BELOW THE RIVER BANK 245 



A young otter at play is perhaps the happiest crea- 

 ture on sea or land. He will climb a slippery bank, 

 and slide down, plop, into the water, over and over 

 again, dragging his feet as he slides, his brown, cylin- 

 drical body going head first like a torpedo. In the 

 water his feats put the finest water polo player to the 

 blush. He will lie on his back and kick a floating 

 stick into the air, or worry it from paw to paw, playing, 

 no doubt, that it is a fish. Then he will retreat from 

 it, or dive beneath it, and suddenly dart upon it with 

 incredible speed. The otter can outswim a pickerel, 

 in fact. Its dexterity in the water is amazing. But the 

 chances of seeing it are becoming fewer and fewer. 



There are daughters of Eve, and sons of Adam, who 

 do not like snakes, yet what is more beautiful than a 

 mottled water snake coiled amid the curiously blotched 

 roots of a sycamore tree above the dark water of a river 

 pool? He will not harm you. Indeed, his first in- 

 stinct is to get out of your way. Even the deadly 

 cotton-mouth moccasins of the Southern swamps flee 

 shyly from your approach. Down in the deep, shad- 

 owed pool at the foot of some dam or rapids a water 

 snake will often live to a venerable old age, till his 

 bright spots have almost entirely disappeared and 

 his skin is a dull, slaty gray before he sheds it, a glossy 

 black when it is renewed. He feeds on unwary little 

 fishes, and adds a touch of mystery to the pool, the 

 mystery of his serpentine wisdom and the dusky 



