the wharf,
decked in flags, with steam up ready to start.

Excursion day!

Half past six on a July morning, and Lake Wissanotti lying in the sun as
calm as glass. The opal colours of the morning light are shot from the
surface of the water.

Out on the lake the last thin threads of the mist are clearing away like
flecks of cotton wool.

The long call of the loon echoes over the lake. The air is cool and
fresh. There is in it all the new life of the land of the silent pine
and the moving waters. Lake Wissanotti in the morning sunlight! Don't
talk to me of the Italian lakes, or the Tyrol or the Swiss Alps. Take
them away. Move them somewhere else. I don't want them.

Excursion Day, at half past six of a summer morning! With the boat all
decked in flags and all the people in Mariposa on the wharf, and the
band in peaked caps with big cornets tied to their bodies ready to play
at any minute! I say! Don't tell me about the Carnival of Venice and
the Delhi Durbar. Don't! I wouldn't look at them. I'd shut my eyes! For
light and colour give me every time an excursion out of Mariposa down
the lake to the Indian's Island out of sight in the morning mist. Talk
of your Papal Zouaves and your Buckingham Palace Guard! I want to see
the Mariposa band in uniform and the Mariposa Knights of Pythias with
their aprons and their insignia and their picnic baskets and their
five-cent cigars!

Half past six in the morning, and all the crowd on the wharf and the
boat due to leave in half an hour. Notice it!--in half an hour. Already
she's whistled twice (at six, and at six fifteen), and at any minute
now, Christie Johnson will step into the pilot house and pull the string
for the warning whistle that the boat will leave in half an hour.
So keep ready. Don't think of running back to Smith's Hotel for the
sandwiches. Don't be fool enough to try to go up to the Greek Store,
next to Netley's, and buy fruit. You'll be left behind for sure if you
do. Never mind the sandwiches and the fruit! Anyway, here comes Mr.
Smith himself with a huge basket of provender that would feed a factory.
There must be sandwiches in that. I think I can hear them clinking.
And behind Mr. Smith is the German waiter from the caff with another
basket--indubitably lager beer; and behind him, the bar-tender of the
hotel, carrying nothing, as far as one can see. But of course if you
know Mariposa you will understand that why he looks so nonchalant and
empty-handed is b