WATER-LILIES 97 
indeed, the great moose still browses on the 
lily-pads, and the shy beaver nibbles them ; but 
here the few lingering four-footed creatures 
only haunt, but do not graze upon, these float- 
ing pastures. Eyes more favored than ours 
may yet chance to spy an otter in this still place ; 
there by the shore are the small footprints of 
a mink; that dark thing disappearing in the 
waters yonder, a soft mass of drowned fur, is a 
muskrat, or “musquash.” Later in the season 
a mound of earth will be his winter dwelling- 
place ; and these myriad mussel-shells at the 
water’s edge are the remnant of his banquets, 
— once banquets for the Indians, too. 
But we must return to our lilies. There is 
no sense of wealth like floating in this archi- 
pelago of white and green. The emotions of 
avarice become almost demoralizing. Every 
flower bears a fragrant California in its bosom, 
and you feel impoverished at the thought of 
leaving one behind. Then, after the first half 
hour of eager grasping, one becomes fastidious, 
rather avoids those on which the wasps and 
flies have alighted, and seeks only the stainless. 
But handle them tenderly, as if you loved them. 
Do not grasp at the open flower as if it were a 
peony or a hollyhock, for then it will come off, 
stalkless, in your hand, and you will cast it 
blighted upon the water; but coil your thumb 
