Snow falls, here, where the sun is now smiling so beneficently upon laughing meadows, dotted here and there with dainty flowers, to a depth of ten and even twenty feet.

The mail--necessarily much reduced in winter--is first of all carried in sleighs, then, as the snows deepen, on snow-shoes, so that those who stay to preserve the "summer hotels" from winter's ravages may not feel entirely shut out from the living world beyond.
But there is nothing that suggests snow now.

We are enjoying the delights of a summer day or evening, and know that we are near our journey's end.

Suddenly there is a long call of the whistle, a short curve, and if in the daytime, the Lake suddenly appears, or, if at night, the lights of the Tavern, and our rail journey is done.

We are deposited in Fairyland, for whether it be day or evening, the Lake or the Tavern, our senses are thrilled and charmed by everything that appears..