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 the boy’s glasses make me appear even larger than I am?” asked the cob, hopefully.
“I think so,” said the swan.
“Oh, well, I like that,” said the cob. “I like that very much. Perhaps the boy’s glasses will make me appear not only larger than I am but even more graceful than I am. Do you think so?”
“It’s possible,” said his wife, “but it’s not likely. You’d better not get too graceful—it might go to your head. You’re quite a vain bird.”
“All swans are vain,” said the cob. “It is right for swans to feel proud, graceful—that’s what swans are for.”
Sam could not make out what the swans were saying; he merely knew they were having a conversation, and just hearing them talk stirred his blood. It satisfied him to be keeping company with these two great birds in the wilderness. He was perfectly happy.
In midmorning, when the sun had gained the sky, Sam lifted his glasses again and focused them on the nest. At last he saw what he had come to see: a tiny head, thrusting through the mother’s feathers, the head of a baby Trumpeter. The youngster scrambled up on to the edge of the nest. Sam could see its grey head and neck, its body covered with soft down, its yellow legs and feet with their webs for swimming. Soon another cygnet appeared. Then another. Then the first one worked his way down into his mother’s feathers again, for warmth. Then one tried to climb up his mother’s back, but her feathers were slippery, and he slid off and settled himself neatly at her side. The swan just sat and sat, enjoying her babies, watching them gain the use of their legs.
An hour went by. One of the cygnets, more daring than the others, left the nest and teetered around on the shore of the little island. When this happened, the mother swan stood up. She decided the time had come to lead her children into the water.
“Come on!” she said. “And stay together! Note carefully what I do. Then you do the same. Swimming is easy.”
“One, two, three, four, five,” Sam counted. “One, two, three, four, five. Five cygnets, just as sure as I’m alive!”
The cob, as he saw his children approach the water, felt that he should act like a father. He began by making a speech.
“Welcome to the pond and the swamp adjacent!” he said. “Welcome to the world that contains this lonely pond, this splendid marsh, unspoiled and wild! Welcome to sunlight and shadow, wind and weather; welcome to water! The water is a swan’s particular element, as you will soon discover. Swimming is no problem for a swan. Welcome to danger, which you must guard against—the vile fox with his stealthy tread and sharp teeth, the offensive otter who swims up under you and tries to grab you by the leg, the stinking skunk who hunts by night and blends with the shadows, the coyote who hunts and howls and is bigger than a fox. Beware of lead pellets that lie on the bottom of all ponds, left there by the guns of hunters. Don’t eat them—they’ll poison you! Be vigilant, be strong, be brave, be graceful, and always follow me! I will go first, then you will come along in single file, and your devoted mother will bring up