About them tossed and tumbled the angry rapids, wrangling and brawling around their granite shores, but, above their conflicting noises arose a far, clear, musical sound, like a hundred throats and lips that whistled in unison.

“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.  Now they could distinguish each regal body, feathered in dazzling white, each bill, scarlet as a July poppy, each gracefully lifted throat.  But the majestic creatures floated swiftly and silently on, on, on!

“Father!” The boy’s voice trembled huskily.  “Oh, father, you don’t think they are in any danger of going over, do you?” His begging, pleading tones revealed his own childish fears.

“Oh, surely not!” answered Mr. Duffy, but his tone lacked confidence.  Then, after a brief silence, he almost groaned:  “Jimmy, they’re done for!  They don’t see their danger, and they’re too tired to rise if they do.  Oh, boy, if we could save them!”

But Jimmy stood rigid, staring, his heart slowly breaking, breaking.  Anyone could see now that the stately battalion was doomed.  With utter unconsciousness they drifted on, exhausted with their far journey from the lagoons and marshes of Chesapeake Bay, where the torrid suns had driven them from their winter haunts, to wing their way to their summer home in the far, white North.

“Oh, Jimmy, the pity of it!” murmured Mr. Duffy.  But the boy stood wordless, as the irresistible giant current caught the trusting birds and swept them, with a hideous, overpowering force, to the very brink of the Horseshoe Fall.  The boy, thrilling with the horror of it, shut his eyes, and flung himself, face downward, on the rocks.  A strange, inarticulate moan left the man’s lips.  The boy lifted his head, lifted his eyes, but the river was empty.