Quintet 235 



The rest of the afternoon passed uneventfully. A banana 

 and a sandwich remaining from noon made a scanty supper. 

 I drifted, slept a little, and moved from place to place as the 

 impulse came to me. Exploring was over for the day. I left 

 the east end of the bay where the wind had blown me and 

 paddled toward the canoehouse. Boats which had been out 

 on Pudget Sound passed through the canal on their way back 

 to their moorings. The gulls had left the log boom and were 

 slowly flying to their roosting grounds. I heard the sound of 

 a distant fog horn; mist or smoke had begun to settle in some 

 pockets on salt water. The marsh smell had replaced the 

 sweetness of the summer odors. I passed the outer islands 

 and into the channel which led to the canoehouse. I had en- 

 joyed the long day but was beginning to be glad that it was 

 over. I removed my field glasses and put them in their case 

 just as I saw movement in the water. The slap of my paddle 

 was a bit loud and was followed by the slap of the animal's 

 tail as it went under water. I could scarcely believe my good 

 fortune at first. It was a beaver. I had batted one thousand. 

 My score had been perfect. For the first, and probably for 

 the last time, I had broken all the laws of probability and had 

 seen in one day every member of the marsh quintet. 



