“There, you beautiful thing,” he said, as he removed the last slat, “stay with us if you can, but go when and where you want.  There are no prisons around here.”

But the next morning the swan was still in the yard.  The ducks talked to it, but its sad, wondering eyes and listless wings spoke louder than words of its weariness and woe.  Scores of boys came to see it that day, and the evening brought Benson’s father.  After hearing the story all he could say was:  “It’s a good thing for me that I was not there.  I’m a pretty big fellow, and can lick chaps that are even bigger than I am, and if I’d caught that brute killing those uninjured birds, I’d have thrown him into the Whirlpool Rapids, sure as you’re born; I’d be in jail now, and probably get hanged in the autumn.  Yes, taking it altogether, I’m glad I wasn’t there!”

Of course, many of the townspeople were for having Jimmy confine the bird, or at least send it to a museum, or enclose it in a wire netting; but the boy replied: 

“No, thanks.  I have seen enough of them die, and I don’t want my swan to die of a broken heart.”

But the swan stayed on day after day, seemingly content and happy.  Then there dawned a beautiful day in May.  The sun shone hot and level on the little backyard.  In the middle of the morning a clear, musical, distinct whistle brought Jimmy running to the side door.  The swan’s head was uplifted, its crimson beak pointing away from the sun.  Presently it spread its regal wings and floated up, up, up.  One more clear, lingering whistle, and it was away, while Jimmy watched it with eyes both dumbly sad and unspeakably glad, until it was but a radiant white speck sailing into the north, to search for others of its kind.

The Delaware Idol*

[This tale is absolutely true.  The writer’s father was the boy who destroyed the Delaware idol, the head of which is at this time one of the treasures in the family collection of Indian relics and curios.]

Young “Wampum” sat listening to the two old hunters as they talked and chuckled, boasted and bragged, and smoked their curious stone pipes hour after hour.  He was a splendid boy, this Wampum of the Mohawks, as quick and lithe as a lynx.  His face was strikingly handsome, for it lacked the usual melancholy of the redman, having in its place a haughty, daring expression that gave it the appearance of extreme bravery, and even a dash of wild majesty.  That he was a favorite with the older men of his tribe was generally acknowledged, for he was a magnificent hunter, an unerring shot, and, best of all, he could go without food for untold hours, always a thing to be very proud of among the Indian people.  So the two old hunters told their stories and laughed over adventures with the same freedom as if the boy had not been present.

“Yes,” said old “Fire-Flower,” beginning his story, “that was the strangest bear hunt the Grand River ever saw.  These white men think they can come here and kill game, but a bear knows more than a paleface, at least that one did.”