THE SONG OF THE SWAN. 



BALDWIN SEARS. 



There never was a better hearted young 

 fellow than Laurence; no one who felt 

 more deeply his own failings and a wom- 

 an's perfection. He heartily acknowl- 

 edged her as the gentlest, wisest, noblest 

 thing ever made; meant to be a guide 

 and strength to steady man's weak brute 

 nature. 



Perhaps he thought thus because he 

 was in love with Amy, who was certainly 

 a charming girl. She smiled when Lau- 

 rence told her these things; she felt noble 

 and earnest when she knew this honest 

 boy believed in her. Her happiness was 

 troubled only by longing for expression as 

 she stood under the flowering trees in the 

 garden. Under her feet the sprouting 

 grass was thick with violets and dande- 

 lions; the air about her fluttered with 

 white petals. Swinging invisible among 

 the boughs a robin sang joyously, deliri- 

 ously, to the sky, the sun, the glory of 

 May, the face of the girl, that loveliest 

 llower of all. Amy was silent, but her 

 heart sang, too. She loved the unseen 

 creature for its ecstasy. How wonderful it 

 was that she and the bird should both 

 have the same joy of life, of love. 



"What is it. sweetheart?" said Laurence, 

 tenderly. But Amy could only hold her 

 lover closer as she wept on his shoulder. 



"The bird, it is so sweet, so sad." She 

 smiled even as she spoke at the trill of 

 rapture from the happy creature overhead. 



"Don't you think such things make us 

 better?" she whispered shyly. "Such inno- 

 cent happiness." 



Her lover kissed her reverently. What a 

 beautiful thing this tender womanhood 

 was. He felt ashamed that he had ever 

 cared for hunting; that he had ever felt 

 a desire to kill birds. "Sport" — it was 

 murder; he felt a sort of disgust at him- 

 self. 



He was dismayed next morning to find 

 Amy sobbing, heart-brokenly, at the foot 

 of the garden tree. She could only hold 

 out her hand in speechless grief as he 

 begged her to say what had happened, 

 looking inquiringly at the soft thing she 

 held. 



"The robin " he exclaimed. 



Amy nodded, with fresh tears streaming 

 down on the gay, disordered feathers, the 

 limp little body, with slowly closing eyes, 

 the breast with the dark crimson drops 

 where the cat had torn it. 



"And think of those noor little young in 

 ihe nest," she sobbed: "left alone to starve. 

 Oh, it's cruel, terrible." 



It was long before she could be com- 

 forted. The man tried to explain: 



"But, Amy, child, it is only the law 



of Nature. Birds 

 caught — to satisfy- 



were made to be 



"No, no; how can you be so cruel, — so 

 heartless?" He was silenced by her agony 

 of grief. 



During his absence from her he took it 

 as a sign of her sweet influence and mercy 

 that he found his hunting so much less 

 pleasure than usual. "Even such a com- 

 monplace creature as a quail must have a 

 family and feelings," he said to himself 

 as a brace got up and then dropped inert 

 and lifeless as he fired. He held the bird, 

 staring at it thoughtfully, instead of plac- 

 ing it at once in his pocket. Then he 

 laughed determinedly. 



"What a freak I'm getting to be. Birds 

 were made to be shot and men to eat 

 them. I'm no vegetarian, and for that 

 matter, haven't I seen Amy eat grouse 

 and venison? There, I'll tell her that. Oh, 

 by Jove, what a shot! Ah, my beauty, 

 I got you that time." A hungry hunter is 

 not given to regrets at the amount of 

 game he brings in, unless it be small. 



Laurence ate and was happy and slept 

 the sleep of the innocent as he tramped 

 out his 3 weeks in the wilderness. He felt 

 a dash of the incongruous when Amy's let- 

 ters came from the far-off city, telling him 

 not to forget Siegfried the first week in 

 November. 



"Forget," just as if he could forget any- 

 thing where Amy was. 



His eager hands made bad work of his 

 necktie, and as Amy came down to meet 

 him the young fellow, heedless of results 

 as to finery, gathered her in his arms and 

 kissed her adoringly. His simple heart 

 was wonderfully proud and content as he 

 sat beside her in their box. It seemed 

 only right and natural that so many glasses 

 should be leveled toward her, even though 

 he resented their familiarity. He was only 

 half attentive to the music, the story. It 

 was so long since he had seen his sweet- 

 heart, sweeter and dearer than ever. The 

 lights, the flash and gloss and flutter of 

 jewels, white shoulders, lovely faces, the 

 subdued tumult of life that seemed to 

 move with the stream of Siegfried music; 

 that forlorn, mysterious sighing of tree 

 boughs and hidden rivers through pri- 

 meval forests, with the wordless speech of 

 birds calling across the gloom. It was all 

 part of the ineffable, tender beauty of the 

 girl who sat beside him, her face tremu- 

 lous and pale with deep feeling, her eyes 

 shining mistily out of the shadow upon 

 him. He reached out and took her hands, 

 a rush of supreme affection welling up in 

 his heart. She smiled back at him, touch- 

 ing his cheek with the fringes of her 

 feather fan; he shivered slightly. There 



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