THE DOMESTIC SWAN. 405 



of six inches, and we drew out the hook from this frightful aperture. 

 The wound was then closed by suture, and without any other applica- 

 tion, the bird was turned loose upon its native element ; as we judged 

 it would do better there, than if put into confinement. 



The supposed melody of the dying -swan seems to be a fable of 

 remote antiquity. I have long been anxious to find out upon what 

 grounds the ancients could possibly attach melody to an expiring 

 bird, which neither in youth nor in riper years ever shows itself gifted 

 with the power of producing a single inflection of the voice that can 

 be pronounced melodious. Ovid, no doubt, was well skilled in real 

 ornithology, for in every part of his " Metamorphoses," we can trace 

 some of the true habits of birds, and often see their natural propen- 

 sities through the mystic veil which his poetical fancy had so dexter- 

 ously placed before them. Still the swan is an exception ; for there 

 is nothing whatever to be perceived in the entire economy of this bird 

 that can, by any turning or twisting, justify Ovid's remark, that it will 

 warble its own funeral song on the near approach of death. The 

 transformation of Cycnus into a swan is very entertaining : When 

 Phaeton, the well-known incendiary, had burnt down every corn-rick 

 in mother Earth's farm-yard, and placed her own beloved person in 

 danger of immediate suffocation, 



" neque enim tolerare vaporem 



Ulterius potuit," 



Jupiter felled him dead into the river Po a somewhat milder punish- 

 ment than if he had sent him to Norfolk Island for life. His poor 

 sisters w r ept so intensely at having lost him for ever, that they became 

 trees (probably weeping willows), and actually took root in the 

 ground. His near relative, Cycnus, too, was so stupified at what 

 had happened, that he could no longer perform the duties of his 

 royal station. He left his throne and all its pleasures, and became 

 a voluntary wanderer on the banks of that river into which the dead 

 body of Phaeton had fallen. Its banks and its trees, some of which 

 had so lately been Phaeton's own sisters, resounded far and near 

 with his doleful lamentations. One morning, on awaking from sleep, 

 he found that he had lost his usual voice, and that he could only 

 squeak. Soon after this, his neck became wonderfully stretched 



