Far East Street

I ran across this passage while reading The Trumpet of the Swan by E. B. White. A cute commentary on male-female relations that had a familiar ring.

The cob (male swan) was expecting to become a father any minute now. The idea of fatherhood made him feel poetical and proud. He began to talk to his wife.

“Here I glide, swanlike,” he said, “while earth is bathed in wonder and beauty. Now, slowly, the light of day comes into our sky. A mist hangs low over the pond. The mist rises slowly, like steam from a kettle, while I glide, swanlike, while eggs hatch, while young swans come into existence. I glide and glide. The light strengthens. The air becomes warmer. Gradually the mist disappears. I glide, I glide, swanlike. Birds sing their early song. Frogs that have croaked in the night stop croaking and are silent. Still I glide, ceaselessly, like a swan.”

“Of course you glide like a swan,” said his wife. “How else could you glide? You couldn’t glide like a moose, could you?”

“Well, no. That is quite true. Thank you, my dear, for correcting me.” The cob felt taken aback by his mate’s commonsense remark. He enjoyed speaking in fancy phrases and graceful language, and he liked to think of himself as gliding swanlike. He decided he’d better do more gliding and less talking.