And

Y-y-y-y-y-y-y-y-y

The music is indescribable, I can only say that it is as beautiful as
the words.[Footnote: "The peculiarly liquid quality of Polynesian
phonetics is impossible for foreigners to acquire. Europeans who attempt
a mastery of these sounds invariably suffer from what etymologists
call metabelia, or vowel complaint."--_Prof. C.H. Towne, Nyack
University_.]

On the third encore they turned and slowly but surely filed out of the
clearing into the forest. Long after they had disappeared our eyes
still hung over the edge of our apartment and we could hear in our
memories the sweet refrain--

W-w-w-w-w-w-w-w-w
Y-y-y-y-y-y-y-y-y

As we lay there like men in a trance I saw a dull red glow on the
horizon and then, far off a rocket split the velvet night, burst into
stars and disappeared.

It was William Henry Thomas, aboard the Kawa--a signal of
distress! Poor goof! We had completely forgotten him.

I had a vague sense, shared, I think, by the others, that I ought to
worry a bit about him. But it was no use. One by one we lowered
ourselves into the pit of our arboreal home and drifted into delicious
languorous reveries, not of William Henry Thomas. We had other things