I have thus far in my wanderings omitted to mention any member of the Harlow family, scarcely one of whom can be found on the north side of Town Brook. But in crossing the brook I am at once confronted by three Harlow houses, standing like sentinels to guard what may be considered their family domain. These are the houses which in an earlier generation were occupied by Ephraim, Sylvanus and George Harlow. In my study of family names I have often found them confining themselves within certain town bounds. For instance there are the names of Stetson, Gray and Willis in Kingston; Sprague, Weston, Winsor and Soule in Duxbury; Lobdell, Harrub and Parker in Plympton, and of Ransom and Vaughan and Murdock in Carver, all like the clans of Scotland, keeping within their own borders. Nor were the limits within which the various names were found always as broad as the bounds of the towns. As for instance there were on the north side of the brook the Jacksons, Russells, Hedges, Spooners, Cottons, etc., and on the south side the Harlows, Dotens, Stephens and Barnes, representatives of each succeeding generation, settling among the familiar scenes of their youth. A hundred years, or perhaps more, ago, it was the custom in town meeting to divide the house in voting on important questions, the affirmative voters gathering on the north side, and the negative on the south. On one occasion after the division, but before the count, the moderator called out—a Ponds man on the wrong side of the house. When I see the sign of C. B. Harlow on Market street I am tempted to say, a Harlow man on the wrong side of the brook. In 1851 I was riding from Halifax, Nova Scotia, to Shelburne, and stopped at the inn in Liverpool for dinner. While eating alone, the landlord came into the dining room and entered into conversation. I asked him his name, and he said, Bradford Harlow, and in answer to my inquiry where he came from he said, “You may guess a hundred times and you will not guess right.” “Well,” I said, “I will venture to say that either you or your father came from Plymouth in Massachusetts.” “By George,” he exclaimed, pounding his hand down on the table, “You have guessed right the first time.” I then told him I was a Plymouth man, and I did not believe such a combination of names could be found in any other town. His father was a ship carpenter, who after the Revolution moved down to Liverpool to work at his trade, and made that town his future residence. For some reason, which I cannot satisfactorily explain, there was at that time quite a migration of ship carpenters from Plymouth to Nova Scotia, which was made practicable by the frequent resort of Plymouth vessels bound to the fishing banks, to the harbors of Shelburne and Barrington and Liverpool. Among them were William Drew, who went to Liverpool, and James Cox, who went to Shelburne, the latter of whom married there Elizabeth Rowland about the year 1800, and continued there until his death.