u sent me Mrs. Field's letter and poem; she is a genius, and
writes beautifully. And how glad you must be to hear about your books. I
can't imagine what better work you want than writing. In what other way
could you reach so many minds and hearts? You must always send me such
letters. Before I forget it, let me tell you of a real Thanksgiving
present we have just had; three barrels of potatoes, some apples, some
dried apples, cranberries, celery, canned corn, canned strawberries, and
two big chickens.

_After church, Thursday._--I must indulge myself with going on with my
letter, for after dinner I want to play with the children, and make this
day mean something to them besides pies. For everybody spoke for pies
this year (you know we almost never make such sinful things) and they
all said ice-cream wouldn't do at all, so yesterday I made fourteen of
these enormities, and mean to stuff them (the children, not the pies!)
so that they won't want any more for a year. I want to tell you about
some pretty coincidences; we went to church in a dismal rain, and Mr.
Prentiss preached on the _beauty_ of holiness, and every time he said
anything that made sunshine particularly appropriate, the sun came in in
floods, then disappeared till the next occasion. For instance, he spoke
of the sunshine of a happy home as so much brighter than that of the
natural sun, and the whole church was instantly illuminated; then he
said that if we had each come there with ten million sorrows, Christ
could give us light, when, lo, the church glowed again; and so on
half-a-dozen times, till at last he quoted the verse _"And the Lamb
is the light thereof,"_ when a perfect blaze of effulgence made those
mysterious, words almost startling. And then he wound up by describing
the Tyrolese custom on which Mrs. Field's poem is founded, which he
had himself seen and enjoyed, and of which, it seems, he spoke at East
Dorset last summer at the Sunday-school. [8] I read the poem and letter
to him the instant we got home, and he admired them both. It was a
little singular that her poem and his sermon came to me at almost the
identical moment, wasn't it?

I must tell you about an old ladies' party given by Mrs. Cummings, wife
of him who prepared my father's memoir. [9] She had had a fortune left
to her and was all the time doing good with it, and it entered her head
to get up a very nice supper for twenty-six old ladies, the youngest
of whom was seventy-five (the