ust like our trees and everything else, I suppose," said Hugh.
"Certainly this is a funny country. But hush, Jeanne! I believe the
concert's going to begin."

They sat perfectly still to listen, but for a minute or two the sound
which had caught Hugh's attention was not repeated. Everything about
them was silent, except that now and then a soft faint breeze seemed to
flutter across the water, slightly rippling its surface as it passed.
The strange, even light which had shone over all the scene ever since
the children had stepped out at the hillside door had now grown paler:
it was not now bright enough to distinguish more than can be seen by an
autumn twilight. The air was fresh and clear, though not the least cold;
the drooping forms of the low-hanging branches of the island trees gave
the children a melancholy feeling when they glanced in that direction.

"I don't like this very much," said Jeanne. "It makes me sad, and I
wanted to have fun."

"It must be sad for the poor swan if it's going to die," said Hugh. "But
I don't mind this sort of sad feeling. I think it's rather nice. Ah!
Jeanne, listen, there it is again. They must be going to begin."

"It" was a low sort of "call" which seemed to run round the shores of
the lake like a preliminary note, and then completely died away.
Instantly began from all sides the most curious music that Hugh and
Jeanne had ever heard. It was croaking, but croaking in unison and
regular time, and harsh as it was, there was a very strange charm about
it--quite impossible to describe. It sounded pathetic at times, and at
times monotonous, and yet inspiriting, like the beating of a drum; and
the children listened to it with actual enjoyment. It went on for a good
while, and then stopped as suddenly as it had begun; and then again,
after some minutes of perfect silence, it recommenced in a low and
regular chant--if such a word can be used for croaking--a steady,
regular croak, croak, as if an immense number of harsh-sounding
instruments were giving forth one note in such precise tune and measure
that the harshness was softened and lost by the union of sound. It grew
lower and lower, seeming almost to be about to die altogether away,
when, from another direction--from the tree-shaded island in the centre
of the lake--rose, low and faint at first, gathering strange strength as
it mounted ever higher and higher, the song of the swan.

The children listened breathlessly and in perfect sil