"What's that?" exclaimed Mr. Duffy, sitting erect suddenly.
"I don't know," said the boy, scanning the tangled waters with his
unpractised young eyes.
"There it is again, dad!" he cried. "It is whistling. A great company,
somewhere, whistling!" Then, looking quickly skyward, he pointed
excitedly upstream, "Look, look! Birds! They are birds! Great white
ones, dad! What are they? There's the whistle again!"
Mr. Duffy shaded his eyes from the sun, and watched; for there, in the
smooth waters above the rapids, were settling, one by one, a magnificent
host of snow-white swans, their wearied bodies almost drooping into the
river, their exhausted pinions dropping, nerveless and trailing, into
the dark, deceptive stream, which lured them like a snare to its breast.
"Jimmy, Jimmy!" shouted Mr. Duffy, "they're swans, and they're dead
played out! They're migrating north for the summer! I bet they've flown
a thousand miles! See, boy, they're spent, dead beat!"
Jimmy fairly held his breath. The magnificent band of birds were slowly
floating towards them.
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