Sunshine Sketches of a Little Town | Page 8

nineteen miles 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.
If, then, you feel that you know the town well enough to be admitted
into the inner life and movement of it, walk down this June afternoon
half way down the Main Street--or, if you like, half way up from the
wharf--to where Mr. Smith is standing at the door of his hostelry. You
will feel as you draw near that it is no ordinary man that you approach.
It is not alone the huge bulk of Mr. Smith (two hundred and eighty
pounds as tested on Netley's scales). It is not merely his costume,
though the chequered waistcoat of dark blue with a flowered pattern
forms, with his shepherd's plaid trousers, his grey spats and
patent-leather boots, a colour scheme of no mean order. Nor is it
merely Mr. Smith's finely mottled face. The face, no doubt, is a notable
one,--solemn, inexpressible, unreadable, the face of the heaven-born
hotel keeper. It is more than that. It is the strange dominating
personality of the man that somehow holds you captive. I know nothing
in history to compare with the position of Mr. Smith among those who
drink over his bar, except, though in a lesser degree, the relation of the
Emperor Napoleon to the Imperial Guard.
When you meet Mr. Smith first you think he looks like an over-dressed
pirate. Then you begin to think him a character. You wonder at his
enormous bulk. Then the utter hopelessness of knowing what Smith is
thinking by merely looking at his features gets on your mind and makes
the Mona Lisa seem an open book and the ordinary human countenance
as superficial as a puddle in the sunlight. After you have had a drink in
Mr. Smith's bar, and he has called you by your Christian name, you
realize that you are dealing with one of the greatest minds in the hotel
business.
Take, for instance, the big sign that sticks out into the street above Mr.
Smith's head as he stands. What is on it? "JOS. SMITH, PROP."
Nothing more, and yet the thing was a flash of genius. Other men who
had had the hotel before Mr. Smith had called it by such feeble names
as the Royal Hotel and the Queen's and the Alexandria. Every one of
them failed. When Mr. Smith took over the hotel he simply put up the
sign with "JOS. SMITH, PROP.," and then stood underneath in the
sunshine as a living proof that a man who weighs nearly three hundred

pounds is the natural king of the hotel business.
But on this particular afternoon, in spite of the sunshine and deep peace,
there was something as near to profound concern and anxiety as the
features of Mr. Smith were ever known to express.
The moment was indeed an anxious one. Mr. Smith was awaiting a
telegram from his legal adviser who had that day journeyed to the
county town to represent the proprietor's interest before the assembled
License Commissioners. If you know anything