, according to some secret law, until this
dire instant when for him death indeed passes.

It was years ago that I heard the pipes of Pan; but one does not
forget these mysteries of the jungle night: the sounds and scents and
the dim, glimpsed ghosts which flit through the darkness and the
deepest shadow mark a place for themselves in one's memory, which is
not erased. I have lain in my hammock looking at a tapestry of green
draped over a half-fallen tree, and then for a few minutes have turned
to watch the bats flicker across a bit of sky visible through the dark
branches. When I looked back again at the tapestry, although the dusk
had only a moment before settled into the deeper blue of twilight, a
score of great lustrous stars were shining there, making new patterns
in the green drapery; for in this short time, the spectral blooms of
the night had awakened and flooded my resting-place with their
fragrance.

And these were but the first of the flowers; for when the brief tropic
twilight is