Ampersand is a mountain.  It is a lake.  It is a stream.  The mountain stands in the heart of the Adirondack country, just near enough to the thoroughfare of travel for thousands of people to see it every year, and just far enough away from the beaten track to be unvisited, except by a very few of the wise ones who love to digress.  Behind the mountain is the lake, which no lazy man has ever seen.  Out of the lake flows the stream, winding down a long, untrodden forest valley, until at length it joins the Stony Creek waters, and empties into the Raquette River.  Which of the three Ampersands has the prior claim to the name I cannot tell.
    Philosophically speaking, the mountain ought to be regarded as the father of the family, because it was undoubtedly there before the others existed.  And the lake was probably the next on the ground, because the stream is its child.  But man is not strictly correct in his nomenclature; and I conjecture that the little river, the last-born of the three, was the first to be called Ampersand, and then gave its name to its parent and grandparent.  It is such a crooked stream, so bent and curved and twisted upon itself, so fond of turning around unexpected corners, and sweeping away in great circles from its direct course, that its first explorers christened it after the eccentric supernumerary of the alphabet which appears in the old spelling book as &.

Asterisks seem to exist only on hand-held devices anymore where, sadly, they are referred to as star.