Hail, kinsman! Doth thou wish to clap eyes on my silver swan automaton? She doth dance and jape thusly: she is wound by a mechanism worked by a silversmith and hidden from view and slowly, ever slowly, she plays a tune of haunting beauty on a glass organ.
She doth also capture flitting fish that do float below her and swallow them up whole like a real swan doth. A mortal man made her in 1773 and she still sings to this day, beguiling passerby with her regal stare. She is of witchcraft, it is certain, and must be burn’t.