The Trumpet of the Swan. Fred Marcellino
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The cygnets gazed for a second at the water, then tottered forward, gave a jump, and were afloat. The water felt good. Swimming was simple—nothing to it. The water was good to drink. Each baby dipped up a mouthful. Their happy father arched his long graceful neck over and around them, protectively. Then he set off very slowly, with the cygnets following along in single file. Their mother brought up the rear.
“What a sight!” Sam said to himself. “What a terrific sight! Seven Trumpeters all in line, five of them just out of the egg. This is my lucky day.” He hardly noticed how stiff he had become from sitting so long on the log.
Like all fathers, the cob wanted to show off his children to somebody. So he led the cygnets to where Sam was. They all stepped out of the water and stood in front of the boy—all but the mother swan. She stayed behind.
“Ko-hoh!” said the cob.
“Hello!” said Sam, who hadn’t expected anything like this and hardly dared breathe.
The first cygnet looked at Sam and said, “Beep.”
The second cygnet looked at Sam and said, “Beep.”
The third cygnet greeted Sam the same way. So did the fourth. The fifth cygnet was different. He opened his mouth but didn’t say a thing. He made an effort to say beep, but no sound came. So instead, he stuck his little neck out, took hold of one of Sam’s shoelaces, and gave it a pull. He tugged at the lace for a moment. It came untied. Then he let it go. It was like a greeting. Sam grinned.
The cob now looked worried. He ran his long white neck between the cygnets and the boy and guided the babies back to the water and to their mother.
“Follow me!” said the cob. And he led them off, full of grace and bursting with pride.
When the mother thought her young ones had had enough swimming and might be chilly, she stepped out on to a sandy shore and squatted down and called them. They quickly followed her out of the pond and burrowed down under her feathers to get warm. In a moment there wasn’t a cygnet in sight.
At noon, Sam got up and walked back to camp, his mind full of what he had seen. Next day, he and his father heard Shorty’s motor in the sky and saw the plane approaching. They grabbed their duffel bags. “Good-bye, camp! See you in the fall!” said Mr. Beaver, as he shut the door and gave it a pat. He and Sam climbed into the plane and were soon aloft, on their way home to Montana. Mr. Beaver did not know that his son had seen a Trumpeter Swan bring off her young ones. Sam kept the matter to himself.
“If I live to be a hundred years old,” thought Sam, “I’ll never forget what it feels like to have my shoelace pulled by a baby swan.”
Sam and his father were late arriving home at the ranch, but late as it was, Sam got out his diary before he turned in for the night. He wrote:
There are five cygnets. They are sort of a dirty brownish-grey colour, but very cute. Their legs are yellow, like mustard. The old cob led them right up to me. I wasn’t expecting this, but I kept very still. Four of the babies said beep. The fifth one tried to, but he couldn’t. He took hold of my shoelace as though it was a worm and gave it a tug and untied it. I wonder what I’m going to be when I grow up?
He switched off the light, pulled the sheet up over his head, and fell asleep wondering what he was going to be when he grew up.
ONE EVENING a few weeks later, when the cygnets were asleep, the swan said to the cob, “Have you noticed anything different about one of our children, the one we call Louis?”
“Different?” replied the cob. “In what way is Louis different from his brothers and sisters? Louis looks all right to me. He is growing well; he swims and dives beautifully. He eats well. He will soon have his flight feathers.”
“Oh, he looks all right,” said the swan. “And heaven knows he eats enough. He’s healthy and bright and a great swimmer. But have you ever heard Louis make any sound, as the others do? Have you ever heard him use his voice or say anything? Have you ever heard him utter a single beep or a single burble?”
“Come to think of it, I never have,” replied the cob, who was beginning to look worried.
“Have you ever heard Louis say good night to us, as the others do? Have you ever heard him say good morning, as the others do in their charming little way, burbling and beeping?”
“Now that you mention it, I never have,” said the cob. “Goodness! What are you getting at? Do you wish me to believe that I have a son who is defective in any way? Such a revelation would distress me greatly. I want everything to go smoothly in my family life so that I can glide gracefully and serenely, now in the prime of my life, without being haunted by worry or disappointment. Fatherhood is quite a burden, at best. I do not want the added strain of having a defective child, a child that has something the matter with him.”
“Well,” said the wife, “I’ve been watching Louis lately. It is my opinion the little fellow can’t talk. I’ve never heard him make one sound. I think he came into the world lacking a voice. If he had a voice, he’d use it, same as the others do.”
“Why, this is terrible!” said the cob. “This is distressing beyond words. This is a very serious matter.”
His wife looked at him in amusement. “It’s not too serious now,” she said. “But it will be serious two or three years from now when Louis falls in love, as he will surely do. A young male swan will be greatly handicapped in finding a mate if he is unable to say ko-hoh, ko-hoh, or if he can’t utter the usual endearments to the young female of his choice.”
“Are you sure?” asked the cob.
“Certainly I’m sure,” she replied. “I can remember perfectly well the springtime, years ago, when you fell in love with me and began chasing after me. What a sight you were, and what a lot of noise you made! It was in Montana, remember?”
“Of course I remember,” said the cob.
“Well, the thing that attracted me most to you was your voice—your wonderful voice.”
“It was?” said the cob.
“Yes. You had the finest, most powerful, most resonant voice of any of the young male swans in the Red Rock Lakes National Wildlife Refuge in Montana.”
“I did?” said the cob.
“Yes, indeed. Every time I heard you say something in that deep voice of yours, I was ready to go anywhere with you.”
“You were?” said the cob. He was obviously delighted with his wife’s praise. It tickled his vanity and made him feel great. He had always fancied himself as having a fine voice, and now to hear it from his wife’s own lips was a real thrill. In the pleasure of the moment, he forgot all about Louis and thought entirely of himself. And, of course, he did remember that enchanted springtime on the lake in Montana when he had fallen in love. He remembered how pretty the swan had been, how young and innocent she seemed, how attractive, how desirable. Now he realized fully that he would never have been able to woo her and win her if he had been unable to say anything.
“We’ll not worry about Louis for the time being,” said the swan. “He’s still very young. But we must watch him next winter when