A VISITATION OF SWANS 



I HAD never seen a wild swan till the twenty- 

 second of December, 1908. That morning I 

 walked out, as I was in the habit of doing every 

 few days, to Laguna Blanca, the only body of 

 fresh water in the neighborhood of Santa Bar- 

 bara ; an artificial lake, at least in its present size 

 and condition, though an old Spanish resident of 

 the city tells me there was always water there. 

 Shooting is prohibited by its owners, and through- 

 out the winter, under this privilege of sanctuary, 

 the lake is frequented by many kinds of water- 

 fowl. 



On this particular morning, as I drew near, 

 expecting to find the usual assortment of ducks, 

 coots, and grebes, with gulls, perhaps, and two 

 or three cormorants, I was startled by the sight 

 of a single large white bird, — out of comparison 

 larger than any of these, — which a second glance 

 showed to be, of all things alive, a swan. 



I advanced toward it at a snail's pace, standing 

 still after every step (the wonderful stranger must 

 not be disturbed if any possible degree of caution 

 could prevent it), and presently a flock of seven 

 — my one bird included — came swimming shore- 

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