Читать книгу The Trumpet of the Swan - Garth Williams, Fred Marcellino - Страница 11

AT THE end of the summer, the cob gathered his family around him and made an announcement.

“Children,” he began, “I have news for you. Summer is drawing to a close. Leaves are turning red, pink, and pale yellow. Soon the leaves will fall. The time has come for us to leave this pond. The time has come for us to go.”

“Go?” cried all the cygnets except Louis.

“Certainly,” replied their father. “You children are old enough to learn the facts of life, and the principal fact of our life right now is this: we can’t stay in this marvellous location much longer.”

“Why not?” cried all the cygnets except Louis.

“Because summer is over,” said the cob, “and it is the way of swans to leave their nesting site at summer’s end and travel south to a milder place where the food supply is good. I know that you are all fond of this pretty pond, this marvellous marsh, these reedy shores and restful retreats. You have found life pleasant and amusing here. You have learned to dive and swim underwater. You have enjoyed our daily recreational trips when we formed in line, myself in front swimming gracefully, like a locomotive, and your charming mother bringing up the rear, like a caboose. Daylong, you have listened and learned. You have avoided the odious otter and the cruel coyote. You have listened to the little owl that says co-co-co-co. You have heard the partridge say kwit-kwit. At night you have dropped off to sleep to the sound of frogs—the voices of the night. But these pleasures and pastimes, these adventures, these games and frolics, these beloved sights and sounds must come to an end. All things come to an end. It is time for us to go.”

“Where will we go?” cried all the cygnets except Louis. “Where will we go, ko-hoh, ko-hoh? Where will we go, ko-hoh, ko-hoh?”

“We will fly south to Montana,” replied the cob.

“What is Montana?” asked all the cygnets except Louis. “What is Montana—banana, banana? What is Montana—banana, banana?”

“Montana,” said their father, “is a state of the Union. And there, in a lovely valley surrounded by high mountains, are the Red Rock Lakes, which nature has designed especially for swans. In these lakes you will enjoy warm water, arising from hidden springs. Here, ice never forms, no matter how cold the nights. In the Red Rock Lakes, you will find other Trumpeter Swans, as well as the lesser waterfowl—the geese and the ducks. There are few enemies. No gunners. Plenty of muskrat houses. Free grain. Games every day. What more can a swan ask, in the long, long cold of winter?”

Louis listened to all this in amazement. He wanted to ask his father how they would learn to fly and how they would find Montana even after they learned to fly. He began to worry about getting lost. But he wasn’t able to ask any questions. He just had to listen.

One of his brothers spoke up.

“Father,” he said, “you said we would fly south. I don’t know how to fly. I’ve never been up in the air.”

“True,” replied the cob. “But flying is largely a matter of having the right attitude—plus, of course, good wing feathers. Flying consists of three parts. First, the takeoff, during which there is a lot of fuss and commotion, a lot of splashing and rapid beating of the wings. Second, the ascent, or gaining of altitude—this requires hard work and fast wing action. Third, the levelling-off, the steady elevated flight, high in air, wings beating slower now, beating strongly and regularly, carrying us swiftly and surely from zone to zone as we cry ko-hoh, ko-hoh, with all the earth stretched out far below.”