Swan Lake

Many of the small lakes in our town are home to a wide variety of northeastern water fowl. The swans are the loveliest and the most majestic.
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Each year, the females are cheered on as they diligently tend to their nests. I actually managed to get a good photograph of the eggs; they were huge.
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While I was watching the swans, several little old ladies traded swan stories. I went home and said to my husband, "In our town, you know how they say 'Beware the little old ladies'?" He said, "Yes. What were they doing?" I said, "Well, it wasn't what they were doing, so much as it was what they were saying." He laughed and said, "Oh, no. Now what?" I said, "Picture this. A picture perfect completely unbelievably magnificent day. Artists painting. Children playing. Swans swimming. Lovers hand in hand. Magnificent. These little old ladies completed the picture by regaling each other with the past transgressions of the male swan." My husband said, "What did he do?" I said, "Well, today he was just doing his 'daddy job'. And I'm sure he was just doing his 'daddy job' in the past. He was carefully patrolling the area, swimming very nicely back and forth. However, it seems that some daddy swan, it didn't even have to be him, even though they seemed to be blaming him, some swan in the past murdered one of those Canadian geese. And then, people decided to stone the swan." My husband said, "What? The goose was probably doing something bad." I said, "Yup, probably was. But it was one of those completely lurid stories that they would only tell in our town." My husband said, "And our 'neighbors' picked up rocks and stoned the swan." I said, "So the story goes. You know where we live. Are you surprised?" He said, "No. Not in a town where they feed people rocks." I said, "What I want to know is why would you be repeating that to your friends on a beautiful sunny spring day?" He said, "You wouldn't." I said, "Right. We wouldn't. And, it gets worse. It seems that the male swan also murdered one of the baby swans one other year. Just wrung its little neck, or crushed its skul, or stomped it dead, or did some godawful thing. Whatever he did, I couldn't even listen anymore." I said, "Now what's the moral of the story?" My husband said, "Hang out with the swans and beware the little old ladies." I said, "Exactly."
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It reminded me that I was in our town with little old ladies and not swans when my silver needle case myteriously disappeared and was never seen again.