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“Hello,” said Sam in a low voice.
“Ko-hoh, ko-hoh!” replied the cob.
“Ko-hoh!” said his wife. The pond rang with the trumpet sounds—sounds of triumph over the fox, sounds of victory and gladness.
Sam was thrilled at the noise of swans, which some people say is like the sound of a French horn. He walked slowly around the shore to the little point of land near the island and sat down on his log. The swans now realized, beyond any doubt, that the boy was their friend. He had saved the swan’s life. He had been in the right place at the right time and with the right ammunition. The swans felt grateful. The cob swam over toward Sam, climbed out of the pond, and stood close to the boy, looking at him in a friendly way and arching his neck gracefully. Once, he ran his neck far out, cautiously, and almost touched the boy. Sam never moved a muscle. His heart thumped from excitement and joy.
The female paddled back to her nest and returned to the job of warming the eggs. She felt lucky to be alive.
That night before Sam crawled into his bunk at camp, he got out his notebook and found a pencil. This is what he wrote:
I don’t know of anything in the entire world more wonderful to look at than a nest with eggs in it. An egg, because it contains life, is the most perfect thing there is. It is beautiful and mysterious. An egg is a far finer thing than a tennis ball or a cake of soap. A tennis ball will always be just a tennis ball. A cake of soap will always be just a cake of soap—until it gets so small nobody wants it and they throw it away. But an egg will someday be a living creature. A swan’s egg will open and out will come a little swan. A nest is almost as wonderful and mysterious as an egg. How does a bird know how to make a nest? Nobody ever taught her. How does a bird know how to build a nest?
Sam closed his notebook, said good night to his father, blew out his lamp, and climbed into his bunk. He lay there wondering how a bird knows how to build a nest. Pretty soon his eyes closed, and he was asleep.
DURING THE night, the swan thought she heard a pipping sound from the eggs. And in the hour just before dawn, she was sure she felt a slight movement under her breast, as though a tiny body were wiggling there. Perhaps the eggs at last were hatching. Eggs, of course, can’t wiggle, so the swan decided she must have something under her that wasn’t an egg. She sat perfectly still, listening and waiting. The cob floated nearby, keeping watch.
A little swan enclosed in an egg has a hard time getting out. It never would get out if Nature had not provided it with two important things: a powerful neck-muscle and a small dagger-tooth on the tip of its bill. This tooth is sharp, and the baby swan uses it to pick a hole in the tough shell of the egg. Once the hole is made, the rest is easy. The cygnet can breathe now; it just keeps wiggling until it wiggles free.
The cob was expecting to become a father any minute now. The idea of fatherhood made him feel poetical and proud. He began to talk to his wife.
“Here I glide, swanlike,” he said, “while earth is bathed in wonder and beauty. Now, slowly, the light of day comes into our sky. A mist hangs low over the pond. The mist rises slowly, like steam from a kettle, while I glide, swanlike, while eggs hatch, while young swans come into existence. I glide and glide. The light strengthens. The air becomes warmer. Gradually the mist disappears. I glide, I glide, swanlike. Birds sing their early song. Frogs that have croaked in the night stop croaking and are silent. Still I glide, ceaselessly, like a swan.”
“Of course you glide like a swan,” said his wife. “How else could you glide? You couldn’t glide like a moose, could you?”
“Well, no. That is quite true. Thank you, my dear, for correcting me.” The cob felt taken aback by his mate’s commonsense remark. He enjoyed speaking in fancy phrases and graceful language, and he liked to think of himself as gliding swanlike. He decided he’d better do more gliding and less talking.
All morning long, the swan heard the pipping of the shells. And every once in a while, she felt something wriggle beneath her in the nest. It was an odd sensation. The eggs had been quiet for so many, many days—thirty-five days in all—and now at last they were stirring with life. She knew that the proper thing to do was to sit still.
Late in the afternoon, the swan was rewarded for her patience. She gazed down, and there, pushing her feathers aside, came a tiny head—the first baby, the first cygnet. It was soft and downy. Unlike its parents, it was grey. Its feet and legs were the colour of mustard. Its eyes were bright. On unsteady legs, it pushed its way up until it stood beside its mother, looking around at the world it was seeing for the first time. Its mother spoke softly to it, and it was glad to hear her voice. It was glad to breathe the air, after being cooped up so long inside an egg.
The cob, who had been watching intently all day, saw the little head appear. His heart leapt up with joy. “A cygnet!” he cried. “A cygnet at last! I am a father, with all the pleasant duties and awesome responsibilities of fatherhood. O blessed little son of mine, how good it is to see your face peering through the protecting feathers of your mother’s breast, under these fair skies, with the pond so quiet and peaceful in the long light of afternoon!”
“What makes you think it’s a son?” inquired his wife. “For all you know, it’s a daughter. Anyway, it’s a cygnet, and it’s alive and healthy. I can feel others under me, too. Perhaps we’ll get a good hatch. We may even get all five. We’ll know by tomorrow.”
“I have every confidence that we will,” said the cob.
Next morning very early, Sam Beaver crawled out of his bunk while his father was still asleep. Sam dressed and lit a fire in the stove. He fried a few strips of bacon, toasted two slices of bread, poured a glass of milk, and sat down and ate breakfast. When he was through, he found a pencil and paper and wrote a note.
I have gone for a walk. Will be back for lunch.
Sam left the note where his father would find it; then he took his field glasses and his compass, fastened his hunting knife to his belt, and set out through the woods and over the swamp to the pond where the swans lived.
He approached the pond cautiously, his field glasses slung over his shoulder. It was still only a little after seven o’clock; the sun was pale, the air was chill. The morning smelled delicious. When he reached his log, Sam sat down and adjusted his glasses. Seen through the glasses, the nesting swan appeared to be only a few feet away. She was sitting very close, not moving. The cob was nearby. Both birds were listening and waiting. Both birds saw Sam, but they didn’t mind his being there—in fact, they rather liked it. They were surprised at the field glasses, though.
“The boy seems to have very big eyes today,” whispered the cob. “His eyes are enormous.”
“I think those big eyes are actually a pair of field glasses,” replied the swan. “I’m not sure, but I think that when a person looks through field glasses, everything appears closer and bigger.”
“Will
