e to the whole company, and in
whatsoever place it breaks out there is soon a knot of interested
listeners.

"I don't just now think of any particular story of New England
Thanksgivings that would interest you," said the judge.

"Tell them about Huldah's mince pie," said Mrs. Balcom, as she looked
up from a copy of Whittier she had been reading.

I can not pretend to give the story which follows exactly in the
judge's words, for it is three years since I heard it, but as nearly as
I can remember it was as follows:

There was a young lawyer named John Harlow practicing law here in New
York twenty odd years ago. His father lived not very far from my
father. John had been graduated with honors, had studied law, and had
the good fortune to enter immediately into a partnership with his law
preceptor, ex-Gov. Blank. So eagerly had he pursued his studies that
for two years he had not seen his country home. I think one reason why
he had not cared to visit it was that his mother was dead, and his only
sister was married and living in Boston. Take the "women folks" out of
a house, and it never seems much like home to a young man.

But now, as Thanksgiving day drew near, he resolved to give himself a
brief release from the bondage of books. He told his partner that he
wanted to go home for a week. He said he wanted to see his father and
the boys, and his sister, who was coming home at that time, but that he
specially wanted to ride old Bob to the brook once more, and to milk
Cherry again, just to see how it felt to be a farmer's boy.

"John," said the old lawyer, "be sure you fix up a match with some of
those country girls. No man is fit for anything till he is well
married; and you are now able, with economy, to support a wife. Mind
you get one of those country girls. These paste and powder people here
aren't fit for a young man who wants a woman."

"Governor," said the young lawyer, laying his boots gracefully up on
top of a pile of law books, as if to encourage reflection by giving his
head the advantage of the lower end of the inclined plane, "Governor, I
don't know anything about city girls. I have given myself to my books.
But I must have a wife that is literary, like myself--one that can
understand Emerson, for instance."

The old lawyer laughed. "John," he answered, "the worst mistake you can
make is to marry a woman just like yourself in taste. You don't want to
marry a woman's head, but her heart."

John defen