The Trumpet of the Swan: Chapters 1–3

The swamp through which he was traveling was a wild place—there was no trail, and it was boggy underfoot, which made walking difficult.

As he trudged on, the boy’s mind was full of the wonder of what he had seen.

“Sam,” he said, “I know you like to go exploring. But don’t forget—these woods and marshes are not like the country around home in Montana, if you ever go over to that pond again, be careful you don’t get lost. I don’t like you crossing swamps. They’re treacherous. You could step into a soggy place and get bogged down, and there wouldn’t be anybody to pull you out.”

“I’ll be careful,” said Sam. He knew perfectly well he would be going back to the pond where the swans were. And he had no intention of getting lost in the woods.

Sam was not a sly boy, but he was odd in one respect: he liked to keep things to himself.

Mrs. Beaver didn’t care for the woods, so she seldom went along— it was usually just Sam and Mr. Beaver.

Occasionally a jay would cry out. And sometimes at night the fox would bark—a high, rasping bark.

The vixen, dozing in her den, knew she would soon have kits. Every creature knew that a better, easier time was at hand—warmer days, pleasanter nights.

The two swans first investigated the upper end of the pond, where a stream flowed slowly in. It was pleasant there, with reeds and bulrushes.

Red-winged Blackbirds were busy nesting in this part of the pond, and a pair of Mallard Ducks were courting.

While the male swan floated close by, watching, she snooped about until she found a pleasant spot on the ground.

“An ideal location!” he replied.

“A perfect place! And I will tell you why it’s a perfect place,” he continued, majestically, “if an enemy—a fox or a coon or a coyote or a skunk—wanted to reach this spot with murder in his heart, he’d have to enter the water and get wet. And before he could enter the water, he’d have to walk the whole length of that point of land. And by that time we’d see him or hear him, and I would give him a hard time.”

The male stretched out his great wings, eight feet from tip to tip, and gave the water a mighty clout to show his strength.

A good many animals have special names: a male goose is called a gander, a male cow is called a bull, a male sheep is called a ram, a male chicken is called a rooster, and so on.

To his great joy, he saw her begin to turn slowly round and around, keeping always in the same spot, treading the mud and grass.

She was making the first motions of nesting. First she squatted down in the place she had chosen. Then she twisted round and around, tamping the earth with her broad webbed feet, hollowing it out to make it like a saucer.

“Now another bit of coarse grass,” said the cob, with great dignity.

“Now another bit of coarse grass,” said the cob, with great dignity.

As she sat there, with her husband, the cob, floating gracefully nearby, she had a strange feeling that she was being watched. It made her uneasy.

So the swan twisted and turned and peered everywhere.

She gazed intently at the point of land that jutted out into the pond near the nest.

She gazed intently at the point of land that jutted out into the pond near the nest. With her sharp eyes, she searched the nearby shore for signs of an intruder.

The cob was furious. “I didn’t fly all the way north into Canada to get involved with a boy,” he said. “We came here to this idyllic spot, this remote little hideaway, so we could enjoy some well-deserved privacy.”

The cob was furious. “I didn’t fly all the way north into Canada to get involved with a boy,” he said. “We came here to this idyllic spot, this remote little hideaway, so we could enjoy some well-deserved privacy.”

“I did not travel all this immense distance into the heart of Canada to be observed. Furthermore, I don’t want you to he observed—except by me. You’re laying an egg—that is, I hope you are—and you are entitled to privacy. It has been my experience that all boys throw stones and sticks—it is their nature. I’m going over and strike that boy with my powerful wing, and he’ll think he has been hit with a billy club. I’ll knock him cold!”

“I did not travel all this immense distance into the heart of Canada to be observed. Furthermore, I don’t want you to be observed—except by me. You’re laying an egg—that is, I hope you are—and you are entitled to privacy. It has been my experience that all boys throw stones and sticks—it is their nature. I’m going over and strike that boy with my powerful wing, and he’ll think he has been hit with a billy club. I’ll knock him cold!”

“A masterpiece!” he said. “An egg of supreme beauty and perfect proportions. I would say that that egg is almost five inches in length.”

He knew that a fox prowled somewhere in the woods; he had heard him barking on nights when the hunting was good.

“My dear,” said her husband, the cob, one afternoon, “do you never find your duties onerous or irksome? Do you never tire of sitting in one place and in one position, covering the eggs, with no diversions, no pleasures, no escapades, or capers? Do you never suffer from boredom?”

“My dear,” said her husband, the cob, one afternoon, “do you never find your duties onerous or irksome? Do you never tire of sitting in one place and in one position, covering the eggs, with no diversions, no pleasures, no escapades, or capers? Do you never suffer from boredom?”

“My dear,” said her husband, the cob, one afternoon, “do you never find your duties onerous or irksome? Do you never tire of sitting in one place and in one position, covering the eggs, with no diversions, no pleasures, no escapades, or capers? Do you never suffer from boredom?”

“My dear,” said her husband, the cob, one afternoon, “do you never find your duties onerous or irksome? Do you never tire of sitting in one place and in one position, covering the eggs, with no diversions, no pleasures, no escapades, or capers? Do you never suffer from boredom?”

“My dear,” said her husband, the cob, one afternoon, “do you never find your duties onerous or irksome? Do you never tire of sitting in one place and in one position, covering the eggs, with no diversions, no pleasures, no escapades, or capers? Do you never suffer from boredom?”

“Don’t you ever feel the pangs of hunger or suffer the tortures of thirst?” asked the cob.

Then she glided over to a shallow place, thrust her head underwater, and pulled up tender greens from the bottom.

She next took a bath by tossing water over herself. Then she waddled out onto a grassy bank and stood there, preening her feathers. The swan felt good.

“Look out!” he trumpeted. “Look out for the fox, who is creeping toward you even as I speak, his eyes bright, his bushy tail out straight, his mind lusting for blood, his belly almost touching the ground! You are in grave danger, and we must act immediately.”

While the cob was making this elegant speech of warning, something happened that surprised everybody.

Just as the fox was about to spring and sink his teeth in the swan’s neck, a stick came hurtling through the air. It struck the fox full on the nose, and he turned and ran away.