The Swan Prince

 

The Swan Prince

   Once upon a time a handsome young prince named Sydney wandered away from his royal estate.  This prince, who happened to be a swan, considered himself a member of the winged aristocracy because long ago his great-great-great-great-grandfather was a royal swan of the King of England.  And that same lineage was shared by all swans as far as he knew.  They were all either princes or princesses.  Everyone else was just plain common. 

   Sydney was a curious fellow who enjoyed exploring new places and sampling exotic cuisine.  One day rather than follow his courtly flock to their usual freshwater ponds he decided to take a new direction.  Maybe for a change he would try someplace with saltwater, he thought.  As he flew over the maze of waterways beyond his estate he spotted a distant bay that looked promising.  There was something about its shape that seemed familiar.  Perhaps he might find some fresh eel grass or tasty little fish.  He banked into the wind and circled round to investigate.  

   After splashdown Sydney took a few minutes to check out the underwater menu before swimming into a tiny inlet.  He was surprised at how quiet it was.  Though a few boats were moored along the embankment there were no humans or noisy machines around. 

   Okay, he thought, this isn't as interesting as I thought it might be, so he turned back.  But just as he about to prepare for take off he saw a female swan floating near a bulkhead.  She was the most beautiful swan he had ever seen.  He couldn't take his eyes off her.  He paddled closer, pretending to forage in the shallow water.

   At first the little pen paid him no attention as she slowly spun in the gentle current of a rising tide.  She seemed disinterested in feeding with him and made no effort to graze at the seaweed by the boat dock.  Perhaps she just wasn't hungry, he thought.  Sydney tried a different approach. 

   He began with a few nonchalant wing flaps and feather combing.  When she remained indifferent, he ruffled more plumage and stretched out his curvy neck in that way the ladies like. 

   Nothing.  She was unimpressed and turned silently away as if he were not there.  Why was she being so aloof?  Sydney tried a few soft grunts in swan sweet talk.  No reaction.  Maybe she was naturally shy.  Afterall he was a prince.  Sometimes meeting royalty can trigger speechlessness. 

   The more she ignored him, the more enchanted he became.  Her small figure was oddly alluring and he found that twist in her head most beguiling.  Maybe she was not from around here.  She might be one of the tundra swan clan.  Unlike his flock, the tundra swans were great travelers and she might have strayed from her flight.  They were also pretty raucous, making a big racket heard for miles as they sped along their long trek.  He didn't understand much of their lingo, but he liked it better than the harsh squawking of the trumpeter swan clan.  His clan, being royal and all, never needed to talk so loudly.

   The way she rejected his advances made Sydney lose patience.  It was infuriating that she would rebuff his offers of love.  Her cold silence just made him angrier.  He was a prince.  No one ever turned away from him.  He pecked at her, lightly at first and then harder when she gave no reaction.  Furious he could not hold back and jumped onto her in a very un-princely way. 

   Suddenly with a flurry of bubbles the little swan pen sank beneath the water.  Sydney backed off nonplussed.  That was not a swan-like thing to do.  Swans were not diving ducks.  Something was wrong with her.  What should he do?  He scudded over to the middle of the boat basin to think it over.

   A few moments later a human walked over to the bulkhead.  Using a long stick the man reached down into the water and snared the sunken swan.  He lifted her up and placed her on the dock.  Sydney could see that her legs were fettered with chains.  

   Now he understood!  She was a captive swan, probably bewitched by a sorcerer for some wicked design.  How cruel!  No wonder she shunned him.  She was surely restrained from talking to him by a very strong magic.   

  Sydney was heartbroken.  He had no idea how to release this beautiful damsel from the sorcery that bound her to this place.  He felt sorry for what had happened.  Swan princes could be very brave but also foolishly headstrong.  They were also not very good at solving puzzles.  There was nothing for him to do but gaze fondly at her one last time.  He bade her farewell for a love fated not to be.  Without a backward glance he paddled out of the inlet, never to return.  

The End.

This tale is a re-telling of an animal story that happened in May 1993 at my parents' former house in Virginia Beach, Virginia. Their home (which once used to be my home, too) was situated on Bay Island, a small island less than a mile inland from the southern mouth of the Chesapeake Bay. 

The back yard of this waterfront property had a fine view of Broad Bay which was part of the Lynnhaven River, a tidal estuary. That's the background of this picture of my parents, Barb and Russ Brubaker, taken when we first moved there. The tiny beach did not last long as countless storms scoured the island's shoreline forcing my folks to replace that original railroad tie bulkhead at least four times. (creosote timbers; pressure treated planks; aluminum slats; and finally granite rip-rap.) 

In the early 1970's my dad anticipated that his army career was about to end and he and mom decided that Virginia Beach was a perfect place for him to retire. They chose this house, a brick-built 1950s ranch style, because it was on a very quiet dead-end lane with just three houses. Two small side yards offered space for my dad to store cars, boats, and other junk. And along the front lane opposite was a small boat basin shared with a few neighbors that had with enough room for a half dozen shallow draft boats.  

That little boatyard became the center of my dad's next military career when in the 1980s he joined the U. S. Coast Guard Auxiliary. As a volunteer instructor and weekend watchguard for recreational boaters, my dad taught thousands of people how to safely operate boats, navigate, tie knots, and hoist sails. The picture here shows his last "big" motor boat. There were several others, and just outside the camera frame there were two sailboats, a rowboat, an aluminum punt, and a kayak. This boat basin is the setting for my story of "The Swan Prince".

When our family moved here in the 1970s the area was still semi-wild with a long section of Broad Bay that was part of a state park and then undeveloped. Many wildfowl like red knots, avocets,  brants, geese, etc. still used Virginia Beach's waterways for a rest stop during their annual migration across North America. It was also home to many more birds that inhabited the region year-round like herons, egrets, ospreys, eagles, etc.  In this photo my mom introduces her dog Lucy, a Cairn Terrier, to ten curious juvenile mallard ducks. The ducks are really just interested in begging for more corn feed. Behind Lucy is an unfinished paper-mâché animal, a cat, I think, that my mom made for her elementary school art classes.  

Here is Barb in her wooden rowboat out in the inlet with her previous dog Muffin, a West Highland Terrier. She named the boat, Mah Boat, and painted an Egyptian Eye of Horus on it after seeing it on boats in the Nile River during a tour of Egypt. Just beyond her is a small flock of mallard ducks. They were so tame and habituated to human activity that the hens would often build a nest right next to the front door. 

Here are a clutch of Canada geese cruising in the same place that Sydney the Swan shows up. Geese are  generally wary of humans and do not like to hangout with ducks. Some Canada geese migrate while others stay put. This is the second type, I think. They usually only came up on the lawn at night when they were more confident humans would stay inside. The location of their nests was more secretive but once the little geese were hatched they were a delight to see in family groups paddling out in the larger water behind our house.

Here is my mom again in Mah Boat, this time with the next previous dog, Katie, a Scottish Terrier at the bow. Despite her short legs, Katie was an avid swimmer who liked to dive for rocks. She also seemed to enjoy sitting under my chair as I practiced my horn. Few dogs or cats will do that without complaining very loudly.

This next photo was also taken by my dad, of course, one of thousands he took of his little boat basin and the landscape around it. This is the scenery for "The Swan Prince". My dad named his motorboat Micker, supposedly his childhood imaginary friend. The sailboat's name escapes me right now, but next to it by the shed is Mah Boat. A leak in the wooden hull had permanently laid it up, so my mom converted it into a raised bed/boat garden. She grew some excellent tomatoes there. Though it's hard to see, beyond Micker is another runabout motorboat and a sailing dinghy, both on trailers. My dad like to collect stuff.

So one day in May 1993, my mom saw a large swan out in the water by the boats. She alerted my dad who always had a camera at hand and he quickly went out to watch and take photos. This big bird had indeed fixated his attention onto a small fiberglass goose decoy. My mom had put it out  years before in a hope that it might attract some of the migrating wildfowl. It didn't. And neither did the fake heron, or the faux owl that she put up later. Most birds are not easily fooled. The exception was this one very amorous swan. 

The swan paid court to the goose decoy for some time, around a half hour or more I was told. I wasn't there at the time, so this is a family tale retold second-hand. Names were changed to protect the innocent. When the swan finally broke the decoy, my mother thought he seemed contrite and upset at what had happened. My dad rescued the decoy and put it up on the dock where the swan stayed around for a few more minutes until finally moving on. A few days later my dad submitted his photos to a weekly newspaper where two were published along with an account of this unlikely failed romance. My mom and dad always enjoyed telling this story and for years I always thought of it as a fairy tale come to life. I hope I haven't left anything out.

Sydney was a Mute Swan, Cygnus olor, identified by his orange bill topped by a large black knob. The species is native to Eurasia and was first introduced to North America in the mid-1800s to early 1900s as a decorative animal to adorn ponds in large estates, city parks, and zoos. Many of these imported mute swans escaped to establish breeding populations around the Northeast, Mid-Atlantic, Great Lakes, and Pacific Northwest regions of the United States. In some areas they are considered a harmful invasive species as their increasing numbers has an adverse effect on other waterfowl and can severely damage the densities of submerged native vegetation.

Mute swans mate for life and since medieval times they were often depicted in European art as a symbol of love and fidelity. They are also known to grieve for a lost or dead mate or cygnet. A male mute swan, called a cob, can range in weight from 9.2–14.3 kg (20–32 lbs), while the female mute swan, a pen, may weigh from 7.6–10.6 kg (17–23 lbs). In the wild a mute swan's life expectancy might reach 10-11 years, but in captivity 20-30 years is possible. Mute swans are actually not mute but make softer vocal sounds that are more like snorts, whistles, and hisses than the louder honking calls of Tundra Swans and Trumpeter Swans. 

My final photo of Barb and Russ Brubaker's home on Bay Island was taken on a very snowy winter day across the inlet looking back toward the house and boat dock. In the center is a flock of mixed ducks. They are hearty creatures who never seemed fazed by snow, ice, rain, or storm. There may be a swan in the picture too, but they're hard to spot since they are naturally camouflaged for snow.  

Chesapeake Bay, Hampton Roads, Virginia
Source: Google Earth 1996

This is a 1996 satellite view of the southern mouth of the Chesapeake Bay with the Virginia cities of Newport News, Hampton, Portsmouth, Norfolk and Virginia Beach. The southern boundary of this great bay is marked by Cape Charles is in the upper right corner and Cape Henry below. The thin line across the bay is the Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel, a marvelous 17.6 mile bridge-tunnel complex that connects the Virginia mainland (near Virginia Beach) with the Eastern Shore of Virginia (aka the Delmarva Peninsula). Comparing this 1996 image with the satellite view of 2025 will show an appalling expansion of development in all the cities but especially along the waterfront areas. Today there is far less wilderness in the region and it makes me very sad to imagine what has happened to Sydney and his swan clan.  

The red dot marks my parents' home where they lived for 37 years. Unfortunately floods and storms became too much for them to manage dealing with all the boats, house maintenance, and their health issues, too. In 2007 they sensibly moved to a retirement community in south Virginia Beach. It had a large wetland pond and lots of semi-wild critters but it was not the same. Less than a year after selling the house on Bay Island a Nor'easter hit Virginia Beach and water came into the structure for the first time making it uninhabitable. It took three years before the new owner got the house repaired and raised 8 feet from its foundations, supposedly making it storm proof. Time will tell.

I've always been struck by a hidden pattern in the landscape of the Virginia coastline. You can see it in maps but it's more apparent I think in a view from space. It's a shape that always lets me find my former home. Can you see it? I've highlighted it in the next lower altitude image.

Cape Henry, Virginia Beach, Virginia
Source: Google Earth 1996

It's in a duck's bill as it twists to preen itself.
I believe even a high flying swan would recognize it too.

My story of The Swan Prince
deserves some music.
Here is a beautiful rendition
of Camille Saint-Saëns, "The Swan"
performed by cellist Yo-Yo Ma.

This is my contribution to Sepia Saturday

where you should never feed a bird

unless you are prepared to feed its friends too.

Four Musical Jokers

 

What makes a clarinet funny?
By itself, nothing,
as it's not really an odd looking instrument.
But placed in the wrong hands
it is capable of making the most distressing noises.
Especially if it's the smaller variety of clarinet
designed to squeal like a small animal.

That can be funny.

For a moment or two.

If you are ten. 

 

 

What about the bass drum?
Is that a funny instrument too?
Again, it depends.
It's not difficult to master,
but it does require a steady pulse.
Which for some drummers can be pretty variable

if they can't count to four or walk in a straight line.
When a bass drum's boom skips a cadence
and lands on the wrong beat
that usually provokes a guffaw.
But it's always the same punchline.
 

 

 

Now the trumpet is not an especially funny instrument.
It's more likely to annoy than charm.
But trumpet players do tend to be pranksters
who amuse themselves
by inventing childish tricks and silly gags.
A good reason to never sit in front of one.

 

 

But for shear entertainment value,
nothing beats a bassoon for buffoonery. 
This woodiest of woodwinds
seems designed in both shape and sound
to be played as one continuous musical farce
of funny stories and slapstick comedy.
It's always good for a laugh.

 

Today I introduce four maestros
of instrumental humor.

 

 

My first musical joker is Adam Wenk, der originelle Komiker ~ the original comedian. Dressed in formal white tie and tails, Herr Wenk is pictured in the center of a postcard triptych with his two comical characters on either side. The fellow on the left is playing a little E-flat clarinet, an instrument often added to brass bands to play the high melody line instead of a piccolo. His coat has decorative braid embroidered on the cuff so I think he is supposed to be a member of a town band. On the right, Wenk is costumed as a Tyrolean country bumpkin with leather breeches, vest, and feathered cap. He is holding a fishing pole or a livestock whip. I've found numerous examples of this type of theatrical character in German and Austrian postcards sometimes labeled as "Seppl" which, I think, translates to English as "rube" or "dope".  

The back of the postcard has a postmark of 9 July 1913 from Altenburg, a town in Thuringia, Germany, south of Leipzig. The printer was Nordische Kunstanstant Ernst Schmidt & Co. of Lübeck, a German port on the Baltic Sea.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

The second joker is Artur Heidenreich, Komiker whose postcard's design is identical to Adam Wenk's card. Herr Heidenreich stands in the center of three photos wearing a long wool coat and bowler hat. On the left he plays a goofy-looking German soldier carrying a marching bass drum. On the right he is dressed as a Feuerwehrmann or  fireman with a water/sand bucket and fireman's hard hat. It would appear that in the center photo his mustache is trimmed in the upturned Prussian style, but that was actually penciled in by the writer who added initials on the other characters' drum and bucket. 

 

This postcard was sent from Saarbrücken dated by the writer 12 November 1912. Saarbrücken, which translates as Saar bridges, is located on the Saar River and is the capital of the state of Saarland, Germany. Today Germany's border with France, which does not follow the river, is about 2.7 miles (4.35 km) west of the city. But in 1912, the border was officially about 40 miles (60 km) further west, as Germany claimed the Alsace-Lorraine region of France, now called Alsace-Moselle, as part of the German Empire after capturing it from the Second French Empire in the Franco-Prussian War of 1871. In 1914 this area would be hotly contested during the Great War.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

The third musical joker is Carl Bergelt, Sächsischer Komiker, whose name is captioned on the top photo in a quartet of images from his act. Herr Bergelt appears a young sophisticate posed with his smoky cigarette. But on stage he played a dejected looking dolt who is pictured making hapless faces and playing a cornet. It's interesting that his instrument has piston valves instead of rotary valves which were the standard for brass instruments in Germany. 

For some reason the Free State of Saxony was noted for its Sächsischer comics, as this was a common regional appellation used by German comedians. This postcard was never mailed but bears the imprint of a Berlin photographer's studio on the back. The printing style resembles other German entertainer's postcards from the 1910-1920 decade. 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

The fourth jester is Hans Meppe, Original Instrumental Humorist und Charakter Komiker from Leipzig, the largest city in Saxony. Herr Meppe's smiling portrait is shown in a group of six photos of his act. One photo shows him portraying a fireman climbing a brick wall and another as a raggedy tramp trying to hang himself. The others demonstrate his versatility as an instrumentalist with wacky characters playing a bassoon, a clarinet, and an oboe. In the image with bassoon, Meppe seems to be inflating a balloon attached to the end of the instrument. While this seems a perfectly funny concept, as a practical matter it must have been very hard to do. A bassoon is about 8 feet long and it would require superhuman air pressure to make a sound through the little double reed and also blow up a balloon.

The postcard has a postmark from Essen of 22 February 1918 or maybe 1919, but I believe it is the earlier date. By coincidence this Sächsischer comic's postcard was sent to Saarbrücken.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

Humor is possibly the most ephemeral of human emotions. A joke has a shelf life that depends entirely on current events, fashion trends, and a comedian's insight into the public's fickle emotions of the day. Unlike music which can gain merit on repetition, a joke usually loses laughs the more it is repeated. Humor easily goes stale. 

Back in February, I devoted a post to this subject in Two Wise Guys. When we see pictures of comedians from earlier times like these four musical jokers, we are forced to imagine their funny jokes,  their inevitable puns, and their clever double entendre humor. Sadly, no one wrote down their wisecracks, transcribed their 10 minute stage act, or recorded their droll stories for posterity. All we have left of the laughter they produced are little images displayed on old faded postcards. They don't seem very funny now. 

Except for one thing, their musical instruments. These comical props featured music, the universal language, as a way to tell a joke. We may be unable to ever hear their funny stories or clever wisecracks, but seeing their instruments at least lets us imagine the awkward tunes, the silly mannerisms, and the ridiculous sounds that these Komickers made. That's entertainment.

 

Here is a performance of Sid Millward & The Nitwits,
a British comedy act which appeared in 1970
on a popular German television show
hosted by Rudi Carrell, a Dutch presenter.
I think everyone will recognize that this band of looney musicians
follows in the footsteps of the jokers I've featured today.

 

 

 

Another band of crazy musicians,
Spike Jones and his City Slickers band,
is better known in America where their madcap music 
became a big hit on radio, film, and television.
In this so-called Tchaikovsky Medley from The Spike Jones Show,

which ran on CBS in the summers of 1957, 1960 and 1961,
Spike Jones and his band masterfully demonstrate
how any squeak, bang, or squawk

will work as a joke's punchline.  

 

 

 

 

 

This is my contribution to Sepia Saturday
where old family photo albums are a dime a dozen.

The Christmas Canary

It's a very curious postcard photo.
A well dressed gentleman is seated in a parlor room
holding a vintage telephone receiver to his ear.
Next to him is a small bird cage
which has a set of headphones
stretched over the bars of the cage.
There is no explanation,
only a caption that reads:

Mr. Geo. R. Sims and his pet canary.

 
Is the man actually placing a call to the bird?
What kind of conversation can one have with a canary?
Is the bird even listening?
Maybe it's a scientific experiment.

I can find no references to this image on the internet.
All I can say is what the caption tells us:
Mr. George R. Sims and his pet canary, name unknown.

But Mr. Sims turns out to be, in his time,
a renowned English journalist, poet, dramatist, and novelist. 
His full name was George Robert Sims (1847 – 1922). 

George Robert Sims (1847 – 1922)
circa 1910
Source: Wikipedia

After the publication of his first works in 1874, Sims quickly established himself as a prolific author in many forms from plays to poetry. He was best known in Victorian times for his weekly column of light-hearted humorous sketches called "Mustard and Cress", published in The Referee, a British Sunday newspaper. Beginning in 1877 Sims wrote a story every week for 45 years until his death in 1922. His subject matter was "sprinkled with neat little epigrams in verse, patriotic songs or parodies, with jokes, puns, conundrums, catch-words. He talked of politics... philanthropy, amusement, reminiscence, food and drink, and such travel as so confirmed a Cockney could enjoy. ...he would champion the cause of the unfortunate middle classes.... He took his readers into his confidence, and told them all about... his friends... his pets.... And he contrived to do this without ever becoming egotistical or a bore."

This quote from his obituary in The Times, 6 September 1922,  gives a succinct description of George R. Sims.

"so attractive and original was the personality revealed in his abundant output—for he was a wonderfully hard worker—that no other journalist has ever occupied quite the same place in the affections not only of the great public but also of people of more discriminating taste.... Sims was indeed a born journalist, with the essential flair added to shrewd common sense, imagination, wide sympathies, a vivid interest in every side of life, and the most ardent patriotism.... He was [also] a highly successful playwright... a zealous social reformer, an expert criminologist, a connoisseur in good eating and drinking, in racing, in dogs, in boxing, and in all sorts of curious and out-of-the-way people and things."

Clearly George R. Sims was a familiar enough writer in his time to be easily recognized from a photo. Which may explain why this postcard of him with his pet canary was chosen for a Christmas greeting in 1904.

With Best wishes for a Happy
Xmas & Prosperous 1905   hoping all
are well, we are alright,  love to all from
Arthur & Lottie

Not quite forgotten.

It was sent in December 1904
to Mrs. G. Johnson
of 64 Northcote Road
St Margarets
Twickenham
in London.

In addition to his regular column for The Referee, George Sims wrote several novels, thirty plays, and numerous collections of short stories, essays, and poetry. However, despite Arthur's quip on this postcard, most of Sims's output is now forgotten. But one ballad, Christmas Day in the Workhouse, stands out as it became popular enough to be imitated by other writers for many decades. It was first published in 1877, just when Sims was starting to write his column for The Referee. It is in the form of a dramatic monologue where a poor man criticizes the harsh conditions found in the English and Welsh workhouses of the period.  

"Christmas Day in the Workhouse"
a postcard c1905
Source: Wikipedia

These workhouses were the result of the 1834 Poor Law. This act passed by the British Parliament placed a severe limit to the social assistance given to the poor.  Food and shelter could only be dispensed at the workhouse. Paupers were separated into different classes and by sex. The institutions were purposely designed to be so disagreeable that only people who were truly destitute and indigent would demean themselves to apply for relief. By the 1870s, the state of poverty was so shameful that Sims, a young journalist campaigning for social reform, felt compelled to respond in a public way by writing a ballad about how severe hardship affects the human spirit. 

It is Christmas Day in the Workhouse,

  And the cold bare walls are bright

With garlands of green and holly,

  And the place is a pleasant sight;

For with clean-washed hands and faces,

  In a long and hungry line

The paupers sit at the tables,

  For this is the hour they dine.

And the guardians and their ladies,

  Although the wind is east,

Have come in their furs and wrappers,

  To watch their charges feast;

To smile and be condescending,

  Put pudding on pauper plates,

To be hosts at the workhouse banquet

  They've paid for—with the rates.

The full text for George Sims's "Christmas Day in the Workhouse" can be found at this link. But a better way to understand the poem is to hear it recited by the great American actor, Robert Cochran Hilliard (1857 – 1927), also known in his day as Handsome Bob. 

Robert Cochran Hilliard (1857 – 1927)
Source: Wikipedia

Hilliard recorded Christmas Day in the Workhouse,
lightly abridged to fit the time constraints of early records,  
for Victor Records in Camden, New Jersey on 8 November 1912.

Workhouses no longer exist in our modern era and most governments provide many different kinds of social welfare to people in distress. But I feel the Dickensian melodrama of Sims's ballad carries a poignant quality that resonates with our present time in a way that I don't think it would have had last Christmas. As this dreadful year 2020 draws to a close, everyone in the world has surely reflected on the immense challenges that face humanity. Poverty remains a serious issue, especially with the plight of  unemployment, evictions, and privations brought on by Covid19. Even now with the miracle of vaccines, millions of people around the world will continue to suffer for many months from the consequences of this horrible scourge. If there is anything we need in this holiday season of 2020, it is more charity and good will to all mankind. 

But back to Mr. Sims's canary.

George R. Sims wrote many observations about life in East London.
One of the places he described was the bird market on Sclater Street.

"On Sunday nothing but bird-cages are to be seen from roofs to pavement in almost every house. At first you see nothing but the avenue of bird-cages. The crowd in the narrow street is so dense that you can gather no idea of what is in the shop-windows or what the mob of men crowding together in black patches of humanity are dealing in."

Surely this was the place where he acquired his pet canary.
Likely it was there that he saw
many birds that could whistle complicated melodies,
as since Elizabethan times London's bird sellers
had expertly trained warblers, canaries, black birds, etc. to sing.

I think that is what George Sims is doing in this photo.
Teaching his canary to sing
via a dictaphone or gramophone recording.

We can only speculate if the tune was Jingle Bells.

This is my contribution to Sepia Saturday
where I wish everyone a peaceful holiday
and joyful new year.