away. But, somehow, though it starts off as electricity from the
Ossawippi rapids, by the time it gets to Mariposa and filters into
the little bulbs behind the frosty windows of the shops, it has
turned into coal oil again, as yellow and bleared as ever.

After the winter, the snow melts and the ice goes out of the lake,
the sun shines high and the shanty-men come down from the lumber
woods and lie round drunk on the sidewalk outside of Smith's
Hotel--and that's spring time. Mariposa is then a fierce, dangerous
lumber town, calculated to terrorize the soul of a newcomer who does
not understand that this also is only an appearance and that
presently the rough-looking shanty-men will change their clothes and
turn back again into farmers.

Then the sun shines warmer and the maple trees come out and Lawyer
Macartney puts on his tennis trousers, and that's summer time. The
little town changes to a sort of summer resort. There are visitors up
from the city. Every one of the seven cottages along the lake is
full. The Mariposa Belle churns the waters of the Wissanotti into
foam as she sails out from the wharf, in a cloud of flags, the band
playing and the daughters and sisters of the Knights of Pythias
dancing gaily on the deck.

That changes too. The days shorten. The visitors disappear. The
golden rod beside the meadow droops and withers on its stem. The
maples blaze in glory and die. The evening closes dark and chill, and
in the gloom of the main corner of Mariposa the Salvation Army around
a naphtha lamp lift up the confession of their sins--and that is
autumn. Thus the year runs its round, moving and changing in
Mariposa, much as it does in other places.