Playin' single-sticks which we larn to de
army in Bahbaydos, sahgeant."
Thus I wandered on, in and out, till the night lost its youth and
the last train from Colon had dumped its merry crowd at the
station, then wound away along the still and deserted back road
through the night-chirping jungle between the two surviving
Gatuns. There was a spot behind the Division Engineer's hill that
I rarely succeeded in passing without pausing to drink in the
scene, a scallop in the hills where several trees stood out singly
and alone against the myriad starlit sky, below and beyond the
indistinct valleys and ravines from which came up out of the night
the chorus of the jungle. Further on, in American Gatun there was
a seat on the steps before a bungalow that offered more than a
good view in both directions. A broad, U. S.-tamed ravine sank
away in front, across which the Atlantic breeze wafted the
distance-softened thrum of guitar, the tones of fifes and happy
negro voices, while overhead feathery gray clouds as concealing as
a dancer's gossamer hurried leisurely by across the brilliant face
of the moon; to the right in a free space the Southern Cross,
tilted a bit awry, gleamed as it has these untold centuries while
ephemeral humans come and pass their brief way.
It was somewhere near here that Gatun's dry-season mosquito had
his hiding-place.
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