LOT.

And so I am to write a story--but of what, and where? Shall it be
radiant with the sky of Italy? or eloquent with the beau ideal of
Greece? Shall it breathe odor and languor from the orient, or chivalry
from the occident? or gayety from France? or vigor from England? No, no;
these are all too old--too romance-like--too obviously picturesque for
me. No; let me turn to my own land--my own New England; the land of
bright fires and strong hearts; the land of _deeds_, and not of words;
the land of fruits, and not of flowers; the land often spoken against,
yet always respected; "the latchet of whose shoes the nations of the
earth are not worthy to unloose."

Now, from this very heroic apostrophe, you may suppose that I have
something very heroic to tell. By no means. It is merely a little
introductory breeze of patriotism, such as occasionally brushes over
every mind, bearing on its wings the remembrance of all we ever loved or
cherished in the land of our early years; and if it should seem to be
rodomontade to any people in other parts of the earth, let them only
imagine it to be said about "Old Kentuck," old England, or any other
corner of the world in which they happened to be born, and they will
find it quite rational.

But, as touching our story, it is time to begin. Did you ever see the
little village of Newbury, in New England? I dare say you never did; for
it was just one of those out of the way places where nobody ever came
unless they came on purpose: a green little hollow, wedged like a bird's
nest between half a dozen high hills, that kept off the wind and kept
out foreigners; so that the little place was as straitly _sui generis_
as if there were not another in the world. The inhabitants were all of
that respectable old standfast family who make it a point to be born,
bred, married, die, and be buried all in the selfsame spot. There were
just so many houses, and just so many people lived in them; and nobody
ever seemed to be sick, or to die either, at least while I was there.
The natives grew old till they could not grow any older, and then they
stood still, and _lasted_ from generation to generation. There was, too,
an unchangeability about all the externals of Newbury. Here was a red
house, and there was a brown house, and across the way was a yellow
house; and there was a straggling rail fence or a tribe of mullein
stalks between. The minister lived here, and 'Squire Moses lived there,
and Deacon Ha