sunshine sketches of a little town-第33部分

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with　a　box　stove　set　up　in　one　end　of　it？　The　stove　is　burning
furiously　at　its　sticks　this　autumn　evening；　for　the　air　sets　in
chill　as　you　get　clear　away　from　the　city　and　are　rising　up　to　the
higher　ground　of　the　country　of　the　pines　and　the　lakes。

Look　from　the　window　as　you　go。　The　city　is　far　behind　now　and　right
and　left　of　you　there　are　trim　farms　with　elms　and　maples　near　them
and　with　tall　windmills　beside　the　barns　that　you　can　still　see　in
the　gathering　dusk。　There　is　a　dull　red　light　from　the　windows　of
the　farmstead。　It　must　be　comfortable　there　after　the　roar　and
clatter　of　the　city；　and　only　think　of　the　still　quiet　of　it。

As　you　sit　back　half　dreaming　in　the　car；　you　keep　wondering　why　it
is　that　you　never　came　up　before　in　all　these　years。　Ever　so　many
times　you　planned　that　just　as　soon　as　the　rush　and　strain　of
business　eased　up　a　little；　you　would　take　the　train　and　go　back　to
the　little　town　to　see　what　it　was　like　now；　and　if　things　had
changed　much　since　your　day。　But　each　time　when　your　holidays　came；
somehow　you　changed　your　mind　and　went　down　to　Naragansett　or
Nagahuckett　or　Nagasomething；　and　left　over　the　visit　to　Mariposa　for
another　time。

It　is　almost　night　now。　You　can　still　see　the　trees　and　the　fences
and　the　farmsteads；　but　they　are　fading　fast　in　the　twilight。　They
have　lengthened　out　the　train　by　this　time　with　a　string　of　flat　cars
and　freight　cars　between　where　we　are　sitting　and　the　engine。　But　at
every　crossway　we　can　hear　the　long　muffled　roar　of　the　whistle；
dying　to　a　melancholy　wail　that　echoes　into　the　woods；　the　woods；　I
say；　for　the　farms　are　thinning　out　and　the　track　plunges　here　and
there　into　great　stretches　of　bush；tall　tamerack　and　red　scrub
willow　and　with　a　tangled　undergrowth　of　bush　that　has　defied　for　two
generations　all　attempts　to　clear　it　into　the　form　of　fields。

Why；　look；　that　great　space　that　seems　to　open　out　in　the　half…dark
of　the　falling　evening；why；　surely　yes；Lake　Ossawippi；　the　big
lake；　as　they　used　to　call　it；　from　which　the　river　runs　down　to　the
smaller　lake；Lake　Wissanotti；where　the　town　of　Mariposa　has　lain
waiting　for　you　there　for　thirty　years。

This　is　Lake　Ossawippi　surely　enough。　You　would　know　it　anywhere　by
the　broad；　still；　black　water　with　hardly　a　ripple；　and　with　the　grip
of　the　coming　frost　already　on　it。　Such　a　great　sheet　of　blackness　it
looks　as　the　train　thunders　along　the　side；　swinging　the　curve　of　the
embankment　at　a　breakneck　speed　as　it　rounds　the　corner　of　the　lake。

How　fast　the　train　goes　this　autumn　night！　You　have　travelled；　I　know
you　have；　in　the　Empire　State　Express；　and　the　New　Limited　and　the
Maritime　Express　that　holds　the　record　of　six　hundred　whirling　miles
from　Paris　to　Marseilles。　But　what　are　they　to　this；　this　mad　career；
this　breakneck　speed；　this　thundering　roar　of　the　Mariposa　local
driving　hard　to　its　home！　Don't　tell　me　that　the　speed　is　only
twenty…five　miles　an　hour。　I　don't　care　what　it　is。　I　tell　you；　and
you　can　prove　it　for　yourself　if　you　will；　that　that　train　of　mingled
flat　cars　and　coaches　that　goes　tearing　into　the　night；　its　engine
whistle　shrieking　out　its　warning　into　the　silent　woods　and　echoing
over　the　dull　still　lake；　is　the　fastest　train　in　the　whole　world。

Yes；　and　the　best　too；the　most　comfortable；　the　most　reliable；　the
most　luxurious　and　the　speediest　train　that　ever　turned　a　wheel。

And　the　most　genial；　the　most　sociable　too。　See　how　the　passengers
all　turn　and　talk　to　one　another　now　as　they　get　nearer　and　nearer　to
the　little　town。　That　dull　reserve　that　seemed　to　hold　the　passengers
in　the　electric　suburban　has　clean　vanished　and　gone。　They　are
talking；listen；of　the　harvest；　and　the　late　election；　and　of　how
the　local　member　is　mentioned　for　the　cabinet　and　all　the　old
familiar　topics　of　the　sort。　Already　the　conductor　has　changed　his
glazed　hat　for　an　ordinary　round　Christie　and　you　can　hear　the
passengers　calling　him　and　the　brakesman　〃Bill〃　and　〃Sam〃　as　if　they
were　all　one　family。

What　is　it　nownine　thirty？　Ah；　then　we　must　be　nearing　the
town；this　big　bush　that　we　are　passing　through；　you　remember　it
surely　as　the　great　swamp　just　this　side　of　the　bridge　over　the
Ossawippi？　There　is　the　bridge　itself；　and　the　long　roar　of　the　train
as　it　rushes　sounding　over　the　trestle　work　that　rises　above　the
marsh。　Hear　the　clatter　as　we　pass　the　semaphores　and　switch　lights！
We　must　be　close　in　now！

What？　it　feels　nervous　and　strange　to　be　coming　here　again　after　all
these　years？　It　must　indeed。　No；　don't　bother　to　look　at　the
reflection　of　your　face　in　the　window…pane　shadowed　by　the　night
outside。　Nobody　could　tell　you　now　after　all　these　years。　Your　face
has　changed　in　these　long　years　of　money…getting　in　the　city。　Perhaps
if　you　had　come　back　now　and　again；　just　at　odd　times；　it　wouldn't
have　been　so。

There；you　hear　it？the　long　whistle　of　the　locomotive；　one；　two；
three！　You　feel　the　sharp　slackening　of　the　train　as　it　swings　round
the　curve　of　the　last　embankment　that　brings　it　to　the　Mariposa
station。　See；　too；　as　we　round　the　curve；　the　row　of　the　flashing
lights；　the　bright　windows　of　the　depot。

How　vivid　and　plain　it　all　is。　Just　as　it　used　to　be　thirty　years
ago。　There　is　the　string　of　the　hotel　'buses；　drawn　up　all　ready　for
the　train；　and　as　the　train　rounds　in　and　stops　hissing　and　panting
at　the　platform；　you　can　hear　above　all　other　sounds　the　cry　of　the
brakesmen　and　the　porters：

〃MARIPOSA！　MARIPOSA！〃

And　as　we　listen；　the　cry　grows　fainter　and　fainter　in　our　ears　and
we　are　sitting　here　again　in　the　leather　chairs　of　the　Mausoleum
Club；　talking　of　the　little　Town　in　the　Sunshine　that　once　we　knew。







End