In the same way he learned many names for the one-man god:  “Mister Kennan,” “Harley,” “Captain Kennan,” and “Skipper.”  Only in the intimacy of the three of them alone did Jerry hear him called:  “Husband-Man,” “My Man,” “Patient One,” “Dear Man,” “Lover,” and “This Woman’s Delight.”  But in no way could Jerry utter these names in address of the one-man nor the many names in address of the one-woman.  Yet on a quiet night with no wind among the trees, often and often had he whispered to Nalasu, by whiff-whuff of name, from a hundred feet away.

One day, bending over him, her hair (drying from a salt-water swim) flying about him, the one-woman, her two hands holding his head and jowls so that his ribbon of kissing tongue just missed her nose in the empty air, sang to him:  “‘Don’t know what to call him, but he’s mighty lak’ a rose!’”

On another day she repeated this, at the same time singing most of the song to him softly in his ear.  In the midst of it Jerry surprised her.  Equally true might be the statement that he surprised himself.  Never, had he consciously done such a thing before.  And he did it without volition.  He never intended to do it.  For that matter, the very thing he did was what mastered him into doing it.  No more than could he refrain from shaking the water from his back after a swim, or from kicking in his sleep when his feet were tickled, could he have avoided doing this imperative thing.

As her voice, in the song, made soft vibrations in his ears, it seemed to him that she grew dim and vague before him, and that somehow, under the soft searching prod of her song, he was otherwhere.  So much was he otherwhere that he did the surprising thing.  He sat down abruptly, almost cataleptically, drew his head away from the clutch of her hands and out of the entanglement of her hair, and, his nose thrust upward at an angle of forty-five degrees, he began to quiver and to breathe audibly in rhythm to the rhythm of her singing.  With a quick jerk, cataleptically, his nose pointed to the zenith, his mouth opened, and a flood of sound poured forth, running swiftly upward in crescendo and slowly falling as it died away.

This howl was the beginning, and it led to the calling him “Sing Song Silly.”  For Villa Kennan was quick to seize upon the howling her singing induced and to develop it.  Never did he hang back when she sat down, extended her welcoming hands to him, and invited:  “Come on, Sing Song Silly.”  He would come to her, sit down with the loved fragrance of her hair in his nostrils, lay the side of his head against hers, point his nose past her ear, and almost immediately follow her when she began her low singing.  Minor strains were especially provocative in getting him started, and, once started, he would sing with her as long as she wished.

Singing it truly was.  Apt in all ways of speech, he quickly learned to soften and subdue his howl till it was mellow and golden.  Even could he manage it to die away almost to a whisper, and to rise and fall, accelerate and retard, in obedience to her own voice and in accord with it.