Everybody in the cavern smiled, and I daresay if the truth were known we had discovered the mother-lode of comedy.

That one note chased all the others out of the dome as a dog might chase sheep--as the wind blows clouds away--as a cop drives small boys off the grass.

They actually scampered out of hearing, and you couldn't imagine them hiding close by, either; they were gone for good, and that one, clear master-note--the middle F--went vibrating around and around, as if scouring out the very smell of what had been there.
"That is the key-note of all nature," said the Mahatma.

"All sounds, all colors, all thoughts, all vibrations center in that note.

It is the key that can unlock them all." The silence that followed when the last ringing overtone had gone off galloping in its stride toward infinity was the most absolute and awful silence I have ever had to listen to.