The Solitary Swan

a complete Christmas story

by Eugene Schwartz

Long ago, swans were not the graceful, long-necked and white-feathered birds that we know today. They were small and squat and scrawny, and their feathers were an unruly mixture of grey and brown and black and white. Until one day, it came to pass...

Year after year, a solitary swan swam in her pond. When the waters were calm, she would gaze at her reflection and turn away in distress. Every other bird that came to drink and bathe in her pond was so much lovelier than she! Eagles had their powerful wings and formidable beaks, hawks had their flashing eyes, geese had their soft, warm down and even the clamorous crows had such sleek, black coats! Why, the swan wondered, had she alone been given the castaway colors and forsaken feathers of the bird kingdom?

Year after year, the other birds came and went, stopping by the pond long enough only to refresh themselves and then embark for warmer or cooler climes. Others came and went as well: colorful caravans of camels and the merchants who loaded them up with silks and spices, rare woods and precious stones; troops of boisterous soldiers, setting off bound for conquest and pillage, returning weak and wounded and strangely quiet; lonely wanderers, timorous beggars, and tense thieves who traveled silently by night. All these came and went, while the solitary swan swam in her pond and bemoaned her homely fate.

•

It happened that for one year little rain fell. The next year, even less rain fell, and by the third year, no rain fell at all. The countryside grew withered and brown, and the pond, whose waters once extended as far as the swan could see, shrank so that it stretched barely further than her wingspan. The other birds now flew over and did not bother to stop, and the caravans and troops, the wanderers, beggars and thieves, choked on the brackish water that remained and set off to search for a better source.

The swan was all alone. Every day the pond shrank yet again, until all that remained were a few drops upon which the swan sat, guarding them as jealously as she would have guarded her eggs. In those precious drops of water lay the little life that was left to the swan; she feared what would come when they were gone.

One day cloud of dust arose on the heavy horizon. The swan knew this was a sign of travelers, yet who would come to the dried-up pond? The cloud grew larger as the visitors approached, and in the oppressively bright and wavering air the swan could discern three figures: a white-bearded old man, walking slowly alongside a donkey, upon which sat a young woman in a long blue cloak. As they came closer, the swan saw a fourth figure, as well. Nestled in the woman’s arms was a little baby.

The old man walked up to what had once been the shoreline of the pond, and stood but a few paces from the swan. Ordinarily, the swan would have withdrawn for safety, approaching the visitors only when she sensed that they meant her no harm. But now she remained where she was, guarding the treasured drops of water that rested under her breast.

“Yet another parched pond, dear Mary,” the old man whispered, in a voice as dry as the shriveled grass below his feet, “We must travel on still further.”

“Oh, Joseph,” the woman sighed, “Where will we find the strength to go on? Without some water — some cooling drops of water — I fear that we will perish before we reach Egypt.”

The swan listened to their words, and pressed herself even harder against the few drops that remained of the once full pond. These were her drops, the thin liquid line separating her life from her death. She turned away from the old man and his wife and child.

Next Page ð