The big moon hangs in the sky, shedding a ghostly silver light over the swaying trees and glistening water. The wax-like waterlilies gleam on the black depths of the lake. Silently, mysteriously, a soft white form glides through the stillness. It is a swan, whose gracefully arched neck is silhouetted against the velvety blackness. He is enclosed by silence, silence that oppresses and tortures; silence from which there is no escape.
The swan lifts his handsome head; for a moment the water ripples in symmetrical circles around him.
Then suddenly, the silence is shattered by a wild, beautiful melody. Music pours from the throat of the swan, filling the valley, waking the trees-for a few short minutes. His soft, snow-white wings flutter desperately as he vainly attempts to escape from Death. Then, as the life-blood ebbs swiftly away, he falls limp among the water lilies. His proud and kingly neck drops humbly into the shimmering water. The last struggling breath leaves his body in a long, low sigh.
That moment of melodious rapture marks the end of all earthly things for him. His lifeless body will be received into the bosom of the lake; only his Creator will know the ecstasy of those last fleeting moments.
No more will he suffer the agony of dumbness-his music starved life, like a fragile flower which blossoms forth to its full beauty and then suddenly withers, is abruptly broken.
On the wings of silver song his tender spirit flutters away-for ever.
MARIE THOMPSON, Form IV.
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