CHAPTER 8

LOVE

When Louis’s father and mother discovered that Louis was missing, they felt awful. No other young swan had disappeared from the lakes—only Louis.

“The question now arises,” said the cob to his wife, “whether or not I should go and look for our son. I am disinclined to leave these attractive lakes now, in the fall of the year, with winter coming on. I have, in fact, been looking forward to this time of serenity and peace and the society of other waterfowl. I like the life here.”

“There’s another little matter to consider besides your personal comfort,” said his wife. “Has it occurred to you that we have no idea which direction Louis went when he left? You don’t know where he went any more than I do. If you were to start out looking for him, which way would you fly?”

“Well,” replied the cob, “in the last analysis, I believe I would go south.”

“What do you mean, ‘in the last analysis’?” said the swan impatiently. “You haven’t analyzed anything. Why do you say ‘in the last analysis’? And why do you pick south as the way to go looking for Louis? There are other directions. There’s north, and east, and west. There’s northeast, southeast, southwest, northwest.”

“True,” replied the cob. “And there are all those in-between directions: north-northeast, east-southeast, west-southwest. There’s north by east, and east by north. There’s south-southeast a half east, and there’s west by north a half north. The directions a young swan could start off in are almost too numerous to think about.”

So it was decided that no search would be made. “We’ll just wait here and see what happens,” said the cob. “I feel sure Louis will return in the fullness of time.”

Months went by. Winter came to the Red Rock Lakes. The nights were long and dark and cold. The days were short and bright and cold. Sometimes the wind blew. But the swans and geese and ducks were safe and happy. The warm springs that fed the lakes kept the ice from covering them—there were always open places. There was plenty of food. Sometimes a man would arrive with a bag of grain and spread the grain where the birds could get it.

Spring followed winter; summer followed spring. A year went by, and it was springtime again. Still no sign of Louis. Then one morning when Louis’s grown-up brothers were playing a game of water polo, one of them looked up and saw a swan approaching in the sky.

“Ko-hoh!” cried the cygnet. He rushed to his father and mother. “Look! Look! Look!”

All the waterfowl on the lake turned and gazed up at the approaching swan. The swan circled in the sky.

“It’s Louis!” said the cob. “But what is that peculiar little object hanging around his neck by a string? What is that?”

“Wait and see,” said his wife. “Maybe it’s a gift.”

Louis looked down from the sky and spotted what looked like his family. When he was sure, he glided down and skidded to a stop. His mother rushed up and embraced him. His father arched his neck gracefully and raised his wings in greeting. Everyone shouted “Ko-hoh!” and “Welcome back, Louis!” His family was overjoyed. He had been gone for a year and a half—almost eighteen months. He looked older and handsomer. His feathers were pure white now, instead of a dirty gray. Hanging by a cord around his neck was a small slate. Attached to the slate by a piece of string was a white chalk pencil.

When the family greetings were over, Louis seized the chalk in his bill and wrote “Hi, there!” on the slate. He held the slate out eagerly for all to see.

The cob stared at it. The mother swan stared at it. The cygnets stared at it. They just stared and stared. Words on a slate meant nothing to them. They couldn’t read. None of the members of his family had ever seen a slate before, or a piece of chalk. Louis’s attempt to greet his family was a failure. He felt as though he had wasted a year and a half by going to school and learning to write. He felt keenly disappointed. And, of course, he was unable to speak. The words on the slate were all he could offer by way of greeting.

Finally his father, the cob, spoke up.

“Louis, my son,” he began in his deep, resonant voice, “this is the day we have long awaited—the day of your return to our sanctuary in the Red Rock Lakes. No one can imagine the extent of our joy or the depth of our emotion at seeing you again, you who have been absent from our midst for so long, in lands we know not of, in pursuits we can only guess at. How good it is to see your countenance again! We hope you have enjoyed good health during your long absence, in lands we know not of, in pursuits we can only guess at—”

“You’ve said that once already,” said his wife. “You’re repeating yourself. Louis must be tired after his trip, no matter where he’s been or what he’s been up to.”

“Very true,” said the cob. “But I must prolong my welcoming remarks a bit longer, for my curiosity is aroused by that odd little object Louis is wearing around his neck and by the strange symbols he has placed upon it by rubbing that white thing up and down and leaving those strange white tracings.”

“Well,” said Louis’s mother, “we’re all interested in it, naturally. But Louis can’t explain it because he is defective and can’t talk. So we’ll just have to forget our curiosity for the moment and let Louis take a bath and have dinner.”

Everyone agreed this was a good idea.

Louis swam to the shore, placed his slate and his chalk pencil under a bush, and took a bath. When he was through, he dipped the end of one wing in the water and sorrowfully rubbed out the words “Hi, there!” Then he hung the slate around his neck again. It felt good to be home with his family. And his family had increased during the months he had spent with Sam Beaver at school. There were now six new cygnets. Louis’s father and mother had spent the summer on a trip to Canada, and while there, they had nested and hatched six little cygnets, and in the fall they had all joined up again at the Red Rock Lakes in Montana.

One day, soon after Louis’s return, the grain man stopped by with a sack of grain. Louis saw him and swam over. When the man spread the grain on the ground to feed the birds, Louis took off his slate and wrote, “Thank you very much!” He held the slate up to the man, who appeared surprised.

“Say!” said the man. “You’re quite a bird! Where did you learn to write?”

Louis erased the slate and wrote, “At school.”

“School?” said the grain man. “What school?”

“Public school,” wrote Louis. “Mrs. Hammerbotham taught me.”

“Never heard of her,” said the grain man. “But she must be a darned good teacher.”

“She is,” wrote Louis. He was overjoyed to be carrying on a conversation with a stranger. He realized that even though the slate was no help with other birds, it was going to be a help with people, because people could read. This made him feel a whole lot better. Sam Beaver had given Louis the slate as a good-bye present when he left the ranch. Sam had bought the slate and the chalk pencil with money he had saved. Louis decided he would always carry them with him, no matter where he went in the world.

The grain man wondered whether he had been dreaming or whether he had really seen a swan write words on a slate. He decided to say nothing about it to anyone, for fear people might think he was crazy in the head.

For birds, spring is the time to find a mate. The warm sweet airs of spring stir strange feelings in young swans. The males begin to notice the females. They show off in front of them. The females begin to notice the males, too, but they pretend they are not noticing anything at all. They act very coy.

Louis felt so queer one day, he knew he must be in love. And he knew which bird he was in love with. Whenever he swam past her, he could feel his heart beat faster, and his mind was full of thoughts of love and desire. He thought he had never seen such a beautiful young female swan. She was a trifle smaller than the others, and she seemed to have a more graceful neck and more attractive ways than any of his other friends on the lake. Her name was Serena. He wished he could do something to attract her attention. He wanted her for his mate but was unable to tell her so because he couldn’t make a sound. He swam in circles around her and pumped his neck up and down and made a great show of diving and staying down to prove he could hold his breath longer than any other bird. But the little female paid no attention to Louis’s antics. She pretended he didn’t exist.

When Louis’s mother found out that Louis was courting a young female, she hid behind some bulrushes and watched what was going on. She could tell that he was in love by the way he acted, and she saw that he was having no success.

Once, in desperation, Louis swam up to Serena, his beloved, and made a bow. His slate, as usual, was around his neck. Taking the chalk pencil in his mouth, he wrote “I love you” on the slate and showed it to her.

She stared at it for a moment, then swam away. She didn’t know how to read, and although she rather liked the looks of a young cob who had something hanging around his neck, she couldn’t really get interested in a bird that was unable to say anything. A Trumpeter Swan that couldn’t trumpet was a bust as far as she was concerned.

When Louis’s mother saw this, she went to her husband, the cob.

“I have news for you,” she said. “Your son Louis is in love, and the swan of his choice, the female of his desiring, pays no attention to him. It’s just as I predicted: Louis won’t be able to get a mate because he has no voice. That snippety little female he’s chasing after gives me a pain in the neck, the way she acts. But just the same, I’m sorry for Louis. He thinks she’s the greatest thing on the lake, and he can’t say, ‘Ko-hoh, I love you,’ and that’s what she’s waiting to hear.”

“Why, this is terrible news,” said the cob, “news of the most serious import. I know what it is like to be in love. Well do I remember how painful love can be, how exciting, and, in the event of unsuccess, how disappointing and doleful the days and nights. But I am Louis’s father, and I’m not going to take this situation lying down. I shall act. Louis is a Trumpeter Swan, noblest of all the waterfowl. He is gay, cheerful, strong, powerful, lusty, good, brave, handsome, reliable, trustworthy, a great flier, a tremendous swimmer, fearless, patient, loyal, true, ambitious, desirous—”

“Just a minute,” said his wife. “You don’t need to tell me all these things. The point is, what are you going to do to help Louis get himself a mate?”

“I’m leading up to that in my own graceful way,” replied the cob. “You say that what this young female wants is to hear Louis say, ‘Ko-hoh, I love you’?”

“That’s right.”

“Then she shall hear it!” exclaimed the cob. “There are devices made by men—horns, trumpets, musical instruments of all sorts. These devices are capable of producing sounds similar to the wild sound of our trumpeting. I shall begin a search for such a device, and if I have to go to the ends of the earth to find a trumpet for our young son, I shall find it at last and bring it home to Louis.”

“Well, if I may make a suggestion,” said his wife, “don’t go to the ends of the earth, go to Billings, Montana. It’s nearer.”

“Very well, I will try Billings. I shall look for a trumpet in Billings. And now, without further ado, I go. There is no time to lose. Springtime doesn’t last forever. Love is fleeting. Every minute counts. I’m leaving this instant for Billings, Montana, a great city teeming with life and with objects made by man. Good-bye, my love! I shall return!”

“What are you going to use for money?” asked his practical wife. “Trumpets cost money.”

“Leave that to me,” replied the cob. And with that, he took off into the air. He climbed steeply, like a jet plane, then leveled off, flying high and fast toward the northeast. His wife watched him until he was out of sight. “What a swan!” she murmured. “I just hope he knows what he’s doing.”