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 silence to the wonderful notes which fell on their ears--notes which no words of mine could describe, for in themselves they were words, telling of suffering and sorrow, of beautiful things and sad things, of strange fantastic dreams, of sunshine and flowers and summer days, of icy winds from the snow-clad hills, and days of dreariness and solitude.

Each and all came in their turn; but, at the last, all melted, all grew rather, into one magnificent song of bliss and triumph, of joyful tenderness and brilliant hope, too pure and perfect to be imagined but in a dream.