On St. Andrew's Day every man in town wears a thistle and shakes
hands with everybody else, and you see the fine old Scotch honesty
beaming out of their eyes.

And on St. George's Day!--well, there's no heartiness like the good
old English spirit, after all; why shouldn't a man feel glad that
he's an Englishman?

Then on the Fourth of July there are stars and stripes flying over
half the stores in town, and suddenly all the men are seen to smoke
cigars, and to know all about Roosevelt and Bryan and the Philippine
Islands. Then you learn for the first time that Jeff Thorpe's people
came from Massachusetts and that his uncle fought at Bunker Hill (it
must have been Bunker Hill,--anyway Jefferson will swear it was in
Dakota all right enough); and you find that George Duff has a married
sister in Rochester and that her husband is all right; in fact,
George was down there as recently as eight years ago. Oh, it's the
most American town imaginable is Mariposa,--on the fourth of July.

But wait, just wait, if you feel anxious about the solidity of the
British connection, till the twelfth of the month, when everybody is
wearing an orange streamer in his coat and the Orangemen (every man
in town) walk in the big procession. Allegiance! Well, perhaps you
remember the address they gave to the Prince of Wales on the platform
of the Mariposa station as he went through on his tour to the west. I
think that pretty well settled that question. So you will easily
understand that of course everybody belongs to the Knights of Pythias
and the Masons and Oddfellows, just as they all belong to the Snow
Shoe Club and the Girls' Friendly Society.