to talk over the past of our town, let us not forget her present and future work. The privations and hardships may be past, but our duties as citizens lie straight on before us, to keep our town in the peaceful and prosperous way of the past, to see that we remain an honorable and law-abiding community, remembering that "Righteousness exalteth a nation, but sin is a reproach to any people."

Once more, fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters, friends, we bid you a cordial and hearty welcome.

The Historical Address is omitted, as the facts and items of interest contained in it may be found in the history of the town.

TURNER'S CENTENNIAL. *

History ever interweaveth

In her checkered web of fate,

Silken meshes of sweet living,

Threads that gleam and undulate
All along the shadowy cycle,

Twining 'round dear names of old,
Like a coronet of jewels,

Strung upon a thread of gold.

People of the past are thronging
All about me, as I write;

They are gathering in the evening,
In the rosy, morning light

They come, through the mists and shadows,
Stalwart men and maidens fair,

Side by side, with heads of silver,

Mingling, thronging, here and there.

By Mrs. Caroline W. D. Rich, daughter of Mrs. Anna Leavitt Stockbridge, who

was the daughter of Joseph Leavitt, pioneer of Turner. Copyrighted.

Now they tarry for a moment,

Now are vanishing again,

As, sometimes, the shadows linger,
Over fields of golden grain.

How their griefs and woes are mellowed!
And their loves, so true and strong,
Fragrant as the faded rose leaves,
Hallowed as the matin song!

A century now closes,

Since this town had its birth; And still the Androscoggin flows, With plenty teems the earth. The wild bird sings his love-song, The seasons come and go,

And, over rocky hill-sides,

The lingering brooks still flow.

The years are full of promise;

The sunshine and the rain,

The winter snows, the springtime dews,

Have never been in vain.

Aye, backward roll historic wheels,

And let us see again,

The old-time men and women,

As they were living, then.

It is a simple story,

Yet it is grand and true;

No myth, or idle fancy,

Through history's glass we view.

Our fathers felled the forests

On hills and valleys fair;

They braved the cruel Indian,

The wild beast in his lair.

The solitude of ages

Gave place to busy toil,

And men of good old English blood, Were tillers of the soil.

They peopled these rough hillsides, They dwelt beside the streams, They planned for future ages,

They dreamed their daring dreams.

Not the most skillful limner,

Could paint those early years;

The heavy burdens of the day,
The nights of ceaseless fears,
When mothers held their babies
So closely to their breast,
As "dire alarm or tragic fear,"
Prevented restful rest.

O, those were days of patience,
When men and women brave,

Were noble and heroic,

Dear liberty to save.

They came from homes of plenty,
One hundred years agone,
Through forests by a "spotted line,"

Those men and women strong.
Strong in their love of country,
Strong in their trust in God,
And strong in hope of future
Fruition and reward.

The wild beasts howled about them,

Strange terrors oft would creep

Into their slumbering fancy,

And nightly revels keep.

These primal, dense, dark forests,
Were Indian hunting ground;
And here the Abenakis,

A powerful tribe, was found.
Near by the Androscoggin,

Their wigwams stood in line; O'erhung by pine and hemlocks, And graceful wild woodbine.

One old, ancestral legend,
You'll pardon, if I tell,
The pioneer-young Leavitt-*
The man whom it befell,
Had built a house of timbers,
Plastered the cracks with clay,

A fire-place of unhewn stone,
With his strong arms he lay;
And then in cob-house fashion,

The chimney carried out,

With sticks, well chinked with mud or clay, ('T was a fine house, no doubt.)

A bar of hammered iron,

Served for a rustic crane,

The hooks were of witch-hazel,
(I trust I make it plain.)
Then, like a frontier hunter,
He hung the pot, to cook
The venison from the forest,
Or fish from out the brook.
He left his kettle boiling,

When he went out one morn,
But when he came for dinner,

Kettle and fish were gone!

With yankee wit and shrewdness,

Young Leavitt, with his gun,
Went out to find a red man,

And have a little fun.
He met an Indian Sachem,
And put him to the test,
Explaining the witch-hazel,
To carry out his jest.
Told how the white man used it,
To find perennial springs;
With it he found out secrets,

And petty pilferings !

And his trick worked like magic.

When he came home that night, The pot was hanging on his crane, His household goods all right.

The women of those early days,
Were busy as the men ;

For homespun clothes and coverlids,
Were all the fashion then.

The great wheel in a corner,

With snowy heap of rolls,
Was turned by fair young maiden,

Before the glowing coals;
For, smoother and much finer,
The fleecy wool would run,
If standing near an open fire,
Or in the summer sun.

The carding and the spinning
Of wool, and tow, and flax,
Kept all the household busy,
While menfolk used the axe.