And that was the case with us, until a dozen heads were on the surface looking like magnified lily blossoms. A close net of these lilies was woven in the water about six feet from the shore, the water being perfectly paved with the great broad leaves, and it was necessary to break our way right through them before reaching the deeper waters of the cove. And right through them our way did we break. We made a charge like a charge of South Sea Islanders, and though the tough, spongy, supple stems clung around our limbs as if they meant to drag us under—and the strong, thick, gigantic leaves, huge as the ear-flaps of the moose, (who, by the bye, luxuriates upon the pond water lily,) cut our arms and flapped heavily in our faces—and the round, cylindrical, yellow blossoms kept bobbing into our mouths and knocking into our eyes, we persevered until we struggled through them, and reached the deep water. And then didn’t we luxuriate. Some “trod water,” some stretched themselves out for a long swim, and one huge fellow, with fat enough to keep him floating whether or no, elongated himself in a most wonderful manner, laying his head flat upon the water at every impulsion of his body snorting all the time like a porpoise. At length we became tired of the deep water, and concluded to adjourn to the shallows inside the lilies, and have a battle of shooting water at each other. This sport was the usual termination to our baths. Accordingly we hastened to the battle-ground, and took opposite sides. Arranged in two long lines, we approached each other, each elbow drawn back, and hand raised so as to bring the bottom of the palm on a level with the water. In silence did we eye each other for a season—the word then came, and then commenced the battle. And furiously raged the strife. Not the legions of Cæsar pouring from their galleys, and the wild warriors of Britain’s snowy cliffs—not the fierce _mustaches_ of Napoleon, and the sturdy red-coats of Wellington, poured greater destruction upon one another, than we dashed the glittering crystal of the frighted cove on each other’s ranks. No faltering—no backing—but looking steadily as the blinding water would allow, into the eyes of our foes, we plied our work—no faltering—no backing—but looking steadily as the blinding water would allow into the eyes of _their_ foes, they also plied their work. Closer and closer we approached, and then, each one singling his opposite for single combat, closed for desperate strife. One cataract of tumbling water, raised by four scooping hands, now sheltered two combatants, who finding the shots too heavy for face and eyes, fairly turned back to back and madly dashed behind them the flashing water. At length nearly blinded, all simultaneously retreated from each other and sought the brink—all but the fat-headed, porpoise-breathing fellow before mentioned, who, blinded by his own torrents of water, and supposing that his antagonist was still